The Demon of the Lonely Isle

(孤島の鬼)

By

Edogawa Ranpo

Translated from the Japanese by Alexis J Brown

All rights reserved Zakuro Books

Prologue
Although I am not yet thirty my hair is as white as snow. Could anyone be
as mysterious looking as myself! My young head is crowned with a
splendid white warabōshi [a headdress worn by Japanese brides] no less
impressive than that of the man once known as the ‘white-headed
chancellor’ [Hara Takashi 1856-1921]. When people meet me for the first
time they glance suspiciously upwards. The moment our introductions are
complete the more direct of them inquire about this peculiarity of mine.
Both men and women badger me, but there is another question that only
close female friends of my wife come secretly to ask. This concerns the
large frightful scar high up on her right thigh, a horrifying circular red
bruise that looks like the result of some major surgery.
The terrible truth behind these two phenomena is no particular secret, and
I’ve never had any objection to revealing how they came to be. It’s simply
that explanations have become tiresome. It’s such a long-drawn-out story.
And even when I’ve taken the trouble to tell it, one that is hard to swallow,
in part perhaps because I am a poor storyteller. Most people dismiss it as
too incredible. They think I’m simply a blowhard. Regardless of the clear
evidence of my white hair and my wife’s scar, they never accept what I
have to say. Such is the monstrous nature of our adventures.
I once read a book called ‘The White-Haired Demon’. This told of a
nobleman mistakenly interned in his family crypt when still alive; unable to
escape his grave, faced with the agony of death, his jet-black locks turned
entirely silver overnight. I’ve also heard of a daredevil who plunged over
Niagara Falls in a metal barrel; fortunately the man survived the fall
without serious injury, but as a result of his ordeal his hair had
instantaneously lost all its colour. It seems any event causing an individual’s
hair to transform in this way must be accompanied by some unprecedented
terror or extreme pain. So isn’t my own white hair proof I myself have gone
through something so abnormal people find it impossible to believe? I
might say the same about my wife’s scar. If we were to show this wound to
a surgeon, he’d no doubt struggle to come to any conclusion regarding its
cause. The removal of a growth could never leave such a large impression;
no quack doctor would be so incompetent, even if the underlying muscle
had become diseased. It’s also unlike any treated burn, or a birthmark.
There is something so uncanny about the wound, it almost makes one think,
exactly this shape of scar might be left if a third leg had sprouted from the
hip and been amputated, but mutations of this kind very rarely occur.
In this way, every time I’ve met someone new, I’ve not only found their
enquiries a nuisance, but after some considerable effort in telling my life
story I’ve been exasperated at their disbelief; so it’s my desire that this
bizarre tale, one previously beyond the wit of any who’ve heard it, is made
clear to the world; that people will know the extremes of inhumanity we
endured, that such terrible true events do indeed take place.
And so, I’ve set upon recording in a single volume an account of everything
that happened, so on those occasions when I’m showered with such
questions I can hold this work out and say, “Here, I’ve written in detail
about it in these pages. Read this and your doubts will be dispelled.”
Having said that, I’m not well grounded in the art of writing. I love to read
and have read a great number of novels, but haven’t penned a single
sentence - other than in business correspondences - since studying essay
writing in my first year at vocational college. When I regard contemporary
fiction, it seems to me all I have to do is loosely scribble down the thoughts
in my head, which surely even I could manage. Furthermore, I needn’t
make anything up, these things actually happened, which makes them even
easier to record, or so I thought. Underestimating my task I put pen to paper
and soon realised it wasn’t going to be so simple. Contrary to my
expectations, real-life stories are hugely laborious exactly because they are
true. Unused to composition, rather than having full command of my prose,
I was instead at its beck and call. I made unnecessary additions while
leaving out what was necessary; and my true tale ended up sounding more
invented than any trivial piece of fiction. I now understood how difficult it
is to write realistically about reality.
Even my opening lines, I wrote them down then tore up the page, again and
again, as many as twenty times. It eventually dawned on me that the right
place to begin was the love that grew between myself and Kigiki Hatsuyo.
Though to tell the truth, as an amateur author, exposing my emotions on the
page felt oddly ignoble and even painful, but it was clear my story made no
sense if I left this part out, and not just my relationship with Hatsuyo, I had
to swallow my pride and reveal the details of other similar episodes, most
embarrassing of all, the arousal of homosexual feelings between another
individual and myself.
In terms of the two most prominent incidents of my tale, these happened
just two months apart, a pair of unexplained deaths - or rather murders - so
the following pages initially resemble a typical detective or mystery novel,
while maintaining some truly bizarre elements; though in regards to the
story as a whole (in which I represent the leading or secondary player) my
lover Kigiki Hatsuyo, and the esteemed amateur detective I had investigate
her death, Miyamagi Kōkichi, are both killed before we reach its second
act. Indeed, their deaths are in a way just a prelude to the horrific adventure
I will attempt to relate, the main thread of which concerns events much
more astonishing: bloodcurdling evil atrocious in scale; crimes against
nature previously unimaginable.
Sadly I am not a professional writer, and can only give a rather overstated
account of what is to come, one unlikely compel any reader to continue
further (though later on you will perhaps come to realise none of this has
been an exaggeration) and so I’ll end this prologue here. But now, let me
begin my clumsily written tale.
A Night of Memories
At that time I was 25-years-old, a young clerk working in the offices of a
trading company called ‘SK & Co’, located in Tokyo’s Marunouchi district.
The pitiful monthly salary I received was not much more than pocket
change, but my family didn’t have the resources to support my continuing
education, beyond that of vocational college.
I’d started at the firm when I was 21, which meant I’d been there a full four
years that spring. The work assigned to me involved taking care of a portion
of the company books, so from morning till dusk, all I had to do was flick
beads across the columns of my abacus; but what I really loved were
novels, paintings, plays, and movies - despite my vocational training - and
as a self-styled connoisseur of the arts I hated this machine-like drudgery
even more than the other clerks. Every evening my colleagues went from
café to café and hung out at dance halls, and whenever they had a free
moment they talked exclusively about sports; they were in the main flashy,
confident, unsentimental individuals, so with me being an introverted
daydreamer, even after four years at the company I hadn’t made one real
friend. My office duties were therefore particularly dull.
However, from about six months previously, I’d not felt the same animosity
towards going to work every morning that I had before, thanks to an 18-
year-old trainee typist named Kigiki Hatsuyo who’d started at ‘SK & Co’
around the same time. Hatsuyo was like the woman I’d dreamed of all my
life. Her complexion was mournfully pale, but she did not appear
unhealthy; her body seemed as supple and resilient as whalebone, though
lacking the majesty found in Arabian horses; her asymmetric eyebrows
projected a mysterious charm, high up on her white forehead; an elusive
puzzle resided in those single-lidded eyes which extended narrowly at their
edges; her low nose and not-overly-pale lips stood out in relief against
delicate cheekbones and chin; and her top lip turned up slightly while the
space between this and her nose was unusually narrow. Though I might try
to write a detailed description of Hatsuyo, I cannot really capture her at all.
This only gives a rough impression. Here was the kind of woman who
didn’t match up to the standards of classical beauty, but even so, for me at
least, had a peerless attraction.
Because of my shyness I missed any chance to make her acquaintance, and
for half a year we’d not exchanged a word; if our eyes met in the morning
we didn’t even nod to one another (there were a great number of workers in
our office and it was the custom not to give a morning greeting, unless the
other person was in your section, or someone you knew particularly well).
Then one day - I don’t know what came over me - I happened to engage her
in conversation. When I think back to this moment, and of her joining the
same company as myself, it seems our coming together was written in the
stars. I’m not talking of love, rather, the story I’m writing, the terrible
events to come, all happened solely because I opened my mouth to speak
that morning.
Hatsuyo was sitting at her desk, crouched over her typewriter, dressed in a
lady’s serge business suit of light-purple, her hair neatly tied back (by
herself it seemed). She was intently striking at the typewriter keys.
HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI HIGUCHI
HIGUCHI HIGUCHI
I looked at the paper in her machine; what seemed to be a person’s name,
Higuchi, was typed out in rows like a pattern. I was about to say something
like, “Miss Kigiki, don’t work so hard,” but I got flustered as usual and
stupidly blurted out, “Higuchi?”
Hatsuyo turned to me and answered automatically, “Yes, what is it?”
Her tone was relaxed and childlike in its innocence. She didn’t seem the
slightest bit perturbed at being called by that name. I became even more
flustered. Had I mistakenly thought she was called Kigiki all this time? Was
she simply typing out her own surname? These doubts made me briefly
forget my embarrassment, and without thinking I responded, “You’re Miss
Higuchi? I had always thought you were Miss Kigiki.”
This time she did seem startled, and reddened slightly around her eyes. “I’m
sorry, I was miles away...My name is Kigiki.”
“So who is this Higuchi?” I asked, and was about to add, A boyfriend
perhaps? but lost my nerve and clamped my mouth shut.
“No one. It’s nothing.” Hatsuyo then tore the paper out of the machine and
crumpled it up in her hand.
You may be wondering why I’m recording this trivial exchange; there is a
reason. This brief conversation wasn’t simply the spark that led to our
deeper relationship. The name that Hatsuyo had been typing out - and
moreover the fact that she’d replied without hesitation when called “Miss
Higuchi” - have fundamental and significant connections to my tale.
Now, my principle aim is not to write a love story; there is much I have to
say and little space to say it; so I’ll give only a strictly abridged version of
our courtship.
Following this accidental discourse the two of us frequently began to travel
home together after work, without either mentioning the arrangement. The
short time I spent with her: in the elevator; during the walk from the office
to the station; on the same train until we changed lines (she towards
Sugamo, me towards Waseda) became the highlight of my day. After a
while we grew somewhat bolder. We delayed our journeys a little and
stopped by nearby Hibiya Park, making time to sit on a corner bench and
talk. At Ogawachō, the station where we usually separated, we alighted and
entered a shabby café, ordering a cup of tea each. But we were so naive, it
was almost six months before we had the courage to visit a hotel together
on the outskirts of town.
Hatsuyo had been lonely, just as I had been. We weren’t like the assertive
young men and women of our day. And just as she’d resembled my ideal
woman, by a stroke of good fortune, my looks were of the type that had
always been attractive to her. Strangely enough, when it came to looks,
mine had previously been somewhat of a resource to me. The figure who
will come to play a prominent role in my story is a man by the name of
Moroto Michio, who’d engaged in certain experimental research after
graduating from medical school and had apparently harboured homosexual
feelings towards me ever since our student days. I’d never felt the same
way, but as far as I could tell I’d matched the selection criteria of this hard-
to-please handsome young man, noble in body and spirit, so at the very
least this gave me a degree of confidence in my own appearance.
But there will be an opportunity to go into my relationship with Michio
later on. Let me instead return to that first night with Kigiki Hatsuyo in that
out-of-the-way hotel, one I remember so clearly even now. We’d been
drinking at a café and like eloping lovers had become oddly sentimental and
inflamed with passion; I’d drunk as many as three whiskeys, a spirit I was
unused to, and Hatsuyo had finished off two sweet cocktails, so red-faced
and somewhat tipsy, we found ourselves standing brazenly at the hotel’s
front desk. We were led into a gloomy room with stained paper walls and a
king-sized bed. When the houseboy left - after silently placing the room
keys and some bitter tea on a table in the corner - we gave a startled look
towards each other. Hatsuyo had a strong character despite her fragile
facade, but her colourless lips now trembled and her pale face appeared
completely sober.
“Are you afraid?” I whispered in order to cover my own nerves.
Hatsuyo said nothing, but with her eyes closed she gave an almost
imperceivable shake of the head. Needless to say, she was terrified.
It was a markedly peculiar and uncomfortable scene. Neither of us had
anticipated things would proceed this way. We’d believed we could enjoy
our first night together in the casual way other people of the world did. But
we hadn’t even the nerve to lie down, let alone undress and expose our bare
skin. In short, we spent almost an hour in silence, anxiously sitting on the
edge of the bed, not even kissing - as we had done many times before - and
doing nothing else of course, while awkwardly swinging our legs to divert
ourselves from our own embarrassment.
“Darling, let’s talk a little. I’d like to tell you about my childhood.”
By the time Hatsuyo said this, lowly and clearly, I’d already gotten over the
carnal desires I’d felt so impatiently and was instead strangely refreshed.
“Yes, please do,” I answered with interest, “Tell me the story of your life.”
Hatsuyo’s posture relaxed and in a thin but crystal clear tone she related her
mysterious upbringing. I listened intently for a long time, hardly moving.
Her voice was half like a lullaby, so pleasant to my ears. Previous to that
night, as well as after it, she revealed fragments of her background, but
nothing that left such a strong impression on me as what she said in that
hotel room. I can vividly recall every word. However, for the purposes of
this story there is no need to record this in its entirety. The following
concerns only those parts that before long will have a bearing on what is to
come:
“As I’ve mentioned to you before, I don’t know where I was born, or by
who. The woman I call my mother - you haven’t met her yet, the two of us
live together and she is the reason I work as a typist - she told me,
‘Hatsuyo, when I was still young and married, I found you in an area of
Osaka docks called Kawaguchi, then raised you as best I could. There you
were, standing in the corner of a dark shelter where people waited to board
steamers, holding a small bundle tied with a handkerchief, bawling your
eyes out. When I opened that bundle I found a document, perhaps your
family tree, and a note. From that note I learnt your name was Hatsuyo and
you were exactly three-years-old. Well, we hadn’t any children of our own,
so it seemed like God had provided us with a daughter, and once the police
paperwork was complete, you were properly ours, and we devoted
ourselves to you. So always treat me as family and nothing else, think of me
- especially as I am all alone since your father died - as your real mother.’
At least that’s what she said, and though it sounded like some fairytale, it’s
odd, I just couldn’t stop crying.”
Hatsuyo’s father, the man who’d raised her, had studied that family tree
thoroughly while still alive, and had taken great pains to find out who her
real parents were, but parts of the document were torn out, only a list of
names and titles were eligible. But judging from the mere existence of such
a record, Hatsuyo’s ancestors must have been nobility, despite there being
no mention of the clan they belonged to or where they came from.
“I was three, but not too bright I guess. I can’t remember my parent’s faces
at all. Imagine though, being abandoned in a crowd of strangers! There are
two things I do clearly recall. If I shut my eyes tight, two memories that still
appear to me out of the darkness. The first is a scene on the coast. I’m
playing with a baby in the warm sunshine in some kind of barren meadow.
I’m looking after the infant, perhaps pretending to be the baby’s older sister.
The sea below us is perfectly blue, and further along the shoreline a purple
landmass extends in the shape of a sleeping cow. I wonder sometimes.
What if that baby really had been my little sister or brother? And what if,
unlike me, they’d not been abandoned, and was even now living happily
somewhere with my parents? When I think of this my heart aches with such
a melancholy longing.”
Hatsuyo seemed to be talking to herself, staring towards some far off place.
She then spoke of her second memory, “I’m midway up a rocky outcrop
and taking in the view. A great residence surrounded by a clay wall like the
Great Wall of China is nearby. The long roofline of its main building
spreads out like the wings of a great bird and a large clay storehouse stands
to the side. All this is brilliantly picked out by the sun’s rays. And what’s
more, not another property can be seen. Beyond the house, again I see the
deep blue sea, and again, in the distance, that headland shaped like a
sleeping cow lies shrouded in mist. I’m certain. The scenery is the same as
when I was playing with the baby. I’ve seen this place so many times in my
dreams. How I’ve yearned to go back there! If I just walked and walked and
didn’t stop, surely one day I’d reach that hillside. If I walked through every
corner of Japan I’d find a land identical to this I’m sure. The land of my
birth.”
At this point I interrupted her, “Wait a moment, this view you see in your
dreams, it sounds like it could be a painting, why don’t I try to draw it?”
“Yes, then, let me give a more detailed account.”
I took a sheet of hotel letter paper from a basket on the table and with the
pen provided drew the coastal scenery Hatsuyo described, never imagining
my offhand doodle would ever be more than just that.
“How strange, it’s just like you’ve drawn, just so!” Hatsuyo squealed with
excitement when she saw the finished picture.
“You will let me keep it, won’t you?” I asked as I folded the paper up and
placed it in my inside pocket, feeling as though I was carrying my lover’s
dream.
After that Hatsuyo went on to talk about various happy and unhappy
memories from her early life, though there is no need to repeat them here.
At any rate, our first night together was spent in a kind of beautiful reverie.
Though of course we didn’t stay at the hotel, but went back to our
respective homes in the early hours the following morning.
A Peculiar Love
As the weeks went by my relationship with Kigiki Hatsuyo grew even more
intimate. Then, one month later, we stayed at that out-of-the-way hotel a
second time, and were united by something more than that initial evening of
sweet, childlike fantasy. I visited her house and met her kind-hearted
mother. Soon we even confessed our intentions. Though her mother and my
own did not react particularly positively to this. We were still too young.
Marriage was a distant and uncertain possibility.
We exchanged childish gifts in the way schoolkids make promises to each
other. I exhausted a month’s wages in buying her a ring, set with the
birthstone tourmaline. I slid this onto her finger one day while we sat on a
bench in Hibiya Park, in a gesture I’d learnt from a movie. Hatsuyo was so
happy, like a kid at Christmas (it was the poor girl’s first ever ring) then she
stopped to think for a moment.
“Ah, I’ve got it!” she exclaimed, and opened the shoulder bag she always
carried with her. “Do you know what this is? I was wondering just now
what I could give you in return. I can’t afford a ring or anything like that.
But I have something better. See? My family tree. As I’ve told you before,
this is the one keepsake I have from my parents, whoever they are. I take
this everywhere I go, so I’m never separated from my ancestors. This is
perhaps the only connection I have to my real mother, it’s hard to let go, I
value it next to my own life but I’ve nothing else to give, so it’s yours.
Although it looks like a bundle of worthless paper, please take good care of
it.”
So saying, out of her bag Hatsuyo took a slim, ancient-looking genealogical
record, bound in a fabric cover, and handed it to me. I took this and flipped
through the pages, but all I could make out were rows and rows of old-
fashioned militaristic names written in vermillion ink.
Hatsuyo continued in a childlike way, “This is where I got the surname
‘Higuchi’. Remember? The name you caught me tapping out on my
typewriter that time. I’ve always felt Higuchi suited me more than Kigiki,
that’s why when you called me Higuchi, I didn’t hesitate to answer. It may
look like mouldy old scrap paper, but a man once came and offered to buy it
for a lot of money. He was from a nearby secondhand bookshop. My
mother had let slip we owned such a thing and he’d heard about it from
somewhere. But however much he offered we wouldn’t budge, and turned
him down flat. So you see, it’s not without value.”
These two gifts become our engagement presents.
Before long though, there would be a meddlesome intrusion on our
happiness. This came in the form of another marriage proposal laid at the
feet of Hatsuyo from a figure way beyond me in terms of status, wealth, and
education. A vigorous campaign began, aimed at Hatsuyo’s mother, via a
distinguished go-between.
Hatsuyo learnt of this proposal the day after we’d exchanged our gifts, but
the truth was - according to her mother after she finally confessed - the go-
between had already begun visiting a month previously, having tracked her
down through a relative. Of course I was astonished when I heard this, but
what surprised me most was not that Hatsuyo’s suitor was so head-and-
shoulders above me, or that Hatsuyo’s mother seemed to be leaning in his
favour, but that this man actually had a peculiar connection to myself - my
rival was in fact none other than Moroto Michio.
This revelation was so stunning it drowned out all my other worries and
questions. To explain why I was so surprised I must now reveal a somewhat
embarrassing episode from my past.
As I mentioned before, when he was a medical student, for quite a while
over several years, Moroto Michio harboured abnormal romantic feelings
towards me. Of course I didn’t fully understand these feelings, and yet
never found them off-putting. He was an erudite scholar, a prodigy perhaps,
and was curiously attractive. So I was quite happy to accept his behaviour
as conviviality, the affection of a good friend, as long as it didn’t go beyond
a certain point.
When I was in my fourth year at vocational college I moved into a boarding
house in Kanda called Hatsune-kan - my family actually lived in Tokyo but
I wanted to spread my wings a little, as well as there being some issues at
home - and I first met Michio there, he being a fellow lodger. We were
separated by six years. I was 17 and he was 23. All intimations came from
his side and I happily submitted to his friendship, almost in the role of a
devotee; he was a university student after all and an apparently exceptional
one at that.
It was two months after our first meeting that I became aware how he really
felt. I never learnt this directly from Michio himself but from his gossiping
friends. One of them enthusiastically propagated the rumour that, “Michio
and Minoura are that way inclined”. After this I became more attentive and
noticed a faint indication of bashfulness on Michio’s pale cheeks only when
he was addressing me. Back then I was still a child. Similar incidents had
taken place at school, in a more playful sense. So my own face felt hot
when I envisaged his intentions. However, it was not altogether unpleasant.
I remember he would often invite me to the public baths. We washed each
other’s backs, as was usual, but Michio would cover my body in soapy
bubbles and meticulously clean me like a mother bathing her own infant. At
first I took this as a sign of his generosity, later on when I knew how he felt,
I still let him behave in this way. Such a thing did not especially hurt my
pride.
When we walked together we would tug at each other’s hands and put our
arms around the other’s shoulders. Again, I was fully aware of what we
were doing. Sometimes he would zealously squeeze my fingers with his
own and though I pretended not to notice and put up no resistance, my heart
would flutter, though I never squeezed back.
As well as this physical contact, Michio could not have been more generous
towards me in other ways. He presented me with various gifts. He took me
to plays, the movie theatre, sporting events and suchlike. He checked my
schoolwork. In the days before I had an exam he would spare no effort in
helping me, and fret as if we were taking the test himself.
Even after all that happened I can never forget Michio’s kindness; in the
way he took me under his wing. But this relationship could not last forever.
After a certain time he began to turn melancholy just by seeing me, and sigh
silently for long periods, then finally, six months on from when we first
met, everything came to a head.
That evening, we’d decided to go to a nearby restaurant for dinner, since the
food at our boarding house was not up to much. For some reason Michio
was in a reckless mood; he drank heavily and insisted I join him. Of course
I was not used to alcohol, and when I’d finished off two or three glasses my
face suddenly burned and my head swayed from side to side and I felt a
spirit of abandonment come over me.
We staggered back to the boarding house, hanging on to each other, singing
our old highschool songs.
“Let’s go to your room!” Michio cried, and he practically dragged me into
my own quarters. Inside, my futon was already laid out, as I never bothered
to roll it up during the day. All of a sudden, whether Michio pushed me or I
tripped I can’t say, I was lying flat out on my own bed. Michio loomed over
me, gazing down intently at my face. “You sure are beautiful,” he said
bluntly.
In that instant a bizarre notion crossed my mind. Strange as it may sound, I
was now a young bride, and Michio, my new husband, handsome and even
more charming; though this was merely a rush of blood to the head brought
on by drunkenness.
Michio fell to his knees and took hold of my hand which I’d flung
carelessly to one side. “You feel hot,” he said.
At the same time I felt the fierce heat of his own hand. When I blanched
and shrank back into a corner of the room, I saw in Michio’s eyes a look of
deep regret; he’d done something he could never take back. In a choked
voice he muttered, “I’m joking, I’m joking. I was only playing. I’d never do
such a thing.”
We avoided each other’s gaze for a while and remained silent, then there
was a sudden crash and when I looked up Michio had slumped across my
desk. He was motionless, his face buried in his folded arms. I wondered if
he was crying, then finally he lifted his head and said, “Please don’t despise
me. I expect I seem pathetic to you. I’m another species. An alien race, in
every sense. I can’t explain what I mean by this. Sometimes, when I’m
alone, it scares me, and I start to tremble all over.”
I’d no idea what he was so terrified of; at least I didn’t until much later,
after I’d been made aware of certain facts.
Michio’s face was washed clean by his tears. He continued, “You
understand how I feel I suppose. That’s all I ask. It’s perhaps impossible for
me to expect anything more. But please don’t turn your back on me. Be my
confidant. Accept even just my friendship. My feelings are my own, at least
allow me this freedom. Eh, Minoura? At least allow me this.”
I stubbornly remained silent. But my eyes also welled up as I watched the
tears trickle down his cheeks as he pleaded with me.
That night marked the end of my whimsical life as a student lodger at the
Hatsune-kan boarding house. I didn’t feel any animosity towards Michio,
but the awkwardness that had arisen between us, and my own natural
shyness, meant I couldn’t stay there any longer.
Despite all this, what was hardest to comprehend was Michio’s own
continuing state of mind. Rather than setting aside his love for me, as time
went by his feelings only seemed to grow stronger and deeper. If we
happened to meet by chance he’d often casually hand over a love letter so
novel to behold, in which he’d appeal to me in heartrending lines. His
incomprehensible emotions endured even into my twenties. Regardless of
whether or not my smooth cheeks retained their youthful shine, or my
boyish physique developed beyond its feminine allure.
So for me, the greatest shock of all was when the figure who’d
unexpectedly proposed marriage to my own lover, turned out to be my old
school friend. Though instead of treating him with the hostility of a love
rival I couldn’t help feeling a sense of disappointment. Perhaps...perhaps
Michio’s become aware of my feelings towards Hatsuyo and to make sure
I’m not lost to a member of the opposite sex - and keep his own hopes alive
- has himself taken on the role of suitor and plans to stand in the way of my
happiness, I told myself out of an absurd sense of jealousy and self-conceit.
The Crooked Man
This was the fantastical situation. For one man to love another so much that
he would try to steal that man’s fiancée. It was a state of affairs beyond
most people’s reckoning. I myself almost laughed at my own conjecture;
that Michio’s positioning as a rival was simply to take Hatsuyo from me.
But once this seed had been planted, it soon took root. I remembered
something he’d said. For him, a relatively lucid admission of his peculiar
feelings: “It’s impossible for me to be attracted to women. Indeed, I detest
them, I even find them revolting. You understand, don’t you? This has
nothing to do with shame. There’s something that frightens me. Sometimes
I’m so scared I can’t bear to stand still.”
How odd it was that this lifelong misogynist had suddenly chosen to get
married, and moreover, so enthusiastically campaigned for Hatsuyo’s hand.
I say “suddenly”, it was only until recently that I’d continued to receive
Michio’s bizarre and yet utterly sincere love letters, and exactly a month
ago that he’d asked me to the theatre with him. Naturally his invitation had
been motivated by feelings of affection. There was nothing in his manner at
that time that left any room to doubt this. Then a mere one month later, a
complete turnaround, he abandons me (this sounds like there was something
scandalous about our friendship, in truth nothing of the sort was going on)
and begins to solicit Hatsuyo; “suddenly” doesn’t even come into it.
Furthermore, it was surely too strange a coincidence that the person he’d
selected as a wife, as if by common consent, was none other than my own
sweetheart.
In this way, when I lay out the facts of the matter, you’ll see my suspicions
were not at all groundless. Though maybe it’s difficult for the man-in-the-
street to grasp the odd nature of Moroto Michio’s actions and psychology.
You might even reproach me for expounding on my own petty scepticism.
Even more so, since unlike me, you will not have had direct experience of
Michio’s peculiar manner.
Well, perhaps it would be better for me to jump forward a little, and reveal
now what becomes apparent later on. In short, I’d been entirely correct in
questioning Michio’s motives. Just as I’d surmised, the purpose of his
clamorous marriage campaign was not born out of any genuine sentiment
towards Hatsuyo. You may wonder exactly how clamorous this campaign
was. Hatsuyo herself told me one day: “I’m fed up with it. It seems some
go-between comes almost every afternoon to pester my mother. And he
knows all about you, he tells her about your family’s finances, how much
you earn each month, he says if you were my husband you’d never be able
to support me. What a nerve! To say such things! But what’s worse, she
sees the man’s photograph and hears about his education and personal
circumstances and her eyes light up. My mother is a good person, but this
has turned me against her. She’s shameless. It’s like we’re at war with each
other. Whatever I say, we always end up having the same argument.”
Her exasperated tone exposed just how determined Michio’s efforts had
been.
“Thanks to that man, things have gotten so awkward between me and my
mother; something I couldn’t have imagined even a month ago. For
instance, recently, it seems she’s been going through my things whenever
I’m out. As if she’s searching for your letters and wants to know how far
our relationship has gone. I’m a neat and tidy person and keep my desk
drawer in order, but it’s often left in a mess. She’s brazen, she really is!”
This was the point she’d reached. Hatsuyo was a devoted daughter, but was
never going to surrender in this battle. She dug her heels in and didn’t think
twice about the strain she was putting her mother through.
Contrary to expectation, such an unexpected interference actually brought
Hatsuyo and myself even closer together. How grateful I was that Hatsuyo
remained sincerely mine, and gave so little thought to my great love rival,
who I’d briefly feared.
This was late spring, and since Hatsuyo would delay going home and facing
her mother for as long as possible, we’d often walk for hours after work;
along the main streets illuminated by charming lamplight; in the park,
enveloped by the almost suffocating aroma of verdant young leaves. On our
days off we’d arrange to meet at a suburban train station and stroll among
the greenery of the Musashino region. I can close my eyes now and still see
a stream; an earth covered wooden bridge; the tall ancient trees and stone
walls of a village shrine hidden in a grove known as a Chinju-no-mori. And
walking together across this scene, there I am, still a child of 25, and
Hatsuyo, dressed in dazzling Meisen silk, her kimono wrapped in a woven
obi of my favourite colour, tied high up her midriff.
Please, don’t laugh at my youthful self. These are treasured memories of my
first love. We’d been together a mere eight or nine months but had become
inseparable. With Hatsuyo at my side I’d forget completely about work and
domestic matters and simply lose myself in a floating daydream, soaring
among rose-coloured clouds.
I wasn’t a bit concerned by Michio’s advances, since I’d no reason to fear
any change of heart in my lover. And Hatsuyo was no longer bothered by
her mother’s reprimands. There wasn’t the slightest chance she’d marry
anyone else but me.
I’ll never forget that dream-like bliss. But it turned out to be short-lived. I
recall the date quite clearly, June 25th, 1925. Exactly nine months after
we’d first spoken to each other my relationship with Hatsuyo would be
severed; not because of Moroto Michio’s campaign, but because Kigiki
Hatsuyo tragically passed from this world. Though her’s was no ordinary
death, she was mercilessly taken, the victim of a highly mysterious murder.
Before I get to that, there’s something I’d first like to bring to your
attention. A strange episode Hatsuyo related to me a few days before her
passing. Afterwards, what she had to say would have a large bearing on her
case, so keep this information in mind.
It was a normal day at the office but Hatsuyo appeared pale and anxious
throughout. I questioned her after work as we walked along Marunouchi’s
main avenue, and sure enough she drew me closer, glanced over her
shoulder, and described the following uncanny series of events: “It
happened for the third time yesterday. Just like before, when I was on my
way to the public bath. I live in a backwater neighbourhood, as you know,
and the streets are pitch black in the evenings. Anyway, last night I slid
open the lattice front door and stepped outside and there’s this weird old
man standing right by the window of our house. Three times I’ve seen him.
He gives a startled look when I come out, then casually walks off as
innocent as you like, but until that moment, I had the impression he’d been
peering in at whatever was going on inside our house. The second time this
happened I thought perhaps it was my own imagination, but after last night,
I’m certain. The same man couldn’t have been passing, just like that.
Besides, I’ve never seen him before. I have a bad feeling something terrible
is going to take place.”
Hatsuyo became defensive when she saw I was on the point of laughing this
off.
“Mark my words, this is no ordinary old man. I’ve never seen anyone so
sinister. He’s well past his 50s and 60s, he must be in his 80s at least. His
back is bent double, like it’s folded over, and he walks with a stick, his body
twisted into the shape of a key, with only his head facing the way he’s
going. So from a distance it looks like he’s half the height of a normal
human being. It’s as if a grotesque bug is crawling along the street. And that
face! It’s covered in wrinkles so it’s hard to tell, but it must have been an
unearthly sight even in his youth. I didn’t get a good look, because of the
darkness and my fear, but by the light coming from my house I could dimly
see the area around his mouth. His lips are split down the middle, just like a
rabbit’s. When I think of his embarrassed smirk when he caught my eye, I
still feel a chill. How strange it is, that this ancient looking ghoul should be
hanging around where I live, and for three nights now. It must be a warning
of some kind. Right?”
I saw that Hatsuyo’s lips had lost their colour and were trembling. She was
clearly very shaken. I smiled and told her it was all a fuss over nothing; that
even if what she’d seen was true, it made no sense. What kind of dangerous
scheme could an 80-year-old cripple be up to? I mostly dismissed her fears
as a young girl’s silly fantasy. Very soon however, Hatsuyo’s premonition
would prove to be horribly accurate.
A Locked-Room Mystery
It’s time then for me to tell of the awful events of June 25th, 1925.
The day before, or rather the evening before, I’d been with Hatsuyo until
close to seven o’clock. It was still late spring and we were in Ginza. We
rarely visited such upmarket districts, but for some reason that night
Hatsuyo suggested a stroll around the area. She was wearing a new kimono
of a dark material with a well-chosen pattern. Her belt was made from black
cloth woven with silver thread. The straps of her sandals were deep red. My
polished shoes matched her stride as we sauntered along the pavement. By
then, we were hesitantly mimicking the social customs of other modern
young men and women. It was payday, so we treated ourselves to dinner at
a barbecued-chicken restaurant in Shinbashi. We happily drank and chatted
until it was time to go home. I remember being a little tipsy and getting
rather full of myself. “If only Michio could see us now,” I bragged and
laughed conceitedly. “He hasn’t a clue!” Oh but what a fool I was!
The next morning I went to work still with the image of Hatsuyo clear in
my mind, just as she’d looked when we’d parted the night before. I opened
the doors of ‘SK & Co’ in a glorious spring-like mood, picturing the
beaming smile of the woman I adored, her words still ringing in my ears.
Then, as usual, I immediately glanced towards Hatsuyo’s desk. Even
something so trivial as to which one of us had arrived first made for an
enjoyable topic of conversation later on. However, even though it was
slightly past the start of business hours, Hatsuyo was not there and the
cover of her typewriter had not been removed. This struck me as odd, and I
was about to head to my own desk when from somewhere beside me an
urgent voice called out, “Minoura, don’t be alarmed, but I have some
terrible news. It seems Miss Kigiki has been killed.”
The voice belonged to K, the head of the personnel department.
“I was just informed by the police and was on my way to see them. Perhaps
you’d like to join me?” His manner was in part sympathetic and in part
teasing, since my relationship with Hatsuyo was the subject of some gossip
in the office.
“Yes. We can go together,” I responded machine-like, my mind otherwise a
complete blank.
After I’d made my excuses with my coworkers, I left with K and we
climbed into the same cab. “Where was she killed?” I was finally able to
ask in a hoarse voice, my lips dry and sticky, “And who killed her?”
“She was at home. You’ve been there before, I assume. As for who did it, I
haven’t a clue. How awful, I can hardly believe it,” K answered tactlessly,
as if only he was personally affected.
When people feel emotional pain too intensely, rather than tears, their face
often breaks out into a queer smile. The same is true of grief. When it is too
much to bear, mourners neglect to weep or even have the strength to feel
sorrow. Eventually, after some days have passed, their grief takes on its true
form. This is how it was with me. I remember in the taxicab; and even after
we reached our destination and I saw Hatsuyo’s body; it was as if all this
was happening to someone else, I behaved like a detached observer, dumbly
looking on.
Hatsuyo had lived in a dense part of Sugamo, where merchant’s stores and
non-commercial residences stood side-by-side, and the backstreets and
main thoroughfares were indistinguishable from each other. Her house and
the adjoining junk shop formed the only single-storey building in the street,
so it stood out due to its low roof. Her’s was a small three-or-four-room
dwelling, which she shared with her adoptive mother.
By the time we arrived the police had finished their examination of the
body and were questioning the neighbours. A uniformed officer stood guard
outside the lattice front door, but when we showed him our ‘SK & Co’
business cards he allowed us to enter.
In the six-tatami backroom Hatsuyo was already laid out for her final
journey. A white sheet lay across her entire body, and before her was a
cloth-covered table with a candle and some incense. Her mother, who I’d
met once before, was crumpled in a heap weeping at Hatsuyo’s head. A
man, who turned out to be the brother of the elderly woman’s dead husband,
sat glumly by her side. I offered my condolences - after K had done the
same - bowed once towards the table, then approached Hatsuyo and gently
rolled back the sheet so I could see her face. She’d apparently been stabbed
once through the heart but her expression showed no trace of pain; she
seemed at peace, almost smiling faintly. Her eyes were closed, and her skin,
though always pale when alive, was now as white as candle wax. A thick
bandage was wrapped around her wound, just at the height she’d always
tied the belt of her kimono.
As I looked I recalled the Hatsuyo who’d sat across from me at the
restaurant in Shinbashi just 13 or 14 hours earlier, laughing gaily. I then felt
my chest constrict so tightly it seemed my heart had stopped. In the next
instant my tears pattered down on the tatami in an incessant stream.
Ah, but I indulge too deeply in reminiscence. What’s done is done. Please
excuse me, my purpose here is not to pluck at your heartstrings with such
sentimentality.
K and myself were questioned at the scene, and also a few days later at the
police station, and asked about Hatsuyo’s movements, and with this
information and what was learnt from her mother and the people of the
neighbourhood the following was understood about the circumstances of
her tragic death:
The previous evening, Hatsuyo’s mother had gone to Shinagawa to consult
with her brother-in-law about her daughter’s marriage prospects, and since
this was some distance away, had arrived home after one o’clock at night.
She’d locked up the house, talked a little to Hatsuyo - who was still awake -
then retired to the room designated as her bedroom, though this four-and-a-
half-tatami space actually doubled up as the front porch.
Here I should perhaps explain a little about the layout of the house. Beyond
the porch just mentioned was a six-tatami parlour, which then led to the six-
tatami backroom and a three-tatami kitchen. The backroom was used both
as a space to receive visitors and as Hatsuyo’s bedroom. Since her wages
paid the bills, as head of the household, Hatsuyo had been allotted the most
desirable quarters. The four-and-a-half-tatami porch faced south, so was
bathed in sunlight in the winter and was cool in the summer, and since it
was such a bright and comfortable space Hatsuyo’s mother used it as the
room to do her needlework and the like. Although the central parlour was
more spacious, it was only separated from the kitchen by a single sliding
door, and light never entered making it gloomy and damp, which was why
Hatsuyo’s mother also chose to sleep in the porch area.
You may wonder why I’m giving such a detailed description, but the
relationship between these rooms was one of the factors that made
Hatsuyo’s murder so problematic. While I’m at it, I should mention another
fact that proved a further complication: Hatsuyo’s mother was hard of
hearing. In addition to this, since she’d arrived home so late that night, and
was somewhat worn out by all the excitement of her trip, rather than finding
it difficult to sleep, she soon drifted off into a deep slumber, and heard or
noticed nothing until waking at six o’clock the following morning.
When she did arise, she went straight to the kitchen and lit the fire under the
stove, then perhaps out of concern for her daughter, slid open the partition
to Hatsuyo’s bedroom and peeked inside. By the light coming through the
shutters and the lamp still shining on her desk, she was instantly able to take
in the scene.
Hatsuyo’s bedcover was flung to one side and she lay on her back, her torso
was soaked with blood and a short wooden-handled dagger still poked out
from the middle of her chest. There was no sign of a struggle, and no look
of anguish on Hatsuyo’s face; it was as if she’d died quietly in her sleep,
lying half out of bed due to the heat. The murderer had shown remarkable
skill; with one thrust of the blade into her heart, it seemed she’d had no time
to feel any pain.
The terrible shock caused her mother to collapse on the spot. “Somebody,
please!” she called out again and again. Because of her poor hearing she
normally spoke quite loudly, but this was a clear cry for help and the people
next door were soon alerted. Then a great commotion began; five or six
neighbours gathered outside, and though they tried to enter, this proved
impossible as the house was thoroughly locked up. They banged on the
front door and shouted, “Hey lady! Let us in!” Some of them lost their
patience and went round to the back but it was the same story. After some
time, the old woman finally came to the door and drew back the bolts,
apologising for having lost her head, and the party piled in, went through to
the backroom and realised a terrible crime had been committed. The police
were called, a messenger was sent rushing off to the house of the brother-in-
law, and a great fuss was generally made. Word spread fast and people from
all over town came in their twos and threes, the old junk shop owner
declared that his store could be used as a gathering place for well-wishers,
and the commotion only seemed to grow and grow.
The police doctor’s examination later showed the time of death to be around
3 a.m., but as for the motive or circumstances of the crime, these could only
be guessed at. There was no suggestion Hatsuyo’s room or chest of drawers
had been ransacked, but as the investigation progressed her mother noticed
two items were indeed missing. The first was the shoulder bag Hatsuyo
always carried with her. Inside would have been Hatsuyo’s monthly salary,
which she’d only just received that day. According to Hatsuyo’s mother,
there hadn’t been time to take this out, and her bag would have been left on
her desk with the money still in it. From this one piece of evidence it was
judged someone, no doubt a professional burglar of some kind, had crept
into Hatsuyo’s room, found her handbag with her wages - which had always
been his goal - and was about to flee when Hatsuyo had woken and
screamed or cried out. In his panic the villain had stabbed her with his own
dagger then escaped carrying off his prize. It was strange that Hatsuyo’s
mother had remained oblivious to such a disturbance, but this was no
surprise when you considered that, as stated before, Hatsuyo’s bedroom did
not adjoin her mother’s; the elderly woman suffered from hearing loss; and
to top it all, she’d been particularly tired that night and had slept especially
soundly. It was also possible to imagine that the burglar had struck his killer
blow instantly, before Hatsuyo had a chance to struggle.
So why am I going to such lengths to record the details of an everyday
burglary-gone-wrong? Well, up until now the facts of the matter are indeed
rather unspectacular. But there is nothing everyday about this case when
taken as a whole. The truth is I haven’t yet reached the aspects that make it
so remarkable. It’s important I don’t get ahead of myself.
What made it unusual? First of all, why did the burglar steal a tin of
chocolates along with the shoulder bag full of money? A tin of chocolates
was in fact the second item Hatsuyo’s mother had identified as having gone
missing. I happened to remember those chocolates well. The night before,
when we’d been strolling through Ginza, I’d led Hatsuyo into a
confectionery shop, and knowing of her sweet tooth, had bought her a tin of
chocolates with a decorative pattern on it that had sparkled like glorious
gemstones from within the store’s glass display case. It was a flat round tin
no bigger than the palm of my hand. The decorations were so pretty this is
what had attracted my interest rather than the chocolates inside. Silver
wrapping paper had been scattered around the head of Hatsuyo’s bed, so she
must have eaten a few sweets before sleeping that night. Had the murderer,
purely on some whim, found time at such a critical moment to snatch this
insignificant item worth no more than one yen? It was assumed that
Hatsuyo’s mother had been mistaken, and the tin had been put away
somewhere, but after an extensive search nothing of the sort was found. But
the disappearance of a tin of chocolates was neither here nor there. There
was a much greater mystery to this murder.
How had the murderer entered the property? And how had he left? There
were three established access points in and out of the house: the lattice front
door; the back door leading into the kitchen; and the verandah outside
Hatsuyo’s room. The only other options were through the walls, or the
windows, which were securely fitted with grilles. On the night of Hatsuyo’s
murder the three access points had been locked tight, including the sliding
doors onto the verandah, which were bolted at both ends. In short, any
burglar would have needed another way in. This was not only according to
the testimony of Hatsuyo’s mother; the five or six neighbours who heard
her cries and were first on the scene also admitted as much. As you know
already, that morning when they tried to enter, both the front and back doors
were locked from the inside, and try as they might, they couldn’t jimmy
them open. Furthermore, when they finally got into Hatsuyo’s room and
three of them went to open the verandah shutters in order to let more light
in, they found them also securely bolted. The only possible conclusion was,
the killer had entered and fled from somewhere other than the three access
points mentioned, but where?
The first possibility that came to mind was the space beneath the
floorboards. In terms of access from under the house, the exposed areas
were the porch, and Hatsuyo’s verandah, which faced an enclosed garden.
But the porch flooring consisted of thick planks of wood firmly nailed
down, and wire netting had been fixed under the verandah to prevent cats
and dogs from entering. In both cases, there were no signs of any recent
interference. Disgusting as it may sound, what about the toilet outlet? This
emerged near the verandah but was smaller than older types; the prudent
building owner had recently had it replaced with a drain only 15
centimetres wide. So there could be no room for doubt here either. Then
there was the skylight on the kitchen roof. Again, this showed no evidence
of having been tampered with. The cord that held it shut was tightly wound
round its hooked nail. Other than this, no footprints were visible in the
garden outside the verandah, and after a constable had taken off one of the
ceiling panels and investigated the space under the roof, no traces of anyone
moving about there were found in the thick layer of dust. The only
possibility left was that the criminal had broken through one of the walls, or
removed the grille from the front window. Needless to say the walls were
undamaged and the grille nailed firmly in place.
Not only was there no clue as to how the killer had got in and out, no clue
remained that might have indicated who he might be. The wooden-handled
dagger, comparable to a child’s toy, was of the type sold in any ironmonger,
and not one fingerprint was found on its handle, on Hatsuyo’s desk, or any
other place. The killer, of course, had left nothing else behind.
Hatsuyo had been murdered, and her property stolen, by a burglar who, as
far as anyone could see, had never been there. There was nothing to prove
the criminal had even existed, except for his crimes.
I’d read of similar cases, such as Poe’s ‘The Murders in Rue Morgue’ and
Leroux’s ‘The Mystery of the Yellow Room’. A homicide in a room sealed
from within. But I’d believed such puzzles could only occur in western-
style buildings, not poorly-built Japanese constructions of wooden boards
and paper. Now I’d come to realise this was not true. Even with flimsy
wooden boards, if they are broken or removed, evidence should remain. So
from a detective’s point of view, there’s no difference between a two
centimetre plank of wood and a 30 centimetre concrete wall.
And yet, the following objection may be put: In Poe’s and Leroux’s stories,
the victims were alone in their locked rooms. Therefore their deaths were
truly mysterious. But in this case, even if the house was locked tight, wasn’t
there another person inside, as well as the victim?
This is of course entirely correct. In the days following the murder, the
prosecutor and the police thought along similar lines. If not the slightest
trace existed of an intruder having entered the house, there was only one
figure who could have got close enough to kill Hatsuyo: her mother. The
two missing items might easily have been part of her deceit. Disposing of
such objects would have been no trouble at all. What was most
incongruous, was the fact this elderly woman, who due to her age should
have been a light-sleeper, hadn’t noticed a brutal murder taking place in her
own house, even if she’d been separated by another room, and suffered
from hearing loss. This no doubt swayed the prosecutor in charge of the
case.
Then there were other facts. The two women were not biologically related,
and had recently been arguing over the issue of Hatsuyo’s marriage. On the
night of Hatsuyo’s murder, the elderly woman had gone to appeal to her
brother-in-law for help in the matter, and according to the testimony of the
junk shop owner next door, had quarreled viciously with her daughter after
coming home. I myself stated that the mother had apparently rummaged
through her daughter’s things when she was out, painting an even worse
picture of their relationship.
The day after the funeral, the poor woman was finally summoned to the
police station.
A Lover’s Ashes
Following Hatsuyo’s murder I didn’t go to work for two or three days. I
locked myself away in my room to the consternation of my mother, my
brother and his wife. Only once did I step outside, and that was to attend
Hatsuyo’s funeral.
During that period I began to understand the true nature of grief. We’d been
together for no more than nine months but the depth and intensity of love is
not something determined by time. In the 30 years I’ve lived I’ve tasted all
kinds of sadness, but nothing so bottomless as the sorrow I endured at
losing Hatsuyo. My father died when I was 19, and a year later I lost my
little sister, and being so naturally feeble and cowardly I was affected
greatly by these events, but the pain I felt then was nothing compared to my
grief over Hatsuyo. Love is strange. It brings unparalleled joy, but in
exchange, can cause unparalleled sadness. Luckily or unluckily I’ve never
known the misery of unrequited love. But I’m sure I could endure it, no
matter how bad it got. To have a broken heart means the other party at least
remains a stranger to you. But in the case of Hatsuyo and myself, in the face
of all obstacles, our love for each other had been all encompassing; it’s as I
described it before, we were wrapped in some heavenly rose-coloured
cloud, our bodies and souls melded together; we were one. Closer than any
brother or sister, parent or child. Hatsuyo was one half of myself, and
encountering her, a once-in-a-lifetime event. This was the woman I’d lost.
If she’d died of an illness, it’s likely I’d have had the time to nurse her
before she passed, but only ten hours after we’d parted in such good spirits,
she’d lain before me, a mute and forlorn wax figure. And what’s more,
killed so mercilessly; that sweet heart brutally punctured by a figure whose
identity and whereabouts remained unknown.
I read Hatsuyo’s many letters over and over again, and wept; I opened up
the genealogical record of her ancestors that she’d given me, and wept; I
gazed at the picture I’d drawn that night in the hotel, of the seaside view
she’d seen in her dreams, and wept. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t
want to see anyone. I simply shut myself up in my cramped study, closed
my eyes, and yearned to meet again the woman who no longer existed in
my world. It was her alone who I wished for.
The morning after Hatsuyo’s funeral a sudden impulse came over me and I
dressed to go out. My sister-in-law asked if I was heading into the office but
I left without answering. Of course my intention was not to go to work. Nor
was it to pay a sympathy call to Hatsuyo’s mother. I knew Hatsuyo’s
kotsuage ceremony would be held that morning. Fragments of her bones
would be picked from her ashes and placed in a funeral urn. I set off for that
loathsome gathering in order to witness the pitiful remains of my former
lover.
I arrived just in time; Hatsuyo’s mother and various relatives were already
there, holding the traditional long metal chopsticks. I said some
inappropriate words of condolence, then morosely stood before the furnace.
No one took me to task for my impudence. I watched as the cemetery
warden roughly broke up the ashes with a pair of fire tongs. Then, just like
a metalworker searching for nuggets of alloy amongst the slag left in a
crucible, he casually ferreted out the teeth of the departed and placed them
in a separate container. Watching my lover being treated like this, as a mere
object, stung me almost physically. But I did not regret coming. There was
a childish purpose to me being there. I waited for an opportunity, then out
of sight of everyone, I approached that iron plate scattered with the grey
powder Hatsuyo had been so cruelly transformed into, and grabbed a
handful of ashes for myself (how embarrassing it is to write of this now).
Then I ran off to a nearby field and in a fit of madness took those ashes, my
lover’s remains, and forced them down my throat, deep into the pit of my
stomach, all the while crying out every kind of declaration of love.
Sprawled on the grass, in a state of extreme agitation, I lay writhing in
agony, “Let me die! Let me die!” I begged. And for a long time I stayed that
way, but to my shame, I didn’t have the strength to kill myself. Or rather, in
the end I wasn’t convinced by any atavistic desire to join my lover in the
next world. Instead, my covenant was to something less potent and ancient
than death.
Hatred was what I felt; towards whoever had stolen my precious sweetheart
from me. I cursed their existence from the bottom of my heart. I didn’t pray
for Hatsuyo’s soul to rest in peace, I prayed to avenge her.
Whatever the prosecutor’s suspicions were, and whatever the police
concluded, I couldn’t believe that Hatsuyo’s mother was the culprit. Even if
no trace existed of anyone coming or going, there still had to be a killer. My
frustration at not knowing who he was inflamed my hatred even more. I lay
on my back in that field and stared at the cloudless sky and blazing sun until
almost blinded and vowed to myself, “I’ll find you, whatever it takes, and I
will have my revenge.”
As you will know by now, I’m a gloomy and introspective individual; so
how could a man like myself come to such a firm resolution? And how did I
find the courage to plunge headfirst into every kind of danger that will soon
come my way? When I look back it does seem a paradox, but perhaps this
is what happens when love dies. Love is indeed strange. It raises one to the
heights of ecstasy, it pushes one to the depths of despair, and sometimes it
invests one with a matchless power.
I came to my senses and lay in the same spot thinking, somewhat calmly
now, about what to do next. As I turned various thoughts over in my mind I
recalled a certain figure. A character whose name I’ve already revealed to
you, the amateur detective Miyamagi Kōkichi. The police could do
whatever they wanted. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I unearthed the culprit
myself. I shied away from using the word ‘sleuth’, yet with some reluctance
I accepted that this was what I would have to become. And as such, I didn’t
know anyone more suitable as an advisor than my peculiar friend. I got to
my feet and hurried to the nearest train station. I had a new purpose, to visit
Kōkichi’s seaside residence in Kamakura.
You must remember I was young. My love had been ripped from me and I’d
lost myself to malice. It was impossible for me to imagine the hardships, the
perils, and the hell on earth that lay in store for me. If I’d had an inkling of
even one of those terrors - and if I’d foreseen that my reckless conviction
would lead to the death of my respected acquaintance - perhaps I wouldn’t
have vowed to take such terrible retribution. But in that moment, I’d set my
sights on a single goal, without any such consideration or thought for my
success or failure, and feeling renewed perhaps, my stride took on a valiant
swagger as I hurried to that suburban train station in the early summer
sunshine.
My Odd Companion
Being such an introvert, I didn’t have any close acquaintances among the
bright young things my own age, but instead was blessed with several
friends older than me, who also happened to be rather eccentric. Moroto
Michio was certainly one of these, and so too the man I’m about to
introduce, Miyamagi Kōkichi. Maybe I read too much into these things but
almost all my older companions - Miyamagi being no exception - seemed to
have a certain fascination, more or less, with my looks. Although there was
nothing unpleasant about this, somehow my physical presence had a power
that drew them in. Otherwise why would such brilliant minds pay any
attention to such a callow youth as myself?
I’d gotten to know Miyamagi Kōkichi through a senior colleague; back
then, even though he was well into his forties, Miyamagi was a confirmed
bachelor; unmarried, without children, and as far as I knew, with no blood
relatives to speak of. Having said that, unlike Moroto Michio, he was no
misogynist. He appeared to have had several relationships of an intimate
nature with many women, but these never lasted long; since I’d known him
he’d changed lovers two or three times. I’d visit his place after not seeing
him for a while and the woman he’d been living with would be gone. “I
practise monogamy, but my affairs are transitory,” he used to say. In other
words he tended to fall easily in and out of love. Many might feel and say
the same things, but few actually have the audacity to live this way. This
was a matter of pride for him.
Miyamagi had an encyclopaedic knowledge and whatever you asked him he
always had an answer. Although without an income he’d some money
saved up, and while not earning him a penny, he spent most of his time
reading books and unearthing the various secrets of the world, hidden away
in its unseen corners. Among these, criminal cases were his favourite,
though he didn’t just poke his nose into certain notorious crimes, he
sometimes gave instructive advice to those tasked with solving them.
Since he was a bachelor, and because he enjoyed such a pastime, his house
would often be left empty for two or three days while he was off someplace,
so catching him at home was not so easy.
That day as I walked along I was anxious I might indeed find him out.
Thankfully, half a block before I reached my destination it became clear I
wouldn’t be disappointed. Mixed in with the delighted cries of young
children, Miyamagi’s familiar deep baritone could be heard crooning a
popular song slightly off-key. As I got nearer I saw the porch of his cheap
European-style house, with its wooden boards painted blue. His front door
was open and four or five unruly urchins lounged on its lower stone step
swaying their heads in unison, while one step higher, at the threshold of his
own home, Miyamagi sat crossed-legged, his mouth stretched wide and
singing:
Where did you come from my lovely?
And when will you be going back there?
Miyamagi was very fond of children, perhaps because he had none of his
own, and often assembled the neighbourhood kids and acted as their
ringleader. Oddly enough, the children willingly latched on to this local
outcast, against the wishes of their parents.
“Well, gentleman. It seems I have a handsome visitor. We can play again
another time.”
When Miyamagi saw me, with great insight he quickly read the expression
on my face and rather than urging me to join in, as he usually did, he sent
his young disciples packing and led me inside his house. I described this as
European in style, it was in fact more like an artist’s studio, with an
entranceway and kitchen attached to a single large room. This space was
Miyamagi’s study, living room, bedroom and dining room. Mountains of
old books were piled up as though a secondhand book dealer had just
moved in, and squeezed in between these was a worn-out bedstead and a
dining table, with various eating utensils, cans of food, and wooden boxes
used by noodle restaurants strewn all over the place.
“My only chair broke I’m afraid, but you can perch yourself on that,” he
offered, flopping down on a grimy looking bedcover and crossing his legs.
“You have business with me I suppose? You look like something’s on your
mind.”
He scratched his long dishevelled hair while giving me a bashful glance. It
was a look he often gave me when we met.
“Indeed. I wish to take advantage of your great wisdom on a certain
matter,” I said, taking in Miyamagi’s squalid outfit; his unironed suit, his
collarless and tie-less shirt.
“Love, I suppose. Your eyes are like those of a man in love. Besides, you’ve
neglected to visit me in quite a while.”
“True. At least...well, the woman I did love is dead. She was murdered,” I
uttered in a pitiable tone. As soon as I said this the flood gates opened. I
covered my eyes with my arm and wept bitterly. Miyamagi climbed off his
bed, stood by my side, patted me on the back and spoke softly as though
trying to pacify a small child. It was strange, but I felt something other than
compassion from him, something cloying. In the back of my mind I was
aware my manner was only arousing the other man’s curiosity.
Miyamagi was a truly skilled listener. There was no need for me to arrange
my story into any kind of order. I just had to answer his questions, one
sentence at a time. In the end I told him everything, from when I first spoke
to Kigiki Hatsuyo, to her untimely death. At his behest I showed him the
coastal sketch I’d drawn of Hatsuyo’s dream, and her genealogical record,
both of which I had with me in an inside pocket. He stared at these for a
long time but I didn’t notice his reaction as I was looking the other way to
hide my tears.
I’d said all there was to say. Miyamagi also became unusually silent. For a
long time I hung my head low; then I peeked up at my friend who’d been
quiet for so long and saw his face had turned pale and he was gazing off
into space.
“Please try to understand my emotions. I’m determined to have my revenge.
I must at least find the killer by my own hand or I’ll never be satisfied.”
Miyamagi remained stoney-faced as I made my appeal. I felt an uncanny
dread. It was very unlike this Eastern knight-errant, usually so off-hand, to
show such deep concern. Finally, after a great deal of thought, he solemnly
intoned, “If I am not mistaken, this case is far more terrible and
extraordinary than you think it to be, or how it seems on the surface.”
“More terrible than murder?” I replied incredulously, having no idea why
he’d make such a rash statement.
“A kind of murder,” he said gloomily after another pause. “I’m sure you
understand already that just because a bag of money has been stolen, it
doesn’t mean this is a simple burglary. And yet, it is too well thought-out
for a crime of passion. Behind this atrocity hides a beast possessing no
ordinary level of intelligence and cunning.”
Miyamagi broke off at this point, his lips had lost some of their colour and
were trembling. It was the first time I’d seen such an expression on his face.
His fear transmitted itself to me, and I had the strange sensation of being
watched. I hadn’t yet guessed what had excited him so, or that Miyamagi
might know something about this case I did not.
“You said Hatsuyo was killed by a single blow directly to her heart. This is
beyond the capability of a mere thief, if that’s who the killer was. It might
seem nothing at all, but to murder someone with only one thrust of a blade
takes a fair degree of virtuosity. Then there is the fact no trace remains of
their coming and going, and no fingerprints left at the scene. Whoever it
was must have been remarkably talented,” Miyamagi said, now seemingly
full of admiration. “But more than this, what is most spine-chilling is that
missing tin of chocolates. Why was such a thing taken? I don’t have any
clear idea, but this feels significant somehow. It’s this that turns my blood
cold. This and that decrepit old man Hatsuyo saw three nights in a row...”
Miyamagi’s words trailed off and he drifted into silence. We stared at each
other, lost in our own thoughts. The noonday sun shone brightly through the
window but the room felt eerily cold.
“So you also have no suspicions in regards to Hatsuyo’s mother?” I asked,
just to make sure I’d not misunderstood Miyamagi’s train of thought.
“Such an idea is farthest from my mind. No matter how violently their
opinions clashed, how could such a considerate old lady kill her only child?
From what you say, it doesn’t sound like she’d be capable of such a thing.
And if she were the culprit, it follows she’d hide the bag, but why take the
chocolates? As a piece of deception it makes no sense.”
As Miyamagi said this he sprang to attention and looked at his watch, “We
have time. We can get there while it’s still light. What do you say, shall we
pay a visit to Hatsuyo’s house?”
He slipped behind a curtain in one corner of the room and after some
clattering about soon emerged dressed a little more suitably for public view.
“Well then, let us make haste,” he remarked casually, grabbing his hat and
walking cane and diving out of the front door. I immediately followed in his
wake. Other than revenge, grief, and a kind of dread, I felt nothing else. It
was possible Miyamagi had stored Hatsuyo’s genealogical record and my
sketch away somewhere, but in my turmoil I’d no need for such things and
had put them out of my mind.
We spoke little during the two hour train and tram ride. I made some
attempt at conversation but Miyamagi mostly ignored me and remained
deep in thought. Though I do remember him making one strange
observation. Since this has some bearing on events to come, I shall
reproduce exactly what he said: “The more ingenious a criminal act, the
more it resembles a skillful piece of magic. A magician masters the art of
removing the contents of a sealed box without opening its lid. You’ve seen
this done I suppose? There is a secret to this trick. But for the audience, the
seemingly impossible is achieved with consummate ease. Indeed the case
before us is exactly like a magic box, sealed tight. I won’t know for sure
until I’ve seen it for myself, but the police have undoubtedly missed this
trick’s secret. It will be of a kind that even when exposed, is unnoticed by
the inflexible mind. The method behind most conjuring tricks is usually in
plain sight. Perhaps, the way in and out of that magic box is in a spot no one
feels possible. But when one loses one’s preconceptions a gaping hole is
revealed. It’s as though a door has been left wide open. There’s no lock to
pick, no nails to prize out, no need to cause any damage. And yet everyone
walks right past even though the way is clear. Ludicrous, isn’t it? Ha! It’s
nonsense. But not necessarily so wide of the mark. Magic tricks always
have some bit of nonsense behind them.”
I often wonder even now why detectives have to speak in such an
ambiguously suggestive way, and why they’re so childishly theatrical. It
still infuriates me. If Miyamagi had revealed all he knew before his own
mysterious death, it would have saved so much time and trouble. It is
perhaps an unshakable point of pride for great detectives like Sherlock
Holmes and C Auguste Dupin, that once they have taken an interest in a
case, they never give even a glimpse of their own reasoning, except to drop
seemingly random hints, until they have come to a complete solution.
As I listened to Miyamagi, it appeared he’d already identified one piece of
the puzzle before us, but though I implored him to elucidate, out of a
detective’s obstinate vanity, his lips remained tightly closed and he said no
more on the matter.
The Enamel Vase
At Hatsuyo’s house the notices of bereavement had been taken down and
there was no longer a police guard; all was quiet as if nothing had happened
there at all. I learned later, that soon after coming home from the kotsuage
ceremony, Hatsuyo’s mother had been taken into custody by the police, and
her brother-in-law had sent over a couple of housemaids to maintain a
morbid vigil at the property.
We were about to open the lattice front door when I bumped into an
unexpected figure on his way out. I held eye contact uncomfortably, neither
one of us speaking or able to break from the other’s gaze. Moroto Michio -
who despite his proposal of marriage to Hatsuyo, had never once visited her
house - now for some reason chose this moment to come and pay his
respects. He was dressed in a well-fitted morning suit and looked a little run
down. Eventually he seemed to remember where he was, and while
standing stock still and looking around distractedly he said, “Minoura, it’s
been a while. My condolences.”
I had no idea how to reply, so only formed my dry lips into a weak smile.
“There’s something I want to speak to you about. If you don’t mind I’ll wait
outside, then when you’ve finished here, perhaps we could go somewhere
to talk?” he added while glancing at Miyamagi. I couldn’t tell if he really
had business with me or was just trying to cover up for the awkwardness of
the situation.
“Ah, Miyamagi, this is Moroto Michio. Michio, this is Miyamagi Kōkichi,”
I finally said, introducing the two men in a nervous fluster. They exchanged
a meaningful nod, both having heard stories about the other from myself.
“Don’t mind me, you two go ahead. I just need you to explain my presence
to whoever’s inside, then you might as well take off since I’ll be here a
while,” said Miyamagi in his easy manner. I did as he asked and entered the
house, discreetly announcing to the housemaids (who knew me well) the
reason for our visit, introduced Miyamagi, then went with Michio to a
cheap café nearby, since we weren’t able to go anywhere further afield.
For Michio, now we were face to face, surely he had some explaining to do
about his unlikely marriage campaign, and as for myself, even while
rejecting it as absurd I still harboured a terrible suspicion regarding my old
friend, and wished to examine his feelings, and though none of this was
very clear in my mind I felt I couldn’t let such an opportunity pass me by;
in addition, there seemed something significant in the way Miyamagi had
urged me to go with Michio; so despite the strained nature of our
relationship, there we were, in that café together.
Other than a sense of extreme unease I don’t recall exactly what we talked
about, though perhaps we said very little at all. It also wasn’t long before
Miyamagi had finished up at the house and came looking for us.
Most of the time we sat staring down at the drinks on the table. I was filled
with an urge to berate the other man and wheedle out the reasons for his
behaviour, but I couldn’t utter a single word. Meanwhile, Michio fidgeted.
It was as though the first to speak would lose our bizarre game. We were
both groping around in the dark. I do remember one thing Michio said:
“Now I look back on what I’ve done, I feel truly sorry. You must be very
angry with me. I don’t know how I can make it up to you.”
He repeated this hesitantly in a low mumble, but before it became clear
what he was apologising for, Miyamagi had flung back the curtain to our
booth and piled in.
“Don’t you announce yourself?” I said curtly as he flopped down and
peered intently at Michio. On Miyamagi’s arrival, Michio made his excuses
and abruptly left, without apparently fulfilling whatever purpose he’d had in
going there with me in the first place.
“What an odd fellow. He seems quite on edge. What was it he wanted to
talk about?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say much at all.”
“Strange. Just now I heard from the people at Hatsuyo’s house. Since
Hatsuyo died, Michio has been to visit three times. Always asking lots of
questions and having a good look around. Something’s up. But what a
handsome and intelligent-looking young man, eh?”
Miyamagi gave me a knowing look. I couldn’t help blushing momentarily.
To draw Miyamagi’s attention away from this I asked, “You weren’t gone
long. Did you discover anything?”
“A great deal.”
Miyamagi lowered his voice and became serious. The excitement he’d felt
since we’d left Kamakura had only increased and not cooled one bit it
seemed. He appeared to be turning over several pieces of information in his
mind.
“I get the feeling I’ve hooked a big fish for the first time in a long time. But
she’s perhaps too much for me to take on alone. At any rate, I intend from
today to put all my efforts into solving this case,” he continued, almost
speaking to himself as he drew pictures with his walking cane on the damp
earthen floor. “I can imagine the general thread of this story. There is only
one point I can’t decide upon. It’s not that there isn’t an explanation, it’s just
that the one that seems plausible, is utterly terrifying; an abominable crime
without precedent; just thinking about it turns my stomach. It’s against
human decency.”
As Miyamagi muttered this incomprehensible monologue he moved his
cane in a distracted way, then I suddenly became aware of the odd picture
he’d drawn on the ground. It made me think of a vase in the shape of a
bottle used for warming saké. In the middle of this he’d written in obscure
handwriting the word cloisonné. This piqued my curiosity and I
instinctively asked, “Is that not a vase? And cloisonné is a kind of enamel
work, isn’t it? What connection does an enamel vase have with this case?”
Miyamagi looked up in surprise, then when he noticed the image on the
floor he hurriedly scratched it out with his cane.
“Don’t raise your voice. It was an enamel vase alright. You certainly have
an astute mind. But it’s puzzling. That enamel vase is exactly what I’ve
been struggling to make sense of.”
He refused to say any more than this, no matter how much I pestered him.
After a while we left the café and returned to Sugamo Station. We were
headed in opposite directions so separated at the platform, but Miyamagi
said one more thing before we parted: “Wait just one week. It’s sure to take
that long. One week from now you may well receive some good news.”
I was quite fed up with all his enigmatic comments, but there was nothing
else for me to do except rely on Miyamagi’s endeavours being in earnest.
The Junk Shop Customer
The next day I reluctantly returned to ‘SK & Co’, as my family was
beginning to worry about me. Miyamagi was taking care of the detective
side of things and I wasn’t able to offer any assistance, so I put my faith in
his promise of “one week” and passed my days emptily. I’d leave work, and
unseen, in the solitude of blank figures marching side-by-side, my steps
inevitably turned in the direction of Hatsuyo’s graveyard. Everyday I
bought flowers, as though we were still courting, and right on cue, my tears
would fall as I stood before her sotōba, the long strip of wood freshly
inscribed with her name. On each visit, my taste for revenge seemed to
grow even fiercer; and as time went by I was invested with a peculiar
vigour.
On the third day I ran out of patience and took the evening train to
Miyamagi’s house in Kamakura, but he was not at home. I enquired with
his neighbours and it turned out he’d gone travelling two days earlier and
hadn’t been back since. He must have left that same day we parted at
Sugamo Station. I realised any attempt to see him before his promised “one
week” was over would be a wasted effort.
However, on the fourth day I had a breakthrough. Its relevance was as yet
unclear, but it was at least a new piece of information. I now had a partial
insight into Miyamagi’s thinking.
Miyamagi’s puzzling reference to an “enamel vase” had never left my
mind. That day at the office, as I flicked the beads of my abacus, it was all I
could think of. Ever since he’d drawn that picture on the floor of the café in
Sugamo, I’d felt there was something familiar about it; that such a vase
existed and I had seen it somewhere. And furthermore, I’d the vaguest of
ideas it was associated in some way with Hatsuyo. This memory suddenly
sprang into my conscious thoughts through some odd connection to the
numbers I was looking at on my abacus.
Of course, in the window of the junk shop next to Hatsuyo’s house, that’s
where I’ve seen it! I cried to myself. It had gone three o’clock so I left work
early and rushed off to that very establishment. As soon as I got there I
hurried inside and caught the attention of the elderly proprietor.
“You had two large enamel vases here before, have you sold them?” I
asked, acting like a potential customer who just happened to be passing.
“Oh yes, I remember those, yes, they’ve been sold.”
“That’s unfortunate. I had my eye on them. When did you sell them? Did
the same person buy both vases?”
“They were a pair. But I sold them separately. Very nice pieces they were,
wasted on a humble shop like mine, got a high price for them too.”
“When did you sell them?”
“One you only just missed. It went last night. The customer came from far
off to buy it. The other I sold last month. Yes, on the 25th. I remember
because it was the day there was all that commotion next door.”
The talkative old man continued in this vein and gave a long account of
everything that had happened at Hatsuyo’s house. In the end I was able to
determine a number of facts about the buyers. The first had resembled some
kind of dealer, he’d agreed on a price the evening before, paid in advance
then left. The next afternoon a servant had turned up and carried the vase -
already wrapped in a cloth - away on his back. The second buyer had been a
young gentleman dressed in a suit and had bought the vase on the spot,
leaving with it in a taxicab. Neither of the men were regular customers and
the junk shop owner had no idea who they were or where they came from.
It goes without saying that my attention was drawn to the first buyer, who’d
taken receipt of his vase the same day Hatsuyo’s murder was discovered.
But I hadn’t a clue what this signified. Miyamagi was also undoubtedly
interested in these vases (the elderly proprietor recalled a man fitting
Miyamagi’s description coming to the shop three days before and asking
about them) but why were they so important to this case? There had to be a
reason.
“They had a swallowtail butterfly pattern, didn’t they?”
“Yes, that’s right. Yellow with lots of butterflies scattered about.”
I summoned up their memory. The vases were large, almost a metre tall,
with several black-coloured butterflies framed within lines of thin silver
fluttering here and there against a dull yellow background.
“Where did they come from?”
“Let’s see, I acquired them from an associate of mine. He said they were in
a clearance sale in a bankruptcy case.”
Ever since I first visited Hatsuyo’s house the vases had been in the shop’s
window. They’d remained there a long time. Could it be just a coincidence
that both had been sold in the few days following Hatsuyo’s death? Or was
this significant somehow? From his description, I had no idea who the first
buyer was, but I could make a guess at the second’s identity.
“The customer who came yesterday, was he in his twenties? Clean-shaven
and quite pale, with a fairly distinctive mole on his right cheek?” I asked
eventually.
“Indeed he was! Just as you say. And a fine and well mannered gentleman
at that.”
Sure enough, it had to be Moroto Michio. But Michio had already been to
Hatsuyo’s house two or three times after her death. When I asked why the
old man hadn’t recognised him, just at that moment his wife appeared and
answered in his place, “Now you come to mention it, it was the same man.”
Luckily, she was no less garrulous than her husband. “Remember? That
splendid looking young man in a black frock coat who called on next door a
few days ago. He was the one who bought the second vase.”
Although the woman had mixed up frock coat with morning suit, there
could be no room for doubt. Just to make sure, I inquired at the garage from
which the customer had hailed his cab, and discovered the location he’d
travelled to was Michio’s address in Ikebukuro.
This was perhaps becoming too fantastical. But a transgressive, so to speak,
such as Michio could not be measured against normal standards. Was it not
true that he was incapable of forming romantic relationships with members
of the opposite sex? That he’d presumably planned to steal the lover of the
man he himself was in love with? And how fervently he’d pursued that
sudden marriage campaign; how unhinged his advances were towards me.
Taking all this into account, could it be said for certain, that once his
proposal to Hatsuyo had ended in failure, this man who’d plotted so
meticulously to steal my fiancée, would not commit a murder, for which
he’d be confident of getting away with? Michio had an exceptionally sharp
intellect. But hadn’t his research involved the cruel and teasing application
of a surgeon’s knife against animals? This was a man who was not
squeamish in the face of blood. Who without compunction used living
creatures as raw materials in his experiments.
I couldn't help recalling the unsettling scene I’d witnessed when I called on
Michio shortly after he’d taken up residence in Ikebukuro. His new home
had stood by itself in a desolate neighbourhood about a mile from
Ikebukuro Station; it was a gloomy wooden structure with a separate
building for his laboratory. An iron fence enclosed the whole property. The
household consisted of three people, the unmarried Michio, a houseboy of
around 15 or 16, and an old cook. It was a dismal residence with no sign of
life other than the cries of the laboratory animals; Michio devoted himself
to his bizarre studies both here and at the university facilities. The subject
of his research appeared to be of a type that concerned innovative
techniques discovered through surgery, rather than any direct treatment of
the sick.
It was evening when I arrived. As I got nearer to the iron front gate I could
hear the relentless barking of the poor creatures used in Michio’s
experiments, these being mainly dogs. I could pick out the individual howl
of each animal, its desperate last cry for help, and my heart ached in
sympathy. I shivered when I imagined the kind of deplorable live dissection
that might be taking place. As I walked up to the house there was an intense
smell of antiseptic. I was reminded of a hospital surgery. In my mind I
pictured the execution room of a prison. I wanted to cover my ears to the
terrified baying of those creatures, staring their own death in the face. It
even occurred to me to abandon my visit altogether and run home.
Every window in the main building was completely dark, but there was a
glimmer of light at the back of the laboratory. It all felt like a bad dream as I
arrived at the front porch and rang the bell. After a while, a light came on
above the side entrance to the laboratory and the man-of-the-house, Michio,
stood illuminated beneath it. He wore a glistening rubber-coated surgical
gown, and his hands, which he held out before him, were red with blood
and gore. I vividly recall that scarlet hue, which shone so weirdly under the
doorway’s light.
After I’d asked all my questions, I left that junk shop overcome by a terrible
suspicion, but no way to prove it, and plodded home as night fell across the
town.
High Noon
A week had passed since Miyamagi’s promise. It was a fine hot day, the
first Sunday in July. At around seven o’clock that morning I was getting
ready to travel once more to Kamakura when a telegram arrived. It was
from Miyamagi, urging me to come and see him.
My train was crowded with daytrippers escaping the early summer heat.
Although it was a little soon in the season for a dip in the sea, the high
temperature, and it being Sunday, had caused an impatient rush towards the
coastline of the Shōnan region.
The stream of people that flowed past Miyamagi’s house on their way to the
beach was almost never ending. Ice cream stalls and the like had appeared
on empty plots of land and their new flags fluttered in the breeze. But in
stark contrast to this bright and lively display, I found Miyamagi deep in
thought sitting amongst his books, a dark scowl on his face.
“I called on you once while you were out. Where have you been?” I
ventured. Without getting up, Miyamagi pointed to the cluttered table next
to him and said, “Take a look at that.”
Left lying on the table was what seemed to be a letter and a torn envelope.
The contents of that letter, written crudely in pencil, were as follows:
I can’t allow you to live, my friend. Prepare to die, Sunday at noon.
However, I’ll spare your life if you return that particular item to its rightful
owner and promise to keep your mouth shut. But don’t be late, get to the
post office before twelve. Choose whatever course of action you like. But
you mustn’t contact the police. And don’t underestimate me, I strike without
leaving a trace.
“It's just a silly prank, isn’t it? Did it come by post?” I asked.
“No. It was flung through my window last night. And I suspect it’s no
joke,” Miyamagi replied. He appeared genuinely scared and white as a
sheet.
“But it’s nonsense. A childish piece of mischief. ‘You die at noon’, it’s like
something from a movie.”
“If you knew what horrors I’ve seen you wouldn’t be so casual. My earlier
guesswork has been proved entirely accurate. I located the villain’s lair, but
in return, I saw something monstrous. An abomination. I lost my nerve and
had to run. You’ve no idea what we’re dealing with.”
“Well, I’m not completely in the dark. The enamel vases. I may not know
what they signify but I do know Moroto Michio bought one of them.”
“Michio? How odd,” Miyamagi said, though he appeared uninterested.
“I must ask, what on earth do those enamel vases have to do with all this?”
“If there are no errors in my reasoning, and I still have to verify some facts,
they’re at the heart of a truly awful crime. A piece of villainy never
attempted before. But we’re up against something far more shocking than
what took place with those vases. An unimaginable evil, akin to a demon’s
curse.”
“So you know who killed Hatsuyo?”
“I have, at least, determined the hideout of those responsible. But you must
wait a little longer, even if it seems my life is in some danger.”
Miyamagi had lost all his usual vigour, as if he himself was the victim of
the demon’s curse he’d just alluded to.
“Good Lord. But if you’re so worried, why not call the police? You can’t do
this on your own, shouldn’t you seek the assistance of the authorities?”
“If I call the police now I’ll only cause my adversaries to take flight. And
even if I told them what I know, I have no solid evidence. The involvement
of the law would only be a nuisance.”
“Then what is this ‘item’ mentioned in the letter? Do you have any idea?”
“I do. And that’s what’s so terrifying.”
“Couldn’t you send it to them as requested?”
“Ah, well,” at this point Miyamagi became furtive and lowered his voice to
a whisper, “Instead of returning it, I’ve already posted it to your address.
When you get home later today a strange package should be there waiting
for you. Store it in a safe place so it doesn’t get chipped or broken. It’s
dangerous for me to keep it here. But it’ll be alright with you. It’s vitally
important that you are careful with it. And don’t let anyone know you have
such a precious object in your possession.”
I had the uncomfortable feeling Miyamagi was making fun of me with this
covert and overly guarded attitude.
“Why can’t you tell me everything now? I was the one who involved you in
this case, aren’t I the most interested party?”
“Under current circumstances that is not necessarily true. However, I intend
to explain all. Of course I do, but tonight, over dinner, let’s talk then.”
Miyamagi anxiously glanced at his watch, “It’s eleven. Shall we go down to
the seafront? I must shake myself out of this gloomy mood and it’s been
ages since I went for a dip.”
It was just like Miyamagi to be so erratic, so although I’d many questions
left unanswered, I had no choice but to follow him down to the beach.
When we got there, the collection of gaudily coloured swimwear on view
was almost dazzling. Miyamagi suddenly stripped down to his
underclothes, gave a loud holler, ran towards the shoreline and dived
headfirst into the waves. I sat down on a low sand dune and watched his
somewhat forced cavorting with an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I
couldn’t help keeping an eye on the time. Although I’d dismissed it as a
silly prank, the threatening letter’s noon ultimatum played on my mind. The
minutes ticked by relentlessly, eleven thirty, eleven forty, my anxiety rose as
the hands on my watch approached twelve o’clock. Just then, something
happened to cause my anxiousness to peak. With a sense of complete
inevitability, I caught a glimpse of none other than Moroto Michio; he
appeared off in the distance, in amongst the crowds. Surely it was no
coincidence that he was there, at that moment, on that beach?
I looked towards Miyamagi. All of a sudden he was surrounded by children,
shrieking and running about in their swimming trunks, playing a game of
tag or something similar. The sky was cloudless and of the deepest Prussian
blue, the sea was calm and flat as tatami mats. From a diving platform, one
after another, human darts drew graceful arcs in the air while their cries
rang out brightly. The sand shone, and under the glorious early summer sun,
throngs of people glittered and gaily played. There wasn’t a man, woman or
child who wasn’t singing like a small bird, splashing around like a
mermaid, or gambolling like a puppy; in other words, it was a picture of
uniform happiness. It seemed impossible that in a corner of this carefree
paradise could be lurking some dark evil from another world. It was even
more unimaginable that a bloody murder could be commited in the midst of
all this joy.
And yet, the letter writer was as good as his word. This demon, who’d
already murdered Hatsuyo while sealed inside a locked building, killed
again, in broad daylight, on an open beach in sight of hundreds of people,
though not one of these witnessed the crime, and no clue was left behind.
One could only marvel at the extent of this fiend’s mysterious talents.
 Beyond the Bounds of Reason
When I read novels in which the main character acts in a simpleminded or
blundering fashion, I often get irritated and impatient and think, If that were
me I’d never do such a thing, and yet, anyone reading my own story will
surely be frustrated at seeing how readily I let myself be dragged along by
Miyamagi’s enigmatic behaviour, and how much faith I put in this self-
styled detective who surrounded himself in a fog of mystery but didn’t do
anything that looked like actual detection.
As for myself, I’m reluctant to write so frankly about what happened,
thereby advertising my own foolishness, but such things can’t be helped, I
was only a baby at the time. All I can do is hope you’ll allow me some
leeway when it comes to the most irksome elements of my tale, since it is
after all a true account.
But to return to where I left off. I must write of Miyamagi Kōkichi’s
unfortunate fate.
On the day of his murder, Miyamagi was dressed in his underclothes,
excitedly running in circles around the beach, playing with a gang of
schoolkids. I’ve already mentioned how he found innocent enjoyment in
acting as ringleader to these unruly urchins, but there was a deeper motive
for his actions that day which had nothing to do with his fondness for
children. Miyamagi was scared. He’d been rattled by the noon ultimatum
set by the killer in his threatening letter.
Although it was absurd that this exceptionally shrewd middle-aged man had
been taken in by a childish prank, he had good reason to be frightened.
Miyamagi had revealed very little about what he’d unearthed in regards to
Hatsuyo’s murder - I couldn’t even venture a guess as to the shadowy
horrors that had caused this free spirit to feel such fear - but recognising he
was shaken to his core I mirrored his unease and was struck by an eerie
chill, despite the splendid sight of hundreds of merry daytrippers
everywhere I looked.
I remembered something someone had once said to me: “The truly cunning
murderer chooses the crowd rather than the dark alley.”
Feeling protective of Miyamagi I got down from the dune I was sitting on
and approached his playful mob. It seemed they’d got tired of chasing each
other across the beach and had dug a large hole just where the waves were
coming in. Three or four youths of around ten-years-old were now busily
burying Miyamagi in the sand.
“That’s it, pile it on. Over my legs and arms, you have to cover me
completely. Not my face! Spare me my face at least,” Miyamagi shouted
out like a friendly uncle.
“Don’t move about so much, Mister. That’s sneaky. OK, I’ll push some
more on top.”
Using both hands as shovels, the children raked up the sand and spread it
over Miyamagi, but they struggled to fully conceal his large body.
A few yards away, under a parasol, two smartly dressed married women sat
on sheets of newspaper laid out on the sand, and while keeping an eye on
their own children who were swimming in the sea, they occasionally looked
over at Miyamagi and giggled. They were the closest party to Miyamagi’s
group. On the opposite side, a little further away, a pretty young girl in a
flashy bathing suit sat cross-legged and exchanged jokes with a number of
young boys sprawled out around her. Otherwise there was no sign of
anyone settled nearby. People constantly walked past Miyamagi, and some
of them paused to laugh, but nobody got too close. To think that someone
could be killed at such a location! Miyamagi’s apprehension began to seem
ridiculous.
“Minoura, what time is it?” Miyamagi called out, still with this on his mind
evidently.
“Eleven fifty-two. Just eight minutes to go!”
“If it stays like this I’ll be safe. There are eyes all around me, including
your own. I also have these four youthful guards at my side, and my own
sand castle. What demon could ever get near me!”
Miyamagi’s spirits seemed to have returned somewhat. As I walked up and
down I scanned each end of the beach, still concerned about that glimpse of
Michio I’d caught earlier, but he’d disappeared into the throng. I then
stopped at a spot about ten yards from Miyamagi and for a moment gazed
vacantly at the aerial skills of the boys on the diving platform. Then I turned
back and saw Miyamagi was now completely buried, due to the efforts of
his guardians. Only his head poked out of the sand, and he lay there staring
up at the sky like some Indian ascetic.
“Try to get up, Mister. Does it feel heavy?”
“Mister, your face looks funny, are you trapped? Shall we help you?”
The children teased him repeatedly, but no matter how many times they
called out “Mister! Mister!” Miyamagi ignored them and continued to stare
at the sky, not even trying to respond. I happened to look at my watch and
noticed it was two minutes past twelve.
“Miyamagi, it’s gone noon. I guess the demon didn’t come after all.
Miyamagi? Miya..?”
I stopped short. When I looked closer, I could see something wasn’t right.
Miyamagi seemed to be getting paler, and his eyes, which were wide open,
hadn’t blinked for some time. Furthermore, a speckled patch of inky black
had risen to the surface of the sand on his chest and appeared to be
spreading, inch by inch. The children were also perhaps now aware of these
ominous signs and had lapsed into silence.
I leapt forwards and grabbed Miyamagi’s head with both hands and shook
it, but it just lolled about like he was a stuffed doll. I quickly clawed at the
sand where the black patch had appeared, and soon uncovered the white
wooden handle of a small dagger. The sand around this was sodden with
blood, and when I dug further, I saw the blade had been plunged up to its
hilt into Miyamagi’s heart.
I’ll skip the details of the commotion that followed as there was nothing
worth noting, but needless to say, it was a busy Sunday at the beach so
Miyamagi’s death became quite a grand spectacle. I can’t help squirming
with shame at the memory: standing next to his body, which was now
covered by a straw mat, I answered a policeman’s questions under the
curious gaze of hundreds of young men and women; then a party of
detectives arrived, inspected the scene, and I followed them as they carried
Miyamagi to his house.
Despite everything that was going on I was able to pick out Moroto
Michio’s pale visage from the mass of overlapping faces turned in my
direction, and his expression left a strong impression on me. From the back
of the mass of onlookers he never once took his eyes off Miyamagi’s body.
Even when the deceased was being moved, I felt Michio’s unremitting
presence at my back like an evil spirit. Michio was clearly nowhere near the
scene when Miyamagi was murdered, so there was no reason to suspect
him, but even so, his odd demeanour after the event surely signified
something.
There is one more thing I must record of that day, something that hardly
came as a surprise, but when we entered Miyamagi’s house carrying his
body, we found his studio (which was a mess even at the best of times) in
complete disorder as if a tornado had swept through it. No doubt whoever
was responsible for his death had crept into Miyamagi’s house while he was
out in order to search for the “item” mentioned in the letter. I was of course
interrogated thoroughly, and I diligently disclosed everything I knew, but
due to some presentiment perhaps (the reason behind this may become clear
later on) I remained silent on one thing, the fact that Miyamagi had already
posted this “item” to me. I was asked about it by the detectives but only
answered that I knew nothing.
After the authorities let me go, with the help of some of the nearby
residents, I sent notices of Miyamagi’s death to his close associates and
made preparations for his funeral. This took up so much time it was eight in
the evening when I eventually boarded my train home, leaving the final
arrangements to the wife of one of Miyamagi’s neighbours. Naturally I had
no idea when Michio left Kamakura or what he did in the meantime.
The police investigation resulted in a complete blank. The boys Miyamagi
had been playing with (three of these were locals from good middle-class
homes; one came from Tokyo, only there for the day after travelling down
with his sister) all stated positively that no one else had got close to
Miyamagi while he was buried in the sand. Even though each of them was
around ten-years-old, it was unlikely they would have missed someone
being stabbed right in front of them. Furthermore, the two married women
sitting only a few yards away had been in a position where they would have
noticed anyone approach, but they testified seeing no such suspicious
character. In fact all witnesses reported the same thing.
I was in total agreement. I’d not seen anyone who might have been the
murderer. Although I’d been standing ten yards away watching the boys on
the diving platform, I’d surely have spotted out of the corner of my eye
such an atrocity taking place. It truly was a mysterious and nightmarish
killing. The victim had been in full view of hundreds of people, but not one
of them had caught even a glimpse of the culprit. Had the blade sticking out
of Miyamagi’s chest been put there by some invisible phantom? I wondered
for a moment if someone might have thrown the dagger from far off. But
this was completely beyond the realms of possibility, given the
circumstances at the time.
What soon became apparent however was that Miyamagi’s wound, or rather
the way his heart had been punctured, bore a striking resemblance to
Hatsuyo’s killing blow. Not only this, in both cases the murder weapon, a
cheap, wooden handled dagger, was of the same type. This led to the
presumption that Miyamagi’s killer and Hatsyuo’s killer were one and the
same person.
Even so, this didn’t give any clue as to the magical ability the murderer
possessed. In the first case he’d slipped like a draught into a securely locked
house with no possible way in or out; in the second case, like a passing
phantom he’d stabbed the heart of his victim in full view of hundreds of
people, then vanished. I’m not a superstitious person, but these two
impossible acts were like something from a ghost story and sent shivers
down my spine.
The Bust of General Nogi with the Missing Nose
The man who’d been directing my efforts at sleuthing and revenge was now
gone. Miyamagi had revealed to me none of the facts he’d uncovered while
still alive, or the deductions he’d made, so after his death I was at a total
loss over what to do next. He’d let slip two or three possible hints, but I
lacked the insight to decipher them.
At the same time, the urgency I felt towards acting out my revenge had only
been added to. Along with repaying the grudge I held over my lover’s
killing, I was now in the position where I had to get even with whoever had
murdered my old friend and mentor. Some invisible phantom had been
directly responsible for Miyamagi’s death, but I was the one who had led
him into danger. If only I hadn’t sought his help, he would not have met
such a fate. The guilt I felt could only be assuaged by finding his killer.
Just before he’d died, Miyamagi had said he’d posted the threatening
letter’s “item”, which in the end had been the cause of his downfall, and
sure enough, when I returned home that day, a delivery was there waiting
for me. To my surprise, what emerged from within that thoroughly well
packaged parcel was a plaster bust of the royalist General Nogi. It had been
painted to make it look bronze, and was of a kind that could be found lying
about in most art shops. Because of its age, the paint had peeled away here
and there exposing the white plaster underneath, and its nose was missing,
which seemed comical and almost disrespectful to the legendary war hero. I
had the absurd notion that it might be a famous work that stood in
comparison to anything produced by Rodin himself.
Of course I wasn’t able to guess at its real relevance, or why it could’ve
been a motive for murder. Miyamagi had said to me, “Store it in a safe
place so it doesn’t get chipped or broken,” [and] “don’t let anyone know
you have such a precious object in your possession.” But however much I
racked my brains, the importance of that bust escaped me, so for the time
being I followed my friend’s instructions and deliberately chose a trunk
which already had all kinds of junk in it and secretly placed it there. The
police had no idea the statue even existed so there was no need to report
anything to them.
Over the following week, due to my agitated mood, other than the one day I
spent at Miyamagi’s funeral, I was no use to anyone, though I continued
reluctantly to go into the office. Every evening after work, without fail, I
would visit Hatsuyo’s grave. I reported to my lost love all the details of the
mysterious murder that had followed soon after her own, then, since I
couldn’t bear going home, I’d kill some hours wandering from
neighbourhood to neighbourhood.
During that time two things happened, not particularly momentous, but
even though they seem trivial, are still events that cannot pass without
mention. First, on a couple of occasions, I noticed signs someone had been
in my room while I was out and had gone through my desk drawers,
bookcase, and so on. I’m not a tidy person so I could never say exactly what
was wrong, but twice I had the feeling certain objects were in a different
position to that which I had left them, such as the arrangement of books on
a shelf. I questioned everyone in the household but no one remembered
disturbing my things. My room was on the second floor and my window
looked out over the roof of the house next door, so it was not unthinkable
that someone might have climbed in that way. Though I tried to tell myself
this was just due to frayed nerves, I remained uneasy and my thoughts
turned to the bust with the missing nose; yet each time I went to check it
was still in the trunk exactly as I’d left it.
The second event occurred after I visited Hatsuyo’s grave one day and was
as usual walking through some out-of-the-way district - this time near
Uguisudani Station - where a circus had pitched up its tent on an empty plot
of land. I’m a fan of the old style music bands and grotesque circus sign
boards, and had lingered outside this venue once before, but that night I
strolled past without stopping, when quite unexpectedly, I spotted Moroto
Michio leave rapidly from the tent’s entrance and scuttle off. It was
unmistakably my eccentric former-friend, dressed in a fashionable dark suit,
though he seemed not to have noticed me.
My suspicions in regards to Michio had deepened considerably, though I
had nothing concrete against him. Why had he visited the Kigiki household
several times after Hatsuyo’s death? Why had he bought that vexatious
enamel vase? Wasn’t it too much of a coincidence that he just happened to
be at the scene of Miyamagi’s murder? And why, on that occasion, did he
behave in such a questionable manner? Furthermore, wasn’t it somewhat
odd that he should come so far out of his way to visit the circus at
Uguisudani?
It wasn’t just his material actions that were suspicious, there were plenty of
reasons to doubt him psychologically speaking too. It’s difficult for me to
write about, and almost inconceivable for ordinary folk, but Michio
evidently maintained a strong romantic attraction towards me. The notion
that it was this that had instigated his duplicitous marriage campaign was
plausible enough. And it was not hard to imagine that once rejected,
identifying Hatsuyo as his love rival, inflamed by passion, he’d taken her
life. Assuming Michio was responsible for her murder, the man I’d engaged
in solving the case, Miyamagi Kōkichi, who’d set his sights on the culprit
so surprisingly quickly, would have represented a formidable opponent who
it would have been necessary to eliminate as soon as possible. Michio had
to commit the second murder to conceal his role in the first.
Without Miyamagi as a guide, my deductive reasoning led me in one
direction only. In the end, after careful consideration, I resolved that my
only course of action was to get closer to Michio and try to corroborate my
suspicions. And so, one week after Miyamagi’s death, I made up my mind
to visit Ikebukuro, the location of Moroto Michio’s house of horrors.
The Return of the Crooked Man
Two nights in a row I called on Michio. The first night he was not at home
and I had to withdraw from his lonely porch empty handed. But the second
night I had an unexpected success.
It was now mid-July and the evening was uncomfortably hot and sticky. At
that time, Ikebukuro was not as densely populated as it is today. I came out
from behind a large teacher training college and the houses soon became
infrequent. Walking along the narrow unpaved road was hard going in the
dark; there was a tall hedge on one side of me, and a desolate wide open
space on the other. I fixed my eyes on the dim white track rising up out of
the gloom, impatiently making my way forwards, relying on the faint light
of the sparsely dotted street lamps that stretched way off into the distance.
The sun had only just set but there was hardly a soul about and I got an
eerie ghostly feeling if anyone happened to pass me by.
As I mentioned earlier, Michio’s residence was roughly a mile from the
station. When I was halfway along this route I noticed a strangely shaped
figure walking ahead of me. This person appeared to be a man, about half
the height of a normal human being, but somewhat wider. He swayed
laboriously from side to side as he shuffled along, and each time he moved
left or right, his head would bob upwards from its low position like a
nodding dog. Although dwarf-like, he was no dwarf; the top half of his
body was angled 45 degrees at the waist, which was why from behind he
looked remarkably short. He was simply very old and with a bent spine.
Coming across this peculiar figure I was naturally reminded of the sinister
character Hatsuyo had once mentioned seeing. I gasped involuntarily at the
timing and location of his reappearance, this being in the vicinity of the
man at the centre of my suspicions.
Taking great care to remain unnoticed, I followed the crooked old man as he
continued in the direction of Michio’s house. He turned into a side road and
the track got even narrower; this led directly to Michio’s gloomy residence
so there could no longer be any doubt. Up ahead the isolated building soon
appeared, but tonight for some reason a light shone in every window.
The old man paused at the gate to Michio’s property and seemed to turn
something over in his mind, finally he pushed open the iron doors and
walked through. I quickly followed and entered the grounds of the house.
There were patches of thick shrubbery between the gate and the porch, and
it was perhaps in the shadow of these that I lost sight of the man. I watched
and waited but he did not reappear. It was impossible to tell if he’d gone
into the building or was still lingering somewhere in the vegetation.
Exercising extreme caution I searched every corner of the spacious front
garden but it was as though he’d vanished into thin air. Surely he must have
gone inside? I took a deep breath and strode up to the porch and rang the
bell. I’d resolved to meet with Michio face to face and hear from his own
lips any explanation he had to give.
The door opened and the houseboy, who I recognised, poked his head
outside. I said I wanted to see Michio and he retreated within, then soon
returned and led me to a reception room. This was decorated with stylish
wallpaper and had a harmony to its arrangement that spoke volumes as to
the man-of-the-house’s impeccable taste.
After I’d sat down in a cushioned armchair, Michio said to me, “Well, well.
Look who’s here!” he was in high spirits and his face was a little flush from
liquor perhaps, “I’m sorry about the other day in Sugamo, I wasn’t feeling
myself at the time.” Michio’s tone was pleasant and jovial.
“We crossed paths once more since then, didn’t we? On the coast, at
Kamakura?” I said, cutting straight to the point.
“Eh? Kamakura? Ah yes, you noticed me then? I didn’t call out to you
because of all the commotion; that man who was killed, his name was
Miyamagi, wasn’t it? Were you well acquainted with him?”
“I was. In fact, I’d asked him to investigate the circumstances of Hatsuyo’s
murder. He was an exceptional amatuer detective, not unlike a certain
Sherlock Holmes. Then, just when he’d identified the culprit, there was that
trouble at the beach. Leaving me utterly despondent.”
“I imagined as much. What a regrettable loss. Well, have you eaten? The
table has just been laid for dinner. It so happens I have another guest,
perhaps you’d like to join us?” Michio seemed eager to change the subject.
“No thank you, I’ve dined already. But you go ahead, I can wait. As for
guests though, you mean that elderly gentleman with the crooked back?”
“Elderly gentleman? Quite the reverse, my guest is a small child, but you
needn’t pay him any mind, why don’t you come to the dining room anyway,
even if you’re not eating?”
“But when I arrived I saw an old man walk through your front gate,” I
persisted.
“Hm, that’s odd. I’ve never had any dealings with crooked-backed elderly
men, are you certain that’s who you saw?”
The Unexpected Sleuth
Michio looked worried. He further encouraged me to go to the dining room
with him but I declined and he finally yielded and summoned the same
houseboy from before.
“Serve dinner to my young guest, and so that he doesn’t get bored, keep
him company, and get the cook to join you. Make sure he doesn’t leave.
There might be some toys somewhere...Oh, and bring tea for this
gentleman.”
After the houseboy had gone, Michio turned to me with a forced smile.
While he’d been talking I’d spotted the enamel vase with the butterfly
pattern in the corner of the room, and been somewhat taken aback by
Michio’s audacity at leaving such an object in plain view.
I observed his expression closely as I remarked, “What a splendid vase.
Though I get the feeling I’ve seen it once before.”
“That thing? You may well have. I bought it from the junk shop next to
Hatsuyo’s house,” he replied with surprising composure. I suddenly felt a
little out of my depth; it seemed Michio was several steps ahead of me.
“I’ve missed you, you know. We haven't had a good heart-to-heart in ages,”
he spoke sweetly, and a little drunkenly. His red cheeks glowed, and his
eyes, shaded by his long eyelashes, had a coquettish charm about them. “I
couldn’t say anything that last time in Sugamo because I was too
embarrassed, but I owe you an apology. I did something so contemptible I
don’t know if you can forgive me or not. But I was driven by passion, I
couldn’t bear to have you taken away from me. You may well be furious at
my selfish attitude, but you must know my feelings are sincere. I simply
had to act in the way I did...You’re angry with me, aren’t you?”
“You’re talking of Hatsuyo, am I right?” I responded bluntly.
“Yes. I was so envious of you both I couldn’t stand it. Before, even if you
didn’t really understand what I felt in my heart, at least you weren’t a
stranger. But after Hatsuyo came on the scene, your attitude changed
completely. Do you remember? It must be two months ago now. That night
we went to the theatre together. I could see it in your eyes, as if you were in
thrall of some incessant vision, and it tore me up inside. But more than that,
you so casually and so cruelly told me stories about her. How happy you
seemed! Do you know how that made me feel? I’m sorry. I’ve always said,
I have no right to criticise you. But seeing you like that, it was as if my
world had lost all meaning. I was devastated. But more than that, I felt my
yearnings turn to bitterness at your new found love. Since then I’ve written
to you many times, but you haven’t replied once. Previously you always
wrote back, however indifferent your words.”
The drink had made Michio loquacious. If I’d kept quiet his unmanly
rambling would have gone on forever.
“And so, you proposed marriage? Even though you cared nothing for the
target of your advances?” I interrupted indignantly.
“You’re angry of course. It’s only natural. If it were possible I’d do
anything to make amends. You can stamp on my face in heavy boots. Or do
much worse besides. I deserve it.”
Michio’s words were tinged with sadness but this did nothing to appease
my rage.
“You talk only of yourself. You’re entirely self-absorbed. Meeting Hatsuyo
was a miracle for me. No woman could ever take her place. And...and so...”
As I spoke the grief rose anew inside me and my eyes welled up. For a
while I couldn’t speak. Michio stared back, then suddenly he clasped my
hands inside his own and cried out, “Forgive me! Forgive me!”
“You think this is something that can be forgiven?” I pulled my hands free,
“Hatsuyo is dead. That cannot be taken back. And I have been flung to the
bottom of a deep, dark pit.”
“I feel your pain almost too keenly. But compared to my own life, yours is
still full of joy. You may ask why. The truth is, no matter how earnestly I
sought Hatsuyo’s hand, no matter how much I urged her mother, I couldn’t
get Hatsuyo’s heart to waver in the slightest. She disregarded all the
obstacles put in her path and thought only of you. You loved her, and she
loved you back, perhaps too much.”
“How can you say that?” my voice betrayed the fact I was close to tears,
“How can you say such things? It was because she thought so much of me
that my grief is multiplied at her loss. You were simply rejected, but
because of that, you sought satisfaction another way, so you, you…” I
couldn’t bring myself to finish my accusation.
“I what? Ah, of course, you suspect me. You are beset by a terrible
mistrust.”
With a wailing howl I wept openly, and as the tears poured down I shouted,
“What I want is to kill you! I want you dead! Please, tell me the truth. No
more lies.”
“I see. It seems I was wrong,” Michio held my hands again and stroked
them gently, “I never knew losing someone could hurt so badly. Minoura,
this is the absolute truth. You are under a misapprehension. Whatever else I
am, I am not a murderer.”
“Then why is that sinister creature hanging around your house? Hatsuyo
was visited by that same crooked man and was murdered soon after. And
why were you there on the day of Miyamagi’s murder? Acting in such a
suspicious manner? Why did you visit the circus in Uguisudani? I’ve never
once heard you express an interest in such things. Why did you buy that
enamel vase? I know it has some connection to Hatsuyo’s murder. All this,
all this...”
I spoke wildly; all I’d wanted to say tumbled out in one go. Then I abruptly
cut myself off and shivered as though in a malarial fever, white faced,
overcome with emotion. Michio hurriedly came to my side and put both
arms around me, as though trying to lever me from the chair, and while
holding on he brought his mouth close to my ear and whispered softly,
“You’ve put together quite a story haven’t you? It’s no wonder you should
doubt me. But there is an explanation for all these strange coincidences.
Ah! I should have confided in you earlier. We could have pooled our
resources. You see Minoura, just like you and Miyamagi, I’ve been
investigating this case. Can you guess why? A guilty heart is why. Although
I’d nothing to do with either murder I made you suffer with my marriage
proposal to Hatsuyo. Then after her death, I felt pity. I believed I could at
least give you some small consolation by finding the culprit. Not only that,
suspicion had fallen on Hatsuyo’s mother who’d been taken in by the
authorities. One reason being the conflict between her and her daughter
over my offer. In other words, I was indirectly responsible for the old
woman’s treatment as a suspect. So on this point too, I felt duty bound to
uncover the real culprit and clear her name. However, this is apparently no
longer necessary. As you probably know, Hatsuyo’s mother has already
been released due to a lack of evidence. She told me herself when she came
here yesterday.”
My suspicions ran deep and I wasn’t going to be taken in so easily by
Michio’s excuses, no matter how plausible or how persuasively he put
them. Although I’m embarrassed to say, I behaved like a spoiled child in his
embrace. It occurred to me later that whether unconsciously or to cover my
shame at raising my voice and sobbing so openly, I perhaps felt the need to
be cosseted by this man who loved me still.
“I don’t believe you. You’re no sleuth.”
“What a silly thing to say. You think I can’t play the detective too?” Michio
appeared somewhat relieved that I’d calmed down a little, “I might even be
a great detective. I’ve studied forensic science after all, broadly speaking.
Aha, I know, listen, perhaps this will change your mind. You said just now
my enamel vase has a connection to this case. That is an excellent insight.
Did Miyamagi point this out? Or did you notice yourself? But it seems you
don’t know what this connection is. Now the relevant vase is actually
elsewhere, it is one of a pair, this one being its twin. You remember,
someone bought that other vase from the junk shop the day after Hatsuyo’s
murder. Don’t you see? Me buying this vase shows I’m in fact trying to
solve this case rather than cover my tracks. I bought it to determine its
precise nature.”
By now I was listening attentively. For a piece of fabrication Michio’s
argument was certainly convincing.
“If what you say is true I owe you an apology,” I said, swallowing my
pride, “But how can I possibly believe this is part of an investigation? Did
you actually discover anything?”
“Indeed I did,” Michio said with a hint of bravado, “If my reasoning is
correct I know exactly who the killer is. And I can turn him over to the
police whenever I like. Unfortunately, it’s as yet unclear whether he carried
out the second murder.”
“The second murder?” I responded in surprise, forgetting my earlier
embarrassment, “So the same person was indeed responsible for both
crimes?”
“That is what I believe. In my opinion this is a singular matter unheard of in
modern times. Almost unthinkable.”
“Then say it. How did the killer creep in and out of that impenetrable
house? How did he commit murder in the midst of a great crowd without
being accosted?”
“That is what’s so horrific. The most spine-chilling aspect of this affair,
how deeds considered beyond the realm of common sense were carried out
with ease. How the impossible was made possible. This is what anyone
tasked with solving this case should turn their attention to. Everything else
follows.”
I’d lost patience with Michio’s explanations and hastily moved on to my
next question, “So name the culprit. Is it someone I know?”
“Possibly. Though you will never guess who.”
What was it Moroto Michio was leading to? I’d the vague feeling things
were starting to fall into place. But just supposing the crooked man,
whoever he was, had indeed visited Michio’s house, where was he now?
Why had Michio appeared at the circus entrance? What on earth was the
significance of the enamel vase in connection to this case? I’d been
persuaded by Michio’s argument, but I couldn’t help feeling the more I
trusted him, the more my head filled with questions like a cloud of flies.
Blindspot
My world had been turned on its head.
I’d viewed Moroto Michio as a suspect, for all the reasons stated in the
previous chapters, and had set out to give him the third degree in relation to
Hatsuyo’s and Miyamagi’s murders, but as I listened, I began to believe he
was actually investigating these cases rather than being responsible for
them.
Not only that, he claimed to already know who the murderer was, and was
about to reveal their identity. Before his death, Miyamagi Kōkichi had often
amazed me with his shrewd deductive observations; now I couldn’t help
being further astonished at discovering an even more formidable detective.
For all the years I’d known him I’d thought of Michio as an odd bird, a
transgressive and a macabre anatomist, but never imagined he’d possessed
such an ability as a sleuth. I was left dumbfounded at this completely
unexpected turn of events.
You’ll perhaps already be mystified by this man, as I was at that moment.
There was something about Michio that marked him out from regular folk.
Something that manifested itself in the bizarre research he was engaged in
(there will be an opportunity to give more details on this later) and his
aberrant sexuality, but there was more. He appeared virtuous on the surface
but underneath there lurked an unfathomable wickedness. An unearthly
atmosphere seemed to hover about him like a heat haze. And now this
sudden transformation into an amateur detective; I knew I couldn’t trust
everything he said.
Nevertheless, his deductive powers were undeniable, as you will soon see,
and I could sense goodness in him, in what he said and how he said it, and
while a single sliver of doubt remained, I found myself persuaded by his
argument.
“The culprit is someone I know? You’re mistaken, I’ve no idea what you’re
talking about. Tell me who it is,” I demanded once more.
“If I tell you straight out you may find the answer hard to swallow. Let me
explain how I came to solve this case. My trials and tribulations if you like,
though I experienced little of either; it was no adventure and required barely
any legwork,” Michio answered calmly.
“I’m listening.”
“At first glance both these murders appeared impossible. One takes place in
locked premises with no way for the killer in or out; the other is committed
in broad daylight before hundreds of beachgoers and yet no one witnesses
the crime. But since the laws of this universe cannot be broken, we must put
what is ‘impossible’ under the microscope. If you take a peek behind feats
of this kind there is always some surprisingly mundane trick at the root of it
all.”
There was that word again, “trick”. I recalled Miyamagi using the same
analogy and was further convinced by Michio.
“The solution was ludicrous,” (Miyamagi had used that word too) “and so I
disregarded it after the first murder but after the second, it was confirmed. I
say ludicrous, the method of deception was child's play, but the way it was
done, audacious in the extreme. Which conversely meant the perpetrator
had little to fear. There is, how should I put it, an ugly, cold-blooded, bestial
aspect hiding behind these cases, one nobody in our civilised society could
have guessed at. At first glance ludicrous, yes, but a crime conceived with a
demon’s wisdom, beyond the wit of man.”
Michio grew carried away by the sound of his own voice, but now he
paused and stared deep into my eyes. All the usual affection had vanished
from his gaze and I sensed only horror. I succumbed to a similar emotion
and no doubt my own eyes betrayed the same fear.
“My reasoning was as follows. In Hatsuyo’s case, all were convinced there
was no way in or out for the killer. Every door and window was locked
from the inside. The culprit must have either never left, or had an
accomplice within the house. Therefore suspicion fell on Hatsuyo’s mother,
but from everything I’ve heard her involvement is out of the question.
Whatever the circumstances, she’d never have murdered her only daughter.
I began to look for the trick concealed unnoticed behind the details of this
seemingly impossible event.”
I got an odd sense of incongruity as I listened. Is he for real? I asked
myself. Why would Moroto Michio invest so much energy in solving
Hatsuyo’s murder? Was it really out of sympathy? Or had Hatsuyo’s death
stimulated some innate inclination in him towards detective work? Either
way, it was strange for Michio to get so worked up. It struck me later that
he might have had another motivation.
“I’ll give you a for instance. Let's say you’re trying to solve an algebraic
equation. You stay up all night scribbling on pieces of paper but you just
can’t crack it. You’re convinced it’s unsolvable. Then by some chance you
approach the same equation from a different angle and, hey presto, the
answer comes in a flash. You’d been cast under a spell; afflicted by a
mental blindspot. In Hatsuyo’s case too, I had to try and shift my viewpoint.
There was no route in or out of the house, meaning there was no entrance
without, and no exit within. All doors and windows were locked, no
footprints in the garden, the ceiling hadn’t been tampered with, and a net
blocked the space under the verandah. In short, not a single access point
existed from the outside. So what does this mean? The preconception that
the killer came from ‘the outside’ was false.”
Michio the scientist took on a knowing and scholarly tone. Half of me
followed what he said, the other half was completely bewildered. I listened,
mouth agape.
“So, if not ‘the outside’, where had the killer come from? Only the victim
and her mother were present, so if we argue the killer never gained access,
we naturally turn to the mother. And now we have our blindspot. It’s simple
really. Just a question of how Japanese homes are constructed. You’ll recall,
Hatsuyo’s house adjoins the neighbour’s, forming one property. The only
single-storey building in the street, easy to pick out,” Michio smiled slyly.
“So you’re saying the killer came in from next door and left the same
way?” I asked with surprise.
“It’s possible is it not? The way adjoining houses are constructed in Japan,
the space under the roof and under the floor are usually connected. It
always occurred to me, this insistence on the house being ‘locked tight’, it
never applied in this case. How careless, to securely fasten the doors and
windows, and yet neglect the crawl space above and below.”
“But,” I could no longer suppress the objections that bubbled up inside me,
“The old couple that lived next door were good people, and besides, as you
must have heard, they were only woken after Hatsuyo’s body had been
discovered, and until then their own house had been a veritable fortress. By
the time the owner emerged, a crowd of bystanders had gathered and his
junk shop turned into a kind of rest station. There was no opportunity for
the killer to escape and it’s unthinkable the old man was an accomplice and
sheltered him.”
“I agree. It’s as you say.”
“And besides, if the killer had got in through the roof space, he would have
left footprints or other marks in the dust up there, but the police found
nothing of the sort. And under the verandah, a metal net surrounded the
whole building. There’s no way he could have got past this or up through
the floorboards and tatami matting.”
“Just so. But a much better route existed. One that practically had a
‘Welcome’ sign hanging above it, and so commonplace nobody gave it a
second glance.”
“So not via the ceiling or floor? You can’t possibly mean the walls?”
“No, this route left no trace behind and avoided such cheap tricks. I wonder,
have you ever read a short story by Edgar Allan Poe called ‘The Purloined
Letter’? An astute blackmailer hides a letter, but knows that a far more
cunning way to conceal something is not to conceal it at all. So he casually
drops the letter into a card rack hanging in plain sight. The police search his
home but find nothing. Such an obvious location, unmissable, and yet
disregarded. This is the blindspot effect, to use my own manner of
speaking. In Hatsuyo’s case it’s ludicrous to think something so simple
could have been overlooked, but as I said before, everyone laboured under
the false preconception that the killer came from ‘the outside’. Once you
realise he came from ‘within’ the rest is easy.”
“Easy you say? Please explain as I still have no idea,” I had the slightly
unpleasant feeling Michio was now making fun of me.
“In every home, in the wooden floor of every kitchen, there is a trap door
about one metre square. Somewhere to drop charcoal or firewood.
Commonly the space beneath this trap door is not partitioned off and leads
directly underneath the house. People don’t expect a burglar to enter from
within their property, so even those prudent enough to install a metal net
around its outer edge leave that trap door unlocked.”
“So the man who killed Hatsuyo came and went by that trap door?”
“I paid several visits to Hatsuyo’s home and confirmed there was indeed
just such an opening, and that it was possible to move freely in the space
below. It’s conceivable then, that the murderer climbed through the trap
door in next door’s kitchen, crawled beneath the floorboards, slipped into
Hatsuyo’s house, and escaped the same way.”
The method was finally revealed, and the secret of Hatsuyo’s case, which
had seemed almost mystical, was solved at a stroke. I initially admired
Michio’s logical reasoning, but then it occurred to me, even if we knew the
murderer’s route, a more critical problem remained. How was it that the
junk shop owner had not seen him? How had he escaped unnoticed in full
view of a crowd of onlookers? Who was this killer? Michio had said he
knew him, so why not tell me? His roundabout way of explaining himself
was beginning to make my teeth itch.
The Magical Jar
“I know there is much you wish to ask. I’m happy to track down the figure
responsible for the murders of Hatsuyo and Miyamagi and assist in your
revenge, but there is a strict order to what I have to say. My deductions
don’t necessarily reach an irrefutable conclusion, so you must follow them
carefully and make up your own mind.”
Michio waved away my barrage of questions and continued his studiously
ordered lecture in the manner of an academic opining on his specialist
subject.
“I’m of course aware, after making enquiries with local residents, of the
points you raise. It’s inconceivable the culprit escaped unseen, right under
the noses of the junk shop owner and that crowd of onlookers. When the old
man unlocked his front door, half the neighbourhood was already gathered
in the street. If we assume the killer crawled under the floorboards and back
into the junk shop, it would have been impossible for him to go any further
without leaving some sign of a disturbance, or drawing the attention of the
elderly couple or the mob outside. I was completely stumped. There must
have been another trick. A piece of chicanery that had gone unnoticed, just
like the trap door itself. I hung around the vicinity of Hatsuyo’s house and
spoke to the neighbours. It was then that it came to me, could something
have been removed from the junk shop’s window display? Various items
were on show, but was one of them now missing? I followed up on my
hunch and learnt there was indeed a missing item, one of a pair of vases.
The other being this one here. That morning after Hatsuyo was found dead,
in the middle of all the fuss, someone had come to collect it. No other
objects of such a size were sold.”
“Miyamagi mentioned the vase too. Though he never explained its
significance,” I interjected.
“Indeed. I was quite mystified. But I knew there was something fishy about
it. The evening before the murder, a customer pays for the vase upfront then
wraps it in cloth before leaving. The next day, a servant comes to take it
away. In terms of timing, it’s quite a coincidence.”
“It’s not like the murderer could have been hiding inside.”
“No, except, there is reason to believe that might well be the case.”
“What? In the vase? Surely you’re joking. It’s no more than a metre tall.
And less than half that at its widest point. More importantly, look at its
mouth, I couldn’t even fit my head through. A man inside? Are you
suggesting it’s some fairytale magical jar?”
I went and stood next to the vase in the corner of the room and laughed out
loud as I calculated its diameter.
“A magical jar. Maybe. Nobody, not even myself at first, believed a human
being could hide in such a place. I know it’s fantastical, but as I say, I have
reason to believe that’s exactly what happened. I bought the remaining vase
to help me figure this out, but I wasn’t able to see how it was done. While
still in this state of bafflement the second murder occured. By some chance
I was visiting Kamakura that day, on an unconnected errand, and when I
saw you in passing I decided to follow you to the beach. Then, quite by
accident, I happened to be there when Miyamagi was killed. I looked into
his case and learnt Miyamagi had been investigating Hatsuyo’s murder.
What’s more, his death was just as mysterious. I wondered if there was a
connection. Then I put together a theory. It’s only a theory, and that’s all it
can be until I have concrete evidence, but as the sole plausible explanation,
its validity cannot be doubted, until proven otherwise.”
Michio’s eyes were bloodshot from the alcohol he’d consumed and his own
excitement, and he fixed his gaze on me and licked his dry lips as he
continued, sounding more and more as though he were making a public
address.
“For the sake of convenience I’ll set aside Hatsuyo’s murder for the time
being and concentrate on the second case, since this was what led me to my
breakthrough. Miyamagi was killed in full view of the holidaying crowds,
and yet not one clue remained as to who did it or how. He was never out of
sight of several people nearby. You included of course. And several hundred
people were walking up and down the beachfront. More notably, four
children were playing right next to him. Not one of these witnessed the
murderer approach. A truly bizarre event. Inexplicable. Impossible. And yet
we’re faced with the cold hard fact of a dagger protruding from the victim's
chest. How had the murderer done it? I considered this problem from every
angle. But no matter how vigorously I applied my powers of imagination,
other than two possible scenarios, this crime belonged to the realm of the
supernatural. So what were these scenarios? First, unseen by anyone,
Miyamagi had performed the deed himself. Second, as horrific as it may
sound, one of those cherubic youngsters larking about in the sand, a child of
no more than ten, was in fact a cold blooded killer. There were four
children, piling up sand on each side of Miyamagi, fully absorbed in their
task, so it wouldn’t have been difficult for one of them to take a concealed
blade and plunge it unnoticed into the victim’s heart while still pretending
to bury him as part of their game. Miyamagi’s guard would have been
down, since they were only kids, right up until it was too late and he had no
time to cry out. Acting as if nothing had happened, the murderous imp
would then have piled on more sand to cover his weapon and Miyamagi’s
blood.”
I stared at Michio in disbelief. Surely this was some mad fantasy?
“Of these two scenarios, the arguement Miyamagi committed suicide just
doesn’t stand up for a number of reasons. So despite how extraordinary it
seems, the only explanation is that one of those four children was the
culprit. Indeed, once this is clear, we can answer another question that has
plagued us. What seemed impossible at first glance is now possible. Your
so-called ‘magical jar’. We assumed no one could hide in that vase without
the help of some divine evil power. This was due to our viewpoint being
fixed. Murderers for us are limited to the fearsome fully-grown men we’ve
seen illustrated in books on criminology, and because of this preconception
we paid scant attention to the presence of four youngsters. Our concept of
childhood was another blindspot. But if we remove these blinkers, the
puzzle of the vase is instantly solved. The vase is small, but perhaps big
enough for a ten-year-old to fit inside. And if wrapped in cloth, its contents
would be completely concealed. A loose knot would make it possible to get
in and out; the knot could be re-tied and the cloth pulled over the vase’s
mouth hiding whoever was within. The magic was not in the jar itself, but
in the person who entered it.”
Michio’s argument progressed brilliantly. It followed a well determined
sequence with no obvious inconsistencies. But I was not yet convinced.
This perhaps showed in my expression, and Michio fixed me with a hard
look before continuing.
“In Hatsuyo’s case, other than the mystery of how the culprit got in and out,
there was another important, yet unexplained fact. You haven’t forgotten I
suppose? Why, at such a critical moment, had the murderer snatched a tin of
chocolates from the scene? Again, if we assume a ten-year-old was
responsible, the answer is clear. For a child that age, a shiny tin of
chocolates is more tempting than any diamond ring or pearl necklace.”
“But it makes no sense,” I could hold my tongue no longer, “How could an
innocent infant, who loves chocolate so much, kill another harmless human
being, and not once but twice? Sweets are an absurd motive for murder, are
they not? The extreme cruelty demonstrated by these atrocities, the
meticulous planning, the keen intellect, the precision of the killing blows,
how can you lay all this at the door of a mere child? Surely you’re reading
too much into this?”
“What makes no sense is to think the child himself plotted these crimes.
They were not his notion; there is another mind at play here, lurking in the
shadows. The real demon is concealed. The child was no more than a well-
drilled automaton. An outlandish hypothesis, is it not? One to make your
hair stand on end? Nobody would think a ten-year-old the culprit; and even
when exposed, what punishment could they receive? It’s the same principle
as the leader of a gang of pickpockets manipulating and exploiting his
young troops, but taken to a much greater extreme. Who else could have
hidden in that vase and been safely carried away? Who else could have
lowered the guard of the watchful Miyamagi? Perhaps it’s hard to believe
that a babe-in-arms with a childish craving for sugar could kill so readily,
trained or not. But then child psychologists have shown that compared to
adults children have a surprisingly cruel nature. Taking pleasure in peeling
the skin off live frogs or cutting snakes in half; these are interests peculiar
to youngsters who lack the compassion that maturity brings. Their
heartlessness has no rhyme or reason. Evolutionary theory suggests infants
are representative of humanity’s primitive age, and are more savage and
bestial than men.
“You have to admire the wicked genius of the criminal puppet master for
selecting a child as their unthinking killing machine. Perhaps you feel a ten-
year-old boy could never be fashioned into an expert assassin, however
much they were drilled. Indeed, it’s an extremely tricky proposition. The
killer had to crawl under the house, up through the trap door and into
Hatsuyo’s room without making a noise, then swiftly and precisely stab his
victim through the heart, denying her a chance to even scream in pain, then
return to the junk shop and spend the whole night in that vase, suppressing
his fear of suffocation. At the beach he had to stab Miyamagi as he lay in
the sand, and do it unseen by the three boys he was playing with, and who
he’d never met before. Could a ten-year-old really pull off such feats? And
even if he managed them, could he then accomplish the even greater task of
keeping his mouth shut? But such things, they are mere routine. Only those
who don’t know the formidable power of repeated practice, or are unaware
of the freakish wonders of this world would say otherwise. Chinese
acrobats are trained from the age of five or six to bend backwards until they
can make their heads appear from between their legs. Circus trapeze artists
learn to soar through the air like a bird before they can read or write. Why
can’t it be, that if a villain were to be found in one of these places, and if
they were to use all the means at their disposal, a child could be initiated
into the art of murder? The same goes for lying and deception. See how
skillfully youths employed by beggars draw the sympathy of passersby,
feigning hunger and acting like the ragged man standing next to them is
their own parent. Have you not witnessed such marvellous technique
yourself? Depending on what training they receive, children are in no way
inferior to their elders.”
Michio was convincing enough, but I didn’t want to believe in a diabolical
evil that forced children to commit acts of bloody murder. I felt there was
still room for protest. I looked around aimlessly, like someone struggling to
escape from a bad dream. Michio stopped and all of a sudden there was
total silence. I was used to living in comparatively lively districts, so the
lack of noise made it feel like I’d entered another world. Since it was a
warm evening the window was slightly ajar, but there was no breeze, and
the darkness outside was like a black wall of incalculable depth.
I gazed at the vase beside me. When I pictured a murderous imp hiding all
night in a container of the same dimensions, I was assailed by a feeling of
inexplicable dread. At the same time I wondered if there might be a crack in
Michio’s abominable theory. Then suddenly it became obvious, and I piped
up with renewed vigour, “There’s no way it could work! When you
compare the height of the boys I saw on the beach and the size of this vase.
A child of over one metre could never fit inside. It’s too narrow for them to
crouch down, but more importantly, no matter how skinny they were, how
could they squeeze through the mouth at the top?”
“I thought the same at first. I even tried an experiment. I found a boy of a
similar age and brought him here, but as expected it was simply not
feasible. One thing was apparent however. Judging from the vase’s capacity,
if the boy’s body had been made of something more pliable like rubber, he
would have been able to fit easily. But not having rubber limbs and a torso
that could contract and twist freely, there was no chance. As I watched him
try, I was reminded of a story somebody once told me long ago. There used
to be a master jailbreaker who it was said, by employing some secret
technique of physical contortion, could squeeze out of the smallest of
openings as long as they were big enough to fit his head through. Assuming
this principle to be true, hiding in that vase would be possible for a child of
certain abilities, since its mouth accommodated a ten-year-old’s head, and
there was ample volume. So what kind of child were we talking about?
What immediately came to mind were those young acrobats who’d been
given vinegar to drink each day to make their bodies as supple as jellyfish,
and who could bend their joints in any direction. When it came to circus
tricks, there is a popular stunt where a performer balances a large jar on
their feet, and a child is placed inside and spun around. You must have seen
it done. The child curls up, round as a baseball, they fold in two at the waist
and put their head between their knees. Anyone able to perform this trick
would have no problem hiding in that vase. The villain most likely came up
with this idea because he’d just such a child at his disposal. I wasted no
time in speaking with a friend of mine who was a fan of the circus, and
found out one was performing in Uguisudani. The jar spinning trick was on
the bill.”
It dawned on me that the young guest Michio had mentioned before was
probably the child acrobat he was now talking about, and that when I saw
Michio at Uguisudani, he must have been there to confirm the boy’s
identity.
“I went straight to that circus to see the show, and sure enough, the boy in
the jar for that particular trick did indeed look like one of the boys at the
beach at Kamakura. I couldn’t say for sure, as my memory wasn’t perfect,
but at any rate, I decided I had to investigate the child. Out of the four boys
at the beach that day, one had come from Tokyo to visit the seaside, so that
fitted. But there was a danger if my approach was too clumsy, the real
villain would be alerted and slip through my fingers. I needed to be
extremely circumspect, so had the idea of using my occupation as an excuse
for luring the boy out. As a medical scientist, I appealed for child acrobats
to give up one evening of their time to aid my research into developmental
deformities. I prevailed on influential figures in the entertainment world,
paid off circus troupe leaders, and promised to buy as much chocolate as
my subjects wanted.”
At this, Michio opened a package on the table in front of him. Inside were a
number of colourful tins and paper boxes.
“Finally, tonight, I was able to entice my candidate here alone. I mentioned
him earlier, my young guest in the dining room. He arrived just before you,
so I haven’t had a chance to fully question him yet. I still don’t know for
sure if he was at the beach. But what luck, we can interrogate him together.
You got a much better look at the boys anyway. We can also find out if he’s
really able to fit into that vase.”
Michio finished his address and stood up. His tale of detection had been
wondrous, and he’d arrived at a truly bizarre conclusion, but while
meandering, he’d expressed his theory eloquently and with impeccable
logic, and I no longer had the energy to cast doubt on its veracity. We left
the room together to see his young visitor.
The Boy Acrobat
After the briefest of glances I felt sure the boy was one of the four children
I’d seen. I signalled this to Michio and he appeared satisfied and nodded,
then he sat down next to the child. I took a seat across the table from them.
The boy had, just at that moment, finished his meal, and was looking at a
picture magazine. When we came in he stared up at us and grinned. He
wore a grimy sailor’s suit and was chewing on something. He appeared
dimwitted, but beneath this, he’d a sinister air about him.
“The boy’s stage name is Tomonosuke. He is twelve-years-old but due to a
poor developmental upbringing he is small, and looks no more than ten.
Furthermore, he has received no education. His language is infantile and
he’s illiterate. He’s highly skilled as a performer, but other than a squirrel-
like agility, he’s feeble-minded and lacks intellectual capacity. However, his
speech and movements suggest hidden depths. Limited in common sense,
he has a malformed sense of right and wrong, beyond that of a normal
mind. He perhaps belongs to that category of humanity considered ‘innately
criminal’. He’s only answered vaguely to whatever I’ve asked him up until
now. It seems he doesn’t even understand my questions.”
After filling me in, Michio turned to Tomonosuke and asked, “Listen, you
went to the seaside in Kamakura the other day, didn’t you? I was there too,
you know.”
“I ain’t been to the seaside,” Tomonosuke responded, insolently glaring up
at Michio.
“As if you don’t remember. You were burying that man in sand with your
friends. He was killed, and there was that big commotion. Ring any bells?”
“Ain’t nothing to do with me. I’m going,” Tomonosuke sprang to his feet
angrily and seemed on the point of leaving.
“Don’t be silly, you’re too far from home, you don’t even know the way.”
“I do. Anyway, if I get lost I can ask someone. I’ve walked over 20 miles
before.”
Michio smiled wryly and thought for a moment. He then got the houseboy
to bring in the vase and the package of chocolates.
“Please, stay a little longer. I’ve got something nice for you. What’s your
favourite thing to eat?”
“Chocolate.”
The boy was still standing and the anger in his voice remained, but he
answered obediently.
“Chocolate, of course. I’ve got plenty of chocolate here. Would you like
some? You can always go home if you don’t.”
When Tomonosuke saw the package his eyes lit up, but he stubbornly
refused to say anything more. He sat back down and scowled at Michio.
“Take a look, I’m sure you want some. You can have them too, if you listen
to what I have to say. See this pretty vase? Have you seen one like it
before?”
“Nope.”
“No you say? You're certainly obstinate. Well, let’s put that to one side.
Incidentally, you use a jar in your act don’t you? Which do you think is
bigger? The vase is smaller, right? You’d never be able to fit inside. No
matter how skilled you were, there’s no way.”
Tomonosuke remained silent so Michio continued, “What do you think? Do
you want to give it a try? There’s a reward attached. If you can squeeze
inside I’ll give you one whole box of chocolates. You can eat them right
here. But, I don’t know, I can’t see it happening I’m afraid.”
“I could fit. You’ll really give me those chocolates?”
Whatever else he was, Tomonosuke was still a child, and he fell for
Michio’s simple ruse. All of a sudden he moved towards the enamel vase,
put both hands against the lip of its trumpet-shaped mouth and leapt up so
he was standing on top of it. He then slipped both legs inside, bent himself
at the waist, wriggled his hips and thighs with a curiously dexterous motion
and disappeared. His head was now concealed but his arms still stuck out.
They writhed in the air for a while, then they vanished too. It was indeed a
marvellous act. Looking from above, the top of the boy’s head filled the
mouth of the vase like a cork plug.
“Well done! Bravo! You can come out now and receive your reward!”
Getting out of the vase appeared a tougher job than getting in, and took no
little time. Tomonosuke extricated his head and shoulders easily enough,
but his hips and thighs were again the hardest part. Once free he smiled a
little proudly, but said nothing, not even to ask for the chocolates. He stood
to attention and stared intently at both of us.
“Here you go then. You can eat them right now if you want,” Michio said,
passing the box to the boy. Tomonosuke almost snatched it from his hands.
He immediately tore open the lid, unwrapped the silver paper from one of
the sweets, and crammed it into his mouth. Then while smacking his lips in
apparent gratification, he looked longingly at the tin with the prettiest
decoration, still in Moroto’s hands. The box he’d received being made of an
objectionably plain cardboard. It was clear from his behaviour that he felt
an uncommon attraction towards chocolates and their containers.
Michio sat the boy down on his lap and stroked his head, “Did it taste nice?
You’re a good boy. But those ones aren’t even that special. The ones in this
gold tin are ten times more delicious. See, look how pretty the tin is.
Doesn’t it sparkle like sunbeams? You can have it if you want. But you
have to be honest. You have to answer my questions truthfully.”
Michio spoke to the child, placing emphasis on his words like a hypnotist
giving suggestive commands to his subject. Tomonosuke made no attempt
to move and busily unwrapped the rest of his chocolates, stuffing them one
after the other into his mouth. He nodded vacantly.
“A vase like that, with the same shape and pattern, was in a junk shop in
Sugamo. You haven’t forgotten have you? You hid inside it, then in the
middle of the night you sneaked out and crawled under the floorboards to
next door. Then what? Oh yes, you plunged a dagger into the chest of
someone sleeping there. Remember? There was a colourful tin of
chocolates by the pillow. You took it didn’t you? Now, answer me. Who
was it that you stabbed?”
“A woman. She was pretty. I can’t forget her face, it gave me a scare.”
“Good, good. You’re doing fine. Now you said earlier you hadn’t been to
the beach at Kamakura, that was a lie wasn’t it? You stabbed that man in the
sand as well didn’t you?”
Tomonosuke nodded blankly in response, absorbed in the sweets he was
still scoffing, then out of the blue a terrifying thought seemed to flash across
his mind. He threw the half-eaten box of chocolates to the floor and leapt
out of Michio’s lap.
“There’s no need to be frightened. We’re friends of your boss, you’re free to
say whatever you like,” Michio said to calm the boy down.
“It ain’t my boss it’s my pa that’s gonna get me, and you ain’t no friend of
his. You won’t tell him what I said will you? My pa gets scary when he’s
mad.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t breathe a word. Just answer me one more thing.
Your ‘pa’, where is he now? What’s his name? You do know, don't you?”
“Course I know his name, I’m not dumb.”
“Then tell me. It’s slipped my own mind. Tell me his name. And this tin of
chocolates with the sparkling sunbeams will be yours.”
The gold tin had a magical effect on the boy. Tomonosuke was in complete
thrall of its charms in the way a grown man can forget all danger when
faced with vast fortunes. He appeared on the point of answering Michio’s
question, when in that instant there was a loud crack. Michio immediately
cried out and jumped away from the boy. What madness had taken place
now? In the next moment, Tomonosuke collapsed to the carpet. He was
dead. The front of his white sailor suit was soaked crimson like he’d spilled
red ink over himself.
“Minoura, a pistol!” Michio shouted and shoved me into a corner of the
room. But the expected second shot never came. We cowered there for a
full minute, not saying a word.
From the darkness outside the open window someone had shot Tomonosuke
to keep him quiet. Whoever had pulled the trigger clearly had something to
fear from the boy’s confession. Perhaps it was even his so-called “pa”.
“We must call the police,” Michio said, coming to his senses. He dashed out
of the room and I soon heard the voice of an officer from the local station
speaking to him down the line. As I listened I moved back in a daze to
where I’d been standing, but all I could think of was that sinister old man
with the crooked back who I’d seen arrive at the house ahead of me.
General Nogi’s Secret
We knew nothing of our enemy, except that he had a firearm and was
prepared to use it, so rather than give chase I fled to the study, where the
houseboy and the cook had also gathered, and we stared at each other
white-faced while Michio continued to talk on the telephone.
Only Michio displayed any nerve; after finishing his call he ran to the
porch, then called to the houseboy and told him to bring a lantern. Hearing
this, I couldn’t stand by any longer. I helped the houseboy prepare two
lanterns and joined Michio who was already heading for the iron front gate.
But it was too dark to see where the criminal had gone. Then, thinking that
he might still be on the premises, we made a rough search of the garden,
relying on the dim light of our lanterns, but there was no sign of anyone
within the shadows of the bushes, or hiding in any nook or cranny outside
the building. The shooter must have gotten far away while Michio had been
on the phone. We had nothing else to do but await the arrival of the
authorities.
After a while several officers from the local station turned up, but due to the
country roads, they’d come on foot, so too much time had passed for a
pursuit of the criminal to hold any likelihood of success. They called the
nearest train station to have them set up a cordon, but it was already too
late.
While the first officers on the scene inspected Tomonosuke’s body and
made a thorough examination of the garden, detectives from the
prosecutor’s office and the Metropolitan Police Department came and took
statements from all of us. We reluctantly told them everything and were
severely rebuked for meddling in matters that we should have left to the
police; we were later summoned many times by several different people and
asked the same questions and repeated the same answers over and over
again. The circus at Uguisudani was officially informed and a
representative came to collect the body, but this individual could shed no
light on the case.
Since Michio had been forced to reveal his theory - that the boy acrobat
Tomonosuke had killed Hatsuyo and Miyamagi - the police provisionally
rounded up all members of the circus troupe and interrogated them, but
found no persons of any interest. As suspicions regarding the circus fizzled
out, their run at Uguisudani came to an end. The tent was packed up and the
circus moved on to its next location out in the country. The police knew,
from my statement, about the crooked old man, but no such character could
be found, no matter how hard they looked.
The idea that an innocent ten-year-old boy could commit two murders and
then be shot by a doddering 80-year-old using the latest model Browning
was too preposterous to win over the highly practical minds at the station.
Added to that, despite being a graduate from one of the imperial
universities, Michio was not in government service or an established
businessman but instead preoccupied himself with bizarre research, while I
myself was a literary romantic who’d fallen in love too hard, so in the
police’s eyes, we were both delusional - oddballs obsessed with revenge
and detective stories - and refused to take Michio’s logical and well-ordered
theory seriously (it also didn’t bother them that he’d admitted using
chocolates as a lure for ten-year-old boys). In short, the police were going
to investigate this case according to their own interpretation of events.
Except they couldn’t produce a suspect, and the days slipped by without
progress.
No sooner had his investigation got going, than Michio had been made to
endure a number of indignities: the circus had wheedled a sizable amount of
compensation out of him in the form of a monetary gift at Tomonosuke’s
funeral; the police had read him the riot act and treated his attempts at
detective work as mere fantasy; but never once did he lose heart, in fact, he
perhaps grew even more enthusiastic.
Not only that, he seemed to disregard the overly pragmatic approach the
police took towards this case to the same degree that they saw his theory as
delusional. Evidence of this was that when questioned, he said nothing of
the bust of General Nogi with the missing nose - the “item” I’d received
unexpectedly from Miyamagi and had been mentioned in the threatening
letter, all of which I’d told Michio about - and warned me to keep my
mouth shut too. In other words, Michio intended to thoroughly investigate
this series of murders, on his own terms, and using his own resources.
When it came to my own feelings, my thirst for revenge since Hatsuyo’s
death had not diminished one bit, but then again, things were getting out of
hand, and I could only look on wide-eyed as the chain of events grew
increasingly complex. As the bodies piled up, I feared we were getting
further and further away from any solution.
Another puzzle was Moroto Michio’s uncharacteristic zeal, which I found
hard to understand. As I said before, just because he still loved me, and just
because he had an interest in detective work, did not explain why he so
passionately wanted to solve this case, and I wondered again if he had an
ulterior motive.
At any rate, following Tomonosuke’s murder, for the next few days our
lives were turned upside down; we nervously went about our business in
fear of an unknown enemy, and though I frequently called on Michio, we
couldn’t calm our nerves enough to take stock and devise a new plan. It was
almost a week after the boy’s death before we finally sat down and
discussed the next steps to take.
That day I had not gone into work (I’d hardly been in the office at all since
the shooting) and was talking with Michio in his study when he said the
following:
“I don’t know how far the police have gotten, but I hold little faith in them.
I feel this matter lies outside their commonsensical approach. They have
their own methods, and we have ours; but it’s time we entered the fray once
more, don’t you think? Just as Tomonosuke was no more than a puppet
operated by the real villain, perhaps the person who shot him was the same.
Our mastermind hides in the background shrouded in mist. It would be a
wasted effort to cluelessly try and seek him out. Instead we should attempt
to determine the motive behind these three murders. What lies at the heart
of this case? You said that just before he was killed, Miyamagi received a
threatening letter demanding he hand over a certain ‘item’. Perhaps for the
criminal this ‘item’ was important enough to destroy the lives of several
people; perhaps everything that’s happened has been in order for him to get
his hands on it: Hatsuyo’s murder; Miyamagi’s murder; the apparant search
of your room. Tomonosuke was of course killed to keep the mastermind’s
identity secret. Luckily, we have this ‘item’ in our possession; I’ve no idea
what a bust of General Nogi with its nose missing is worth to anyone, but it
seems certain this is the ‘item’ the letter was referring to. We must, for the
time being, examine this curious plaster statue. The police know nothing
about it so we have a chance to redeem ourselves. Regarding this, it’s
necessary to establish a secret base of operations, since our enemy knows
where we both live. To that end I’ve already rented a room in Kanda.
Tomorrow, I want you to wrap up that plaster bust in old newspaper, make
it look like nothing special, and take a cab there. I’ll have gone on ahead
and will be waiting for you. We can then take our time examining it.”
I naturally consented to Michio’s plan, and the next day at the appointed
time I caught a cab and drove to the address in Kanda he’d given me. This
turned out to be a six-tatami space above a shabby restaurant on a narrow
winding backwater street running through the mess of boarding houses and
drinking dens that was the student quarter near Jinbōchō. I hurried up the
steps on the outside of that building and found the besuited Michio sitting
on a reddish-brown tatami mat, leaning against a wall with a large water
stain on it.
“What filthy digs,” I said, grimacing slightly.
“I chose it deliberately. The restaurant below means no one will notice us
coming and going. And we’re not likely to draw much attention in such a
rowdy neighbourhood,” Michio replied, evidently pleased with his
selection.
I was suddenly reminded of how I’d played detective as a child. It hadn’t
been any regular game of cops and robbers; I’d go out with my best friend,
late at night, carrying a notebook and pencil, and creep around the local
area, jotting down the names on each home’s nameplate, memorising who
lived in which house and in which street. The feeling that I was in
possession of a great secret had thrilled me. My buddy loved this cloak-and-
dagger make-believe so much he proudly called his cramped study our
“Investigation HQ”. Seeing the 30-year-old Michio so pleased with himself
and his “base of operations”, he made me think of my detective-obsessed
friend, and it felt like what we were now doing was a kind of juvenile game.
So despite the gravity of our situation, I was having fun. Michio too seemed
energised somehow and displayed a childish excitement. Our youthful
spirits were still capable of enjoying such adventures and thrilled at keeping
secrets. Added to this, the type of relationship that existed between Michio
and myself meant we were more than just “friends”; Michio’s affection for
me was atypical, and though I didn’t really comprehend how he felt, I
understood it on an intellectual level; and just like any normal romantic
sentiment it wasn’t distasteful; so when we were face to face, there was a
kind of sweet sexual tension in the air. This tension perhaps made our
“Investigation HQ” all the more enjoyable.
In any event, I wasted no time in handing the plaster bust to Michio. He
examined it meticulously, and it wasn’t long before he’d solved its mystery.
“I realised beforehand that the statue itself had no meaning. Why? Because
Hatsuyo had never owned such an object but had been killed nevertheless.
The only thing stolen from her house had been her shoulder bag - setting
aside the chocolates - so there had to be something smaller involved. Small
enough to seal inside a plaster bust. There’s a Conan Doyle story called
‘The Adventure of the Six Napoleons’. It tells of a thief who hides a
precious pearl inside a bust of the French emperor. Miyamagi must have
recalled that story and put it to practical use. They even sound the same,
don't they? Na-po-le-on. No-gi Shō-gun. The recent grime makes it hard to
spot but just now I was able to confirm it, this statue has previously been
split in two, then stuck back together. You can see the thin line of fresh
plaster here,” Michio spat on his finger and rubbed at the surface; sure
enough there was a seam under the layer of dirt, “Let’s have a look inside.”
No sooner had he said this than Michio slammed the statue against a
wooden post, mercilessly smashing General Nogi’s face into powder.
The Amitābha’s Blessing
The broken statue had been stuffed with cotton wool. When we cleared this
away, two documents emerged. The first was Kigiki Hatsuyo’s family tree,
which she’d entrusted to me, and that I now remembered I’d left with
Miyamagi on my first visit to his house. The second was an old notebook,
filled with words written in pencil on every page. It turned out to be a
bizarre chronicle of sorts, but I will explain more about this as I go along.
“Aha. Hatsuyo’s genealogical record. Just as I thought,” Michio exclaimed,
picking up the document. “It was this that the villain was after. The ‘item’
he was prepared to kill for. We can understand this once we consider the
facts. First, Hatsuyo’s shoulder bag was stolen. Although by then you were
in possession of her family tree, she’d previously always kept it close at
hand inside that bag, so the villain must have assumed this was all he
needed to steal. He was mistaken and his efforts ended in failure, so next he
set his sights on you. But before he could act, you happened to pass the
document on to Miyamagi, who then went on a trip and uncovered a
promising lead. Soon after, Miyamagi received that threatening letter and
was also killed, but once more, the villain was too late, the genealogical
record had been sealed in a plaster statue and posted to your address.
Ransacking Miyamagi’s studio was again fruitless. You were targeted for a
second time. But the villain didn’t know about the plaster statue, so
although he repeatedly searched your room, he drew a blank. It’s funny, he
was one step behind at every turn. But in conclusion, when we regard this
sequence of events, the object of the villain’s murderous endeavours is
indisputable.”
“That reminds me of something,” I broke in, “Hatsuyo once told me that a
second-hand bookseller came several times to offer a large amount of
money for the document. Such a commonplace family tree could hardly be
worth much, so perhaps that bookseller was under orders. If we question
him, he could lead us to the villain.”
“If what Hatsuyo said is true, that confirms my theory, but our adversary is
too prudent, he’d never let any bookseller know his real identity. He no
doubt used him as a pawn, to discreetly purchase that record. But once
rebuffed, he tried to sneak in and steal it while Hatsuyo was out. You
mentioned it yourself, around the same time Hatsuyo saw that sinister old
man, she said her things had been left in disorder. Evidence that someone
had searched her room. But then the villain noticed Hatsuyo always carried
the document with her, so next he...”
At this point Michio cut himself off; some sudden realisation had turned his
face white and he silently stared into space with his eyes wide open.
“What is it?” I asked, but Michio did not reply. He stayed that way for
several seconds, then seemed to come to his senses.
“So next he murdered Hatsuyo,” he concluded.
I felt there was something he was not telling me, and didn’t forget that
expression on his face.
“But what I don’t understand is, why kill them? Hatsuyo and Miyamagi. He
could just have easily stolen the genealogical record without committing
murder.”
“Right now, I’m baffled on that point too. Maybe there were circumstances
that meant they had to die. It’s apparent that this affair is not a simple one.
But let’s not speculate on things we don’t know, but instead examine the
evidence at hand.”
With that, we turned to the two documents we’d just found.
The genealogical record was no more than an ordinary family tree, just as
I’d initially thought when I’d first seen it, but the notebook’s contents were
truly outlandish. It was filled with grotesque passages; we were so gripped,
once starting it, we couldn’t stop reading until the very end. However, it
will hasten my account if I put this second document to one side for the
time being, and start by explaining the mystery of the first.
“It’s old, feudal era,” Michio said, flipping through the pages, carefully
inspecting each one, “Doesn’t look like something worth killing for. But
perhaps it has meaning beyond its superficial appearance. Let’s see.
Harunobu the 9th, childhood name, Matashirō, succession to the family title
the 3rd year of the Kyōwa era, stipend of 200 koku [roughly 30 tons of
rice], died 21st March on the 12th year of the Bunsei era. That’s as far back
as it goes. The pages are torn before that. The Daimyō’s name is also
written, but later only the stipend is given. For a samurai with a stipend of
only 200 koku, even with his given name, it wouldn’t be easy to find out
which Daimyō he was subject to. Why would a family tree of such low-
status nobility be considered so valuable? A genealogical record is not
always necessary to claim one’s inheritance, and even if it was, why steal
it? If the record was proof, one could openly request it.”
“That’s odd. Look at this. It seems the cover has been tampered with,” I
said.
When I’d received the record from Hatsuyo the front cover had been intact,
but now it appeared great pains had been taken to peel the old-fashioned
cloth jacket from the thick card binding the document. I folded this cloth
over and there was writing in black ink on the paper lining underneath.
“You’re right, this was done on purpose. Miyamagi, no doubt. He must
have had his reasons. He’d clearly cracked this case wide open.”
I read the peculiar words written there and showed them to Michio, “What
do you make of this? A Buddhist hymn?”
“It’s certainly odd. Not a hymn I think, nor does it appear to be from one of
the poems in Nakayama Miki’s Ofudesaki. It seems suggestive of
something though.”
The mystifying passage went as follows:
When the Kami and the Buddha meet,
Strike at the southeast demon,
There find Amitābha’s blessing,
But choose wisely at the crossing of ways
“What an incoherent jumble of words. And poorly written, using a common
calligraphy style. Scribbled down by some long-dead uneducated old
mischief-maker I expect. It appears there’s more to it - the Kami, the
Buddha, demons - exactly what, I’ve no idea. But it meant something to the
villain. And to Miyamagi,” Michio said.
“It’s like a spell.”
“Yes, a spell. Or a cipher. A cipher worth risking one's life for. In which
case, it must have a large monetary value attached. A coded message
hinting at a vast fortune; one can’t help thinking ‘treasure map’. If you take
the line ‘There find Amitābha’s blessing’ isn’t that like saying ‘X marks the
spot’? Discovering buried treasure would be a blessing indeed.”
“It certainly could be interpreted that way,” I agreed.
Some chimeric, shadowy figure (perhaps that ancient-looking crooked man)
had tried every trick in the book to get his hands on this scrap of paper,
which appeared to contain a coded message hinting at the location of
hidden riches. How he’d got wind of it was anyone’s guess, but this case
was fast becoming more than just a hunt for revenge. All we needed was to
decipher this message, just like the protagonist in Poe’s ‘The Gold-Bug’,
and we’d be instant millionaires. But even though we racked our brains -
and were able to guess that “Amitābha’s blessing” suggested great wealth -
the remaining three lines made no sense at all. Perhaps only someone with a
knowledge of the land where the loot was buried and it’s topography would
be able to solve the puzzle. Since we had no idea, we’d never be able to
crack the code (even if it was a code).
Was this really a “treasure map” as Michio had suggested? Or was this just
the wishful-thinking of an overly romantic imagination?
A Dispatch from the Edge of Nowhere
Let’s now turn to the contents of that mysterious notebook. In contrast to
the splendidly profitable secret that Michio speculated lay within the
genealogical record, the notebook represented a far stranger archive; dark
and unsettling. One beyond nightmares; a dispatch from the edge of
nowhere.
I still have that notebook at the bottom of a box on my desk, and have
reproduced significant extracts on the following pages. Though I say
extracts, these are not short; even so I implore you to be patient and read
every word, since this bizarre account relates to the grave truth at the heart
of my story. The notebook is a kind of peculiar memoir. The text itself is
curious. It is written in pencil in tiny handwriting and there are many
mistakes. The phrasing is a rural dialect. In order to make it easier to read I
have changed this to more standard Japanese and corrected the errors. The
punctuation marks and notes in brackets are also my own:
Sukehachi brought me this notebook, in secret as I asked him, and a pencil.
People from distant places write their truth, I’ll write mine too, my half of
it.
Misfortune (I have recently learned the Kanji for this) is a word I truly
understand. A word no one knows better than me. Far off, there is a country
called Japan, and a world beyond that, and many people in it, but I’ve
never been there. This is the definition of misfortune I think. I can’t bear my
misfortune anymore. ‘Please help me God’, that’s something written in
books a lot. I haven’t seen God, but I want to shout it too, ‘Please help me
God’. When I do, it makes me feel better.
I have to tell my troubles, but I have no one to tell them to. The only people
who come here are much older than me. Sukehachi, who visits every day
and teaches songs, he says to call him Grandpa. He’s old. Otoshi, who
brings food three times a day, she is forty and never says a word (Sukehachi
says she’s deaf and dumb). It’s just those two. Otoshi is no good, and
Sukehachi is not much better. When I ask him anything, his eyes just get
droopy and fill with tears, so there’s no point even trying. That leaves just
me. I can talk, but I argue with myself. And the more I quarrel the angrier I
get. Why is this face different from that face? Why is this way better than
that way? I only end up being more miserable.
Sukehachi says I’m eighteen. That means I was born eighteen years ago
and for eighteen years I have lived inside these four walls. Each time
Sukehachi comes I ask him the day so I know how long a year is. But
eighteen years. Eighteen lonely years. I’ll try to remember everything and
write it down. Then I can put on the page every misfortune I’ve suffered.
Babies are supposed to suckle at their mother’s breast and grow bigger, but
sadly I don’t remember anything from this time. Mothers are meant to be
kind and gentle, but I can’t imagine such a figure. I know a father is like a
mother, and I have met mine two or three times, if that’s what he was. He
said, ‘I am your pa’. He was a freak with a scary face.
[note - The writer uses the word freak in a unique sense; this will become
apparent later on]
My earliest memory is from when I was four or five. Before that, darkness.
I’ve been inside these four walls ever since. I haven’t been outside once.
The front door is thick and made of clay and is always locked and doesn’t
move however much I push or bash against it.
I’ll try to describe my home in detail. If I use my body as a guide, the
square room I live in is four-of-me each side, laid end-to-end. The ceiling is
two-of-me high, and is made of timber panels. Sukehachi says above this is
dried earth with tiles on top. I can see the edge of those tiles through my
window. Right now I am sitting on tatami mats, there are ten of these
covering the floor. Below them are wooden boards. And further below
another square room on the ground floor. There is a stepladder leading
down to this. Its dimensions are the same as this room, but there are no
tatami mats, and the space is filled with boxes lying about in piles. There is
also a wardrobe with my clothes inside and a chamber pot and a basin of
water for washing.
The building is either a house or a storehouse. Sukehachi calls it a ‘kura’.
Other than the clay door, there are two windows in both rooms. Each one
has five iron bars about the thickness of my arms set within them. Because
of these I cannot climb out.
In one corner of the tatami room is my bed and a box with my toys (I am
now using the lid of this box as my writing desk) and hanging from a nail on
one of the walls is a shamisen. Other than this the room is empty.
This is where I grew up. Not once have I seen the world, or towns and cities
where people gather and walk. Only in picture books. But mountains and
the sea I know. I can see them from my window. Mountains are like huge
mounds of earth, and the sea is a vast pool of water, bluey-green and
sparkling white. Sukehachi has told me about them too.
When I try to think back to when I was four or five, it seems like a much
happier time. Probably because I knew no better. Sukehachi and Otoshi
weren’t around then, there was only an old woman called Okumi. She was
also a freak. I wondered if she was my mother, but she had no breasts to
suckle from and did not seem mother-like somehow. She was not kind at all.
But I hardly remember her because I was so small. I can’t picture her face
or figure. I only know her name because I’ve heard it said since then.
Okumi sometimes played with me. She fed me rice and snacks. She taught
me how to talk. Everyday I would run in circles along the edge of the room,
clamber on my bed and play with coloured stones and shells and bits of
wood and laugh. I was happy then. Why did I have to grow up? Why
couldn’t I stay ignorant?...
...Otoshi has been in with my tray of food, looking angry. Kī-chan is quiet
when we’re full, so this is when I’ll write. Kī-chan is my other name.
I began writing on these pages five days ago. I don’t know many words in
Kanji and have never written this much before, so it’s slow going. It can
take a whole day to write one page. Today I’ll write about my first big
shock.
For a long time I didn’t know that humans, like myself and other people,
and other living things like fish and bugs and mice, are all shaped the same.
I’d thought humans could be any shape. I made this mistake because that is
all I knew.
I think it was when I was seven. Until then, the only humans I’d seen had
been Okumi, and Oyone, who’d come after her. One day I got a surprise
when Oyone strained with all her might and lifted me up by my thick waist
to let me see the meadow outside through the bars of my window and I saw
a person walking there. I’d seen the meadow before but not anyone crossing
it.
Oyone was a simple-minded freak, and never taught me anything, so I didn’t
know what human beings were supposed to look like.
The meadow walker was the same shape as Oyone, but my body was
different and I got scared. When I asked, ‘Why do you and that person only
have one face?’ Oyone just laughed and said, ‘Damned if I know.’
I ended up just as ignorant but very frightened. When I slept my dreams
swarmed with one-faced people with strangely shaped bodies.
I learnt the word ‘freak’ from one of Sukehachi’s songs. I was about ten. I
began to learn songs and how to play the shamisen soon after the simple-
minded Oyone stopped coming and Otoshi replaced her.
Otoshi never speaks and doesn’t seem to hear anything I say, and when I
asked Sukehachi why, he told me freaks like her were called ‘mutes’. He
said freaks were different to regular human beings in some way.
When I asked, ‘So you and Oyone and Otoshi are all freaks then?’
Sukehachi looked surprised and stared at me with big round eyes and
replied, ‘Ah, poor Yū-chan, poor Kī-chan, you don’t know anything yet.’
I have three books and have read them over and over again. Sukehachi is
not talkative, but has told me various things over time. These books though
have taught me ten times as much. I know everything that’s written in them
by heart, but little else. There are lots of pictures of people and other things.
So I know what regular humans are shaped like, but before I had these
books I could only guess.
When I think back, it had always seemed strange to me, ever since I was
small, that I had two faces. They are different from each other; one is pretty
and one is dirty. The pretty one is my face and says the things I am thinking,
but the dirty one blurts out words that never enter my mind. At first I tried
to make it stop, but it didn’t do the things I wanted. When I got frustrated
and scratched at it, it got angry and shouted at me and bawled its eyes out.
Sometimes it would bawl its eyes out when I was happy; or when it was
happy I would bawl my eyes out.
The dirty face is not the only thing I have no control over, but two of my
arms and legs as well (I have in fact four of each). The limbs on my right
side do what I want, but the limbs on my left disobey me.
Ever since I began to have thoughts in my head, I always felt constrained
somehow. This is because of the dirty face, and those arms and legs that
don’t do as I say. Ever since I began to learn words, I always thought it odd
that I had two names, Yū-chan for my pretty face, and Kī-chan for my other.
Then Sukehachi told me one day, and I finally understood. I was the freak;
not him or Otoshi or Oyone.
I didn’t know the word ‘misfortune’ then, but from that moment misfortune
was all I felt. I was sad and bawled my eyes out at Sukehachi’s feet.
‘There there. Don’t cry. I’m not supposed to tell you anything, except which
songs to sing, so I can’t say much, but you were cursed from the moment
you were born. You’re twins, you see. Joined together when still inside your
mother’s womb. You’d both die if anyone tried to pull you apart so you had
to be raised just the way you are,’ Sukehachi explained. I didn’t understand
what he meant by ‘inside your mother’s womb’ but when I questioned him
he said no more; his eyes just welled up. I remember his words as clear as
day, but still don’t get their meaning.
The world must hate freaks terribly. Sukehachi and Otoshi are surely not the
only people in existence, but no one else comes here. And I can never leave.
If the world hates me so much, I sometimes think I’d be better off dead. I
know about death from my books, not from Sukehachi. If something hurts so
much you can’t stand it, then you die.
Recently I’ve started to feel, since ‘they’ hate me so much, then I’ll hate
them right back. And in my mind, regular humans, shaped differently to me,
are the real freaks. So that’s what I’ll call them.
The Saw and the Mirror
[note - There are several further recollections relating to the writer’s
younger years, but I have omitted these]
I’ve gradually come to realise that Sukehachi is a good person. He behaves
otherwise but I am now certain this is because he’s been told to treat me
unkindly (perhaps by God, or if not, maybe the scary freak who said he was
my ‘pa’).
Although I (and Kī-chan) are desperate for company, once Sukehachi
finishes teaching his songs he acts like he doesn’t notice no matter how
miserable I seem. In all the time I’ve known Sukehachi he’s talked in bits
and pieces but he soon goes quiet, as if an invisible plug has blocked his
mouth. The simple-minded Oyone used to ramble on, but she said little I
wanted to hear.
Most of what I’ve learnt - the names of things, their Kanji characters, what
goes on in people’s minds - I have learnt from Sukehachi, but since he
claims to be ‘ill-educated’ there is much he cannot teach.
One day Sukehachi gave me three books and said, ‘These were left in one of
my suitcases. You can look at the pictures if you like. I can’t read well, and
you can’t read a lick, but there’s hell to pay if I spend any time yapping with
you, so even if the words don’t make sense, these books will be a good
companion.’
The books were called ‘Children’s Tales’, ‘The Sun’, and ‘Recollections’. At
least that’s what they had written in large characters on their covers.
‘Children’s Tales’ had lots of pictures and was easiest to read. ‘The Sun’
had all kinds of information written down in rows, half of which I still don’t
understand. ‘Recollections’ made me both sad and happy. After reading it
several times it’s become my favourite. Even so, there are plenty of parts I
don’t get, and it’s no good asking Sukehachi.
Things that are written in books, pictures and words, describe distant places
very unlike my world, so I don’t truly grasp even the bits I do understand.
They seem like dreams. I only know a tiny fraction of what happens outside;
the ideas and the language. My knowledge is confined to these three
volumes and the little Sukehachi has taught me. It’s nothing compared to
that even of Tarō, the small boy in ‘Children’s Tales’. That’s because outside
there are such places as schools where kids study all day.
I was given the books about two years after Sukehachi started coming, so I
must’ve been around twelve. But for two or three years I could barely read
a word of them. Sukehachi helped a little, but mostly he was as
unresponsive as the ‘mute’ Otoshi.
Learning to read, and being able to comprehend true sorrow, came hand in
hand. Each day, the tragedy of my life as a freak grew more apparent.
Everything I write here is from my own mind. I control the hand that moves
the pencil. Kī-chan’s mind is separate from Yū-chan’s, and doesn’t know
what I think. But I hear Kī-chan’s thoughts like noises from behind a wall.
Kī-chan is more of a freak than Yū-chan. Unlike me, Kī-chan cannot read,
and doesn’t know all the things I know. Kī-chan is stronger than me, that is
all.
But Kī-chan does know what we are. When we discuss this, we never argue,
but only share our sadness. I’ll write about this.
One day we were served a fish for dinner that I hadn’t had before, so I
asked Sukehachi what it was, and he replied ‘octopus’. I asked what an
‘octopus’ looked like, and he said it was a weird shaped fish with eight legs.
It occurred to me I was more octopus than human, since I had eight limbs
too. I didn't know how many heads they had, but I thought of myself as a
two-headed octopus. This vision filled my sleeping world. Since I’d never
actually seen a real live octopus I imagined their shape was like a smaller
version of myself. I dreamed about them; I dreamed of hundreds of these
things walking along the bottom of the seabed.
Soon after, I began thinking about cutting my body in two. The right half of
my body, its face and arms and legs, they did what Yū-chan wanted, but the
left half, its face and arms and legs, did not respond to me at all. The left
side of my body was Kī-chan’s. So I realised if I cut my body in two, I’d
become two people. Like Sukehachi and Otoshi, Yū-chan and Kī-chan
would be seperate, we’d be able to move, think, and sleep as we pleased. I
imagined how wonderful this would be.
Yū-chan’s left hip and Kī-chan’s right hip are joined together, so this was
where I needed to cut. I explained this idea to Kī-chan and Kī-chan was
keen to try. But there was nothing to cut with. I knew of something called a
‘saw’ and a ‘kitchen knife’, but had never seen one. Then Kī-chan said we
should use our teeth. I said this was a bad idea, but Kit-chan bit hard at the
joining place and I screamed and bawled my eyes out. Kī-chan screamed
too. It was a hard lesson to learn.
Kī-chan was now a little wiser, but when we remembered our situation we
argued and grew morose and thought again about cutting. One day I asked
Sukehachi to bring a saw, and when he asked why, I told him because I
wanted to saw myself in two, and he was very surprised and said if I did
such a thing I would die. I said I didn’t mind if I did die and bawled my eyes
out, but Sukehachi ignored me...
...When I got good at reading, I learnt the word for ‘make-up’. I thought
this meant to make up your clothes and body to be as pretty as the girls in
‘Children’s Tales’, but when I asked Sukehachi he said it meant powdering
your face and tying your hair.
I begged Sukehachi to bring me some face powder but he just laughed.
Then he said it was a shame but even though I was a girl, I hadn’t ever had
a bath so what was the point of make-up?
I knew what a bath was, but had never seen one. About once a month,
Otoshi would bring a tub of hot water to the room downstairs and I would
use this to wash my body (she told me not to tell anyone about this).
Sukehachi said you needed a ‘mirror’ to put make-up on, but he never
brought one to show me. I nagged him so instead he brought something flat
and shiny called ‘glass’. When I put this against the wall and peered into it,
I could see my face reflected back, much clearer than when I looked into
water.
Yū-chan’s face was dirtier than those of the girls in ‘Children’s Tales’, but
much prettier than Kī-chan’s, and still more prettier than Sukehachi’s,
Otoshi’s, and Oyone’s. When I saw Yū-chan in the glass I was so happy. I
thought if I cleaned and powdered my face, and tied my hair, I could be as
pretty as anyone.
Although I didn’t have powder, when I washed my face in the morning I
rubbed as hard as I could to get all the grime off. I used the glass to teach
myself how to tie my hair, like in the pictures I’d seen. At first I was clumsy,
but gradually my hair began to resemble that of the girls in ‘Children’s
Tales’. Sometimes when I was doing this, the ‘mute’ Otoshi would help. I
grew happier the prettier Yū-chan got. Kī-chan wasn’t interested in the
glass, or looking pretty, and only got in my way, but did sometimes say nice
things about my appearance.
Though prettier, my sadness at being a freak doubled. No matter what
efforts I made, my ugly Kī-chan half remained, our waist was still twice as
thick as regular people, and our clothes were rags. A pretty Yū-chan was
not enough. I wondered if I could make Kī-chan pretty too, and tried to
wash Kī-chan’s face and tie Kī-chan’s hair, but Kī-chan just got angry,
though I never understood why...
A Fearsome Yearning
...I’ll write about what’s inside Yū-chan and Kī-chan.
Like I said, Yū-chan and Kī-chan are in one body but have two minds. Cut
us apart and we would be two separate humans. I used to think of Yū-chan
and Kī-chan as myself, but not so much anymore. Because of all I’ve learnt
I’ve come to believe we really are different people, connected only by our
join at the hip.
I mostly record Yū-chan’s thoughts here. I have to hide this notebook or Kī-
chan will get upset. Unlike Yū-chan, Kī-chan cannot read, so while a little
writing is okay, I’ve been worried recently that Kī-chan is getting
suspicious. When Kī-chan is asleep, I quietly shift to one side and write in
secret.
In the beginning, Yū-chan and Kī-chan were frustrated and selfish and
argued because one did not do what the other wanted; though neither felt
distressed or lonely. After we learnt the meaning of the word ‘freak’, we still
argued, but didn’t quarrel so fiercely. Gradually though, we began to have
darker thoughts. Yū-chan felt freaks were dirty and detestable. Which meant
so was Yū-chan. But Kī-chan was the most dirty and detestable. Yū-chan
hated being tied forever to Kī-chan’s face and arms and legs. Kī-chan
must’ve felt the same way. Instead of arguing outside, Yū-chan and Kī-chan
now argued inside, much worse than before...
...About a year ago it became obvious that Yū-chan’s half of our body was
different to Kī-chan’s. This was most apparent when we washed. Kī-chan’s
face was ugly and darker than mine, and Kī-chan’s arms and legs were
brawny while mine were more delicate. Yū-chan’s skin was paler, and my
breasts were round and more swollen. And that was not all...
Sukehachi had taught us long ago that Kī-chan was a boy, and Yū-chan was
a girl, but it was only last year that I began to understand what this really
meant. Certain passages in ‘Recollections’ now made sense to me.
[note - There are several living examples of conjoined or so-called Siamese
twins, but a medical impossibility is exhibited in the case of this writer; one
you will perhaps already have guessed at, as well as the secret that explains
it]
Because there were two of us joined together, we had to go down the
stepladder where the chamber pot was five or six times a day, twice as often
as one regular person. In time, something shocking happened that had
never happened before that marked another difference between Yū-chan
and Kī-chan’s body...
...I thought I was going to die and was so frightened by the blood and
screamed and bawled my eyes out. Sukehachi came and I clung onto Kī-
chan’s neck until Sukehachi persuaded me there was nothing to worry
about.
There were changes in Kī-chan as well. Kī-chan’s voice got deeper, just like
Sukehachi’s. And something inside Kī-chan was different too.
Kī-chan was strong but not nimble-fingered. Finding the right note on the
shamisen was hard; so was singing. Kī-chan was often too loud and out of
tune. I wondered if this was because Kī-chan’s thoughts had gotten less
refined. Yū-chan could have ten ideas at the same time but Kī-chan could
only have two. Kī-chan was impulsive. Whatever was on Kī-chan’s mind,
Kī-chan said straightaway.
‘Yū-chan, do you still want to be two people?’ Kī-chan asked one day, ‘Do
you still want to slice us apart? I don’t want that anymore. It’s much better
to stay like this.’ Kī-chan’s face was red and tearful. Yū-chan also blushed.
I felt something strange, something I’d never felt before.
Kī-chan stopped teasing Yū-chan completely. When I was tying my hair in
front of the glass, when I was washing my face in the morning, when we
were making the bed in the evening, Kī-chan helped and didn’t get in the
way at all. When something needed doing, Kī-chan would say, ‘Don’t worry,
Kī-chan will take care of it.’
When Yū-chan played the shamisen and sang, unlike before when Kī-chan
would kick up a fuss, Kī-chan stayed perfectly still and watched Yū-chan’s
mouth move.
It was the same when I tied my hair.
‘Yū-chan sure is pretty. Yū-chan likes me too, right?’ Kī-chan would say
again and again.
Kī-chan was on the left side and Yū-chan was on the right side, and Kī-
chan’s hands and feet often touched Yū-chan’s, but the way they touched
now felt different. It was not rough but gently stroking, like a bug crawling
on my arm, and grasping. Where we touched felt hot, and I heard Kī-chan’s
blood pumping.
One time, Yū-chan woke in the night with a start. It felt like a warm
creature had been creeping all over Yū-chan’s skin. The room was pitch
black so I called out, ‘Kī-chan, are you awake?’ Kī-chan didn’t reply and
was perfectly still. But Kī-chan’s rapid breathing and pounding heart
carried through our flesh and echoed in my head.
Then one night Kī-chan did something terrible. After that, I hated Kī-chan
with a murderous rage. I was asleep but it was like I was suffocating and I
popped open my eyes and saw Kī-chan’s face right above mine. Kī-chan’s
lips were pressed against Yū-chan’s and I couldn’t breathe. But because of
where we were joined, we could not lie on top of each other. Even facing
each other was a struggle. Kī-chan’s body was twisted to breaking-point,
the strain was unbearable. The side of my chest felt like it was being
crushed and the flesh at our waist was stretched tight. I thought I would die
it was so painful. ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ I shouted and scratched Kī-
chan’s face. Kī-chan didn’t fight back but silently pulled away and went to
sleep.
In the morning, Kī-chan was covered in marks, but Kī-chan wasn’t angry,
only morose, and stayed like that the rest of the day.
[note - Due to the writer’s indelicacy there are several passages of an
indecent nature that I have omitted]
I wish I could be free to sleep, wake, and think however I wanted, like
regular people. I yearn to be separate from Kī-chan, at least when I’m
reading, or writing, or looking out the window at the sea. I can always hear
Kī-chan’s heartbeat, I can always smell Kī-chan’s body, and each time Kī-
chan moves I am reminded that I am a pitiful freak. Recently, Kī-chan
glares at me for long periods; and the noise of Kī-chan’s nasal breathing
and frightful odour is hard to bear.
One time Kī-chan snivelled, ‘It’s not fair that you don’t like me. I like Yū-
chan more than I can stand, but we’re stuck together so no matter how
much you hate me, your pretty face and scent are always there.’
In the end Kī-chan lost all control. Even though I shouted ‘No!’ Kī-chan
would try desperately to embrace Yū-chan, but because we were joined at
the side, it was no use. Kī-chan got angry and raged and sweat dripped
from Kī-chan’s forehead but in my head I thought ‘it serves you right’.
Afterwards, Kī-chan and Yū-chan both felt the same sadness at being a
freak...
...The two most hateful things Kī-chan does lately are these. Almost daily it
is Kī-chan’s habit to...
...Just seeing this makes me sick, so I try not to look, but I can sense Kī-
chan’s repulsive odour and frantic movements and wish I were dead.
Also, since Kī-chan is so strong, Kī-chan can kiss Yū-chan whenever Kī-
chan likes. I try to scream but Kī-chan’s mouth is pressed so hard to mine I
can’t make a sound. Kī-chan’s large glaring eyes are fixed to mine, and I
can’t breathe and feel like I’m suffocating. So all I do now is weep
everyday...
A Cry for Help
Because I’m only able to manage one or two pages a day, it’s already a
whole month since I started writing. Summer has now come, and it’s hot
and sticky.
This is the first time I ever tried to write so much, my memory is poor and
my thoughts are all jumbled up, so things that happened long ago and
things that happened recently get muddled together.
I want to explain how my ‘kura’ is like a prison. In ‘Children’s Tales’ an
unfortunate man who’s done nothing wrong is thrown into jail. I didn’t know
what a prison was, but I realised it was not so different from where I lived.
Regular children stay with their mother and father. They eat, talk, and play
together. There were lots of pictures of this in ‘Children’s Tales’. This was
how people lived in other lands, I thought. If I had a mother and father
maybe I’d be just as happy.
I asked Sukehachi about my parents but he avoided my questions. I asked if
he could bring my scary ‘pa’ to visit, but he never did.
I often talked about this with Kī-chan, back when I didn’t properly
understand the differences between boys and girls. I wondered if our mother
and father had put us in the ‘kura’ because we were a freak and didn’t want
other people to see us. But I also read of a blind freak and a mute who lived
with their parents. This mother and father loved their children even more
than if they were regular, and treated them kindly. So why not me? I asked
Sukehachi and his eyes welled up and he said, ‘Because you’re cursed’.
And that was that.
Kī-chan and Yū-chan both wanted to leave the ‘kura’, but it was Kī-chan
who banged on the door (which was as thick as the walls) until Kī-chan’s
hands hurt, and threw a tantrum when Sukehachi and Otoshi went outside
without us. Sukehachi would slap Kī-chan across the cheek and tie us to a
post. Then, if we continued to kick up a fuss, we didn’t get a crumb to eat all
day. I racked my brains in secret about how to escape, and discussed this
with Kī-chan. One time, I had the idea of removing an iron bar from one of
the windows. I dug into the dried white earth that held the bar in place. Yū-
chan and Kī-chan took turns, scratching at the hard clay until our fingers
bled. We finally freed the bottom end of the iron bar but Sukehachi saw this
and we got no food that day...
...When in the end I lost all hope of leaving the ‘kura’ I spent all my time
peeking out of the window, with a hollow feeling inside me. The sea would
sparkle like always. The grass in the meadow would sway in the wind. I’d
listen to the lonely sound of the waves crashing on the shore. I wondered
about the world beyond and wished I could fly away like a bird. But when I
thought how a freak like me would be treated out there, I grew scared.
Along the shore was what looked like a blue mountain. Sukehachi once told
me, ‘That’s the peninsula, it has the shape of a sleeping cow.’ I’d seen
pictures of cows, but could only guess at what they looked like when asleep.
I wondered if ‘the peninsula’ was at the edge of the world. I’d stare off into
the distance for so long my eyes would become blurred and I wouldn’t even
notice as the tears rolled down my cheeks...
...The misfortune of being motherless and fatherless, shut away in a ‘kura’
since the day I was born, never once having the feeling of being in a wide
open space, is enough to make me wish I were dead, but recently, on top of
this, because of Kī-chan’s detestable behaviour, I sometimes daydream
about killing Kī-chan too. Because if Kī-chan died, I’d be sure to die as
well. There was a time I actually did try to strangle Kī-chan and almost
succeeded.
One night, Kī-chan began to thrash about wildly, like a centipede that had
been chopped in half. It was so sudden I thought Kī-chan might be ill. ‘I like
Yū-chan so much I can’t stand it!’ Kī-chan yelled, and wriggled violently
and grabbed my neck and breasts and twisted our legs and pushed Kī-
chan’s face against mine. And then...
...It was a dirty, hateful feeling that turned my blood cold. Kī-chan’s actions
were beyond repulsive. I screamed and put both my hands around Kī-chan’s
throat and squeezed and squeezed with murderous rage. Kī-chan looked
shocked and wriggled even more violently. We rolled off the bed and across
the tatami mats from one side of the room to the other. Four arms and four
legs swinging wildly. Both of us shrieking and crying out. We were like that
when Sukehachi rushed in and restrained us.
Kī-chan behaves a little better since that night...
...I don’t want to live any longer. Please help me God. Please end my life
somehow...
Today I heard a noise from outside the window, and when I looked, there
was a man standing just beyond the wall at the edge of the ‘kura’, staring
up at me. He was big and fat and wore strange clothes like I’d seen in
‘Children’s Tales’ so I thought he might be from far away.
I shouted, ‘Who are you?’ but he did not reply and just continued to stare.
He seemed friendly somehow. I wanted to ask him all kinds of questions but
Kī-chan looked scared and stopped me. If we shouted too loudly Sukehachi
would hear and we’d be in trouble so we just smiled at the man and he
smiled back.
When the man had gone I felt sad and I prayed for him to return. Then I had
a better idea. I couldn’t talk to the man if he did come back, but I could
write him a letter, like regular humans in the outside world did. But since
writing took such a long time, I decided it would be better to throw down
this notebook instead. The man was surely able to read, and if he picked this
up he would know about my misfortune and might save me, like God saved
those in need.
I hope to see that man again…
At this point the words in the notebook abruptly came to an end.
Moroto Michio and myself looked at each other in silence for some time
after we’d finished reading.
I’d heard of twins of this kind, Siamese twins as they’re popularly known,
this name coming from a pair of malformed “xiphopagus” male twins,
fused at the sternum, called Chang and Eng. Such abnormal couplings are
mostly stillborn or die shortly after birth but Chang and Eng lived for 63
years; they each married, and surprisingly enough, fathered 22 healthy
children between them.
Examples of this kind are extremely rare, and I’d never dreamed such weird
two-headed creatures existed in our part of the world. Furthermore, male
and female twins where the boy felt a persistent attraction towards the girl,
and the girl despised the boy enough to want him dead; this bizarre
scenario, even a nightmarish glimpse, was too hellish to imagine.
“Yū-chan seems a remarkably intelligent girl. Although there may be
grammatical errors here and there, to be able to write such a lengthy
account from the knowledge gained from just three books - however much
she read and reread them - it’s extraordinary. She’s a natural born poet.
Except, could such things really take place? Perhaps this is merely some
malevolent practical joke?” I said at last, wanting to hear Michio's scholarly
opinion on the matter.
“A joke? No, I don’t think so. For Miyamagi to have taken such care of this
document it must have significant value. Now that I think about it, the man
who appears outside the window on the last page, apparently rather stout
and wearing clothes unfamiliar to the writer, could this be Miyamagi
himself?”
“I was wondering the same thing.”
“In which case, the trip Miyamagi took before he was killed must have been
to the place where this pair of twins were locked up. And he didn’t appear
just once beneath that window. If he didn’t return a second time Yū-chan
could not have thrown this notebook down to him.”
“I remember now, after Miyamagi came back, he talked about the ‘horrors’
he’d seen. Was he referring to these twins I wonder?”
“He said that? Then perhaps you’re right. Miyamagi had information in his
grasp as yet unknown to us. How else could he have tracked down the
twins’ location?”
“Even so, why didn’t he rescue that poor malformed creature?”
“That I don’t know. Maybe he thought his opponent too formidable to strike
so impulsively. It could have been his intention to return after making
certain arrangements.”
“His opponent being whoever imprisoned Yū-chan and Kī-chan in the first
place,” I added, then another thought occurred to me, “It was an odd
coincidence wasn’t it? Tomonosuke, that boy acrobat, he said his ‘pa’ got
scary when he was angry. Then in this notebook, the same expression. Both
these ‘pa’s seem like wicked individuals. Perhaps this is the ringleader
we’ve been hunting all along. If so, there must be a connection between the
murders and the twins.”
“Indeed. But that’s not all. If you pay close attention to this chronicle it
contains a fact of a truly horrific nature,” as Michio said this, his face began
to take on a haunted look, “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Hatsuyo’s
murder is a trivial case, inconsequential compared to the greater evil at play
here. It hasn’t dawned on you yet, but there’s a terrible, otherworldly secret,
lurking behind the very existence of those twins.”
I didn’t fully catch on to what Michio was alluding to, but as each new
bizarre revelation emerged, a familiar kind of eerie inexplicable dread
overtook me. Michio looked pale and became lost in contemplation; as
though he were peering deep into his own soul. As I toyed with the
notebook, I also grew meditative. Then a sudden realisation brought me to
my senses with a start.
“Michio. I’ve just thought of another odd coincidence. I don’t remember if I
mentioned it or not, but Hatsuyo once told me two or three of her earliest
memories, from before she was abandoned as a child. She recalled a
dreamlike scene, where she was playing with a newborn infant on a
desolate shoreline, near which stood a strange archaic building, like an old
castle. I made a sketch of this and Hatsuyo said it was just as I’d drawn it,
so I kept this picture safe. But then after showing it to Miyamagi I forgot to
take it back. Even so, I’ve not forgotten Hatsuyo’s description and could
easily reproduce it. The point is, Hatsuyo said there was a headland along
the coast that was shaped like a sleeping cow. And in this notebook, Yū-
chan talks about a peninsula she can see from her window also shaped like
a sleeping cow. Perhaps it’s no more than a coincidence, since such
geological formations are not uncommon, but put together with Hatsuyo’s
‘desolate shoreline’, these two locations bear a striking resemblance.
Hatsuyo possessed a genealogical record with a hidden cryptic message; the
villain who tried to steal this has an apparent connection to the twins;
Hatsuyo and Yū-chan both mention seeing land with this distinctive shape.
Couldn’t the place from Hatsuyo’s dreams be the same spot where the twins
are imprisoned?”
Before I’d even finished I could see a look of terror in Moroto’s eyes, as
though a phantom had just appeared before him. He then asked, in between
fits of coughing, for me to draw again Hatsuyo’s childhood scene. I found a
pencil and a piece of paper and quickly sketched this from memory. Michio
snatched the paper from my hands and scrutinised it for a long time. Finally
he stood up shakily and readied himself to leave while saying, “My mind is
all over the place today, I cannot think straight. I must return home. Come
to my house tomorrow. There’s something too disturbing to talk about
now.”
And with that he staggered down the stairs and out into the night without
saying another word.
Detective Kitagawa and the Dwarf
I was left on my own and puzzled for a while over Michio’s sudden exit.
He’d said we would talk again at his house tomorrow, so for the time being
I’d nothing else to do but go home and wait for the next day to come.
I’d exercised extreme caution on my way to Kanda, carrying the bust of
General Nogi wrapped in layers of old newspaper, so returning now with
the two precious documents we’d discovered felt highly dangerous. Both
Miyamagi and Michio had said the same thing, the villain had killed in
order to get his hands on these items, and yet Michio had given me no
instructions on what to do with them. He’d left in a distracted mood,
perhaps due to circumstances unknown to me. After much consideration I
decided there was no way the villain could have any knowledge of our base
above the restaurant, so I stuffed the notebook and genealogical record into
a gap in the frame of an old picture hanging on the wall, making sure they
would not be noticed, then casually walked out (I was inwardly pleased
with this impromptu hiding place, but later realised it was entirely
inadequate).
After that, until the afternoon of the following day when I visited Michio,
nothing of any note took place.
For now then, I’d like to briefly switch perspectives and give an account of
the endeavours undertaken by a detective named Kitagawa, these taking
place during the same time period. I was not directly involved, but heard of
what occurred much later from the man himself.
Kitagawa was a police officer attached to the Ikebukuro precinct and had
assisted in Tomonosuke’s murder investigation but had followed a different
approach to the other detectives. He took Michio’s opinions much more
seriously, to the extent that he’d asked his immediate superior to give him
carte blanche in the matter, and after the top brass at central station had
washed their hands of him, he patiently set about the arduous task of
keeping the Ozaki Circus under surveillance (this was the troupe that
Tomonosuke had belonged to and had performed at Uguisudani).
Just then, the Ozaki Circus had pitched up at a town in Shizuoka Prefecture,
after leaving Tokyo in a hurry. Detective Kitagawa followed them, and
spent a week or two carrying out his investigations, operating undercover as
a lowly labourer. It took four or five days for the circus to move and get set
up, and Kitagawa found casual work helping maintain the tent’s framework
of rafters and ropes.
He made an effort to get on friendly terms with the troupe members, so if
there was any great conspiracy he would have noticed, but not a single lead
presented itself. In response to such questions as: “Do you know if
Tomonosuke went to Kamakura on the 5th of July?”, “Who might have
taken him?”, “Did you ever see Tomonosuke hang around with an 80-year-
old man with a crooked back?”, the answer was always the same. Nobody
knew anything. Furthermore, there was no suggestion anyone was lying.
There was a dwarf at the circus who played the role of a clown. He was no
taller than a child of seven or eight despite being 30-years-old - only his
face eerily displayed his true age - and as was common with such deformed
individuals he possessed a dim intellect. At first Kitagawa excluded the
dwarf from his inquiries and didn’t attempt to ingratiate himself with him,
but as the days passed, this undoubtedly slow-witted creature appeared to
exhibit a secretive and watchful nature that seemed out of the ordinary.
Kitagawa even began to think he might be feigning his mental incapacity
and using it as a kind of camouflage. It was possible the dwarf knew far
more than he’d first surmised. The detective patiently gained the dwarf’s
confidence, and when he thought it was safe to do so, engaged him in the
following exchange (in fact it is this that I have interrupted my own
narrative to relate).
The night’s performance had finished and all the packing up had been done.
The sky was clear and full of stars. There was a cool evening breeze. The
dwarf, not having anyone to talk to, sat alone in the darkness outside the
tent. Kitagawa saw his opportunity and approached. He began chatting with
the dwarf about nothing in particular, then moved onto the subject of what
happened the day Miyamagi was killed. Kitagawa made up a lot of
nonsense about how he’d gone to see the circus in Uguisudani, then said,
“The boy who was shot in Ikebukuro, Tomonosuke, I saw him do the barrel
spinning act that day. He climbed into the big jar and went round and round.
Poor kid, it’s a shame what happened.”
“Tomonosuke you say? Poor little Tomo. They got him in the end. Bang.
Bang. But brother, you're wrong about Tomonosuke being there that day. I
might look dumb, but I got a good memory. Tomonosuke never showed,”
the dwarf responded in a sing-song manner.
“I could have sworn I saw him.”
“Not likely! Brother, you got your days mixed up. July 5th, I remember it
well.”
“The first Sunday in July, right? You’re the one who must be mixed up.”
“Don’t you bet on it!” the dwarf giggled in the darkness.
“So was Tomonosuke sick that day?”
“Not sick, not him, that rascal never got sick. A friend of the boss took him
off somewhere.”
“The boss? You mean his pa?” Kitagawa had well remembered the
expression used by Tomonosuke.
“Huh? What?” the dwarf looked scared all of a sudden. “What do you know
about our pa?”
“Not much. Just that he’s some doddery old fossil, about 80-years-old with
a crooked back. He’s your boss right?”

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“Never. The boss ain’t a wrinkly. And the boss doesn't have a crooked back.
You’ve never seen him I bet. He doesn’t come to the tent much, but he’s
young like me; a bad case of rickets is all he’s got.”
Kitagawa was puzzled at this mention of rickets. Perhaps this was why the
man had appeared so old.
“So he’s not your pa?”
“Our pa never comes here. He stays far away. The boss and our pa aren’t
the same.”
“Aren’t the same, you say? So they’re two different people. But what
exactly does your pa do?”
“How should I know, pa is just what we all call him. He’s got the eyes of
the boss, so maybe he’s his real father. But I’ve said too much. I know you
wouldn’t tell, but if pa found out I’d been talking, my life wouldn’t be
worth living. I’d be back in the box for sure.”
This reference to a “box” made Kitagawa think of a sweatbox, the kind of
torture instrument still in use in some institutions, but the detective was way
off the mark. He later discovered the dwarf’s “box” was something several
times more horrifying. All that aside, Kitagawa continued his questioning,
his heart thumping in his chest. The dwarf had proved unexpectedly easy to
deal with and was just getting to the most interesting part of his story.
“So, what then? On July 5th Tomonosuke went off with a friend of your
boss and not your pa? Where did he go? I guess he never said.”
“Tomo was a mate of mine. So I’m the only one he did tell. He went to the
beach and played in the sand and swam in the sea.”
“In Kamakura?”
“That’s it, Kamakura. Tomo was the boss’s golden boy, so he gave him
treats like that all the time.”
This seemed to confirm Michio’s extraordinary theory (that Tomonosuke
was directly responsible for the deaths of Hatsuyo and Miyamagi) but more
thought was needed before making a move. Kitagawa could arrest the
dwarf’s “boss” and get him to talk, but as a result he might let the
ringleader slip through his fingers. The detective first needed to dig deeper
into this shadowy “pa” character. He could be the one pulling the strings.
And there was a chance this criminal case was more complex and more
terrible than any double murder. Kitagawa was ambitious and decided not
to report to the station chief until he’d wrapped things up on his own.
“Just now you said something about being put in a box. What kind of box?
Is it really so bad?”
“It’s a hell that you lot know nothing about. Have you ever seen boxed
humans? Squashed so tight their legs and arms go numb, well that’s how
freaks like me are made!” the dwarf laughed grotesquely. Even though he
was slow-witted and spoke in riddles he seemed to have retained enough
good sense to say nothing more on the subject other than make jokes.
“I wouldn’t like to run into your pa. He sounds like a mean old devil.
Where does he live anyway? Somewhere far off you said?”
“Miles and miles. I forgot the name. A distant place over the sea. An island
of demons. A hell on earth. I don’t like to think about it, it gives me the
shivers.”
Kitagawa didn’t get any further that night, no matter how much he pressed.
Even so, the detective was extremely pleased his hunch had proved correct.
He spent the next few days patiently working on the other man, waiting for
him to let his guard down and let slip something conclusive. During this
time Kitagawa gradually got a sense of the nameless terror that
Tomonosuke had felt towards the figure he’d called his “pa”, and the
trembling dread the dwarf still felt. He was an inarticulate speaker so the
detective only got vague impressions, but at times it seemed like the dwarf
was describing a kind of unearthly beast rather than a man. The way he
talked, this was a creature more akin to a demon from folklore.
Kitagawa also learnt what the dwarf had meant by the hell of his “box”;
though he could barely envisage that nightmarish existence; and each time
he did he shuddered with fear.
The dwarf said one time, “I was put in a box from the day I was born. I
couldn’t move or do anything. Only my head poked out of a hole in the top;
that’s how I was fed. I went on a boat to Osaka. At Osaka I was let out of
my box. It was the first time there was space around me. I got scared and
shrivelled into a ball like this,” the dwarf curled his tiny body up in the
manner of a newborn baby, then added with a nervous glance, “But don’t
tell anyone. You’re the only one who knows. If you blab you’ll be in big
trouble. You’ll be boxed up too. And if you are, you’re on your own.”
Despite all the authority Kitagawa had at his disposal it was another two
weeks - through steadfast police work - before he’d surreptitiously
uncovered the true identity of the man referred to as “pa”, and located a
certain island, the site of crimes beyond belief, but all this will be revealed
to you as my story develops, so at this point I’ll break away from the circus
and our intrepid detective, as he moves his investigation forward, and return
to my own adventures, in order to relate what Michio and myself did next.
Michio Tells All
The day after I read that unsettling diary in the room above the restaurant in
Kanda, I went to call on Michio, as I’d promised, at his house in Ikebukuro.
Sure enough, Michio was expecting me, and the houseboy quickly showed
me into the parlour.
Michio left the door and window wide open so that “no one could stand
outside and listen in” then he took a seat and in a low whisper related to me
his strange life story:
“I’ve never spoken to anyone about my past. In truth, there is much even I
don’t know. The reason why my personal history is so muddied is
something I intend to reveal only to you. In return I’d like you to dispell the
suspicion that hangs over me, and uncover the real figure behind the
murders of Hatsuyo and Miyamagi.
“Up until now, you’ll surely have harboured strong doubts about my
motives. For instance, why am I so enthusiastically engaged in this case?
Why did I make myself out to be your rival and ask for Hatsuyo’s hand in
marriage? (It’s true, due to my own obsession I wished to disturb your
happiness, but I had a more profound reason). Why do I hate women so
much and feel a powerful attachment to my own sex? Why did I study
medicine? And what is the nature of the bizarre research I’m currently
involved in? Everything will fall into place once you’ve heard my tale.
“I’ve no idea where I was born. The people who raised me and paid my
school fees claimed to be my parents, but I don’t know for sure if we’re
related or not, all I know is they never loved me like parents. As far back as
I can remember I lived on a remote island within the Kishū province, close
to a rundown hamlet made up of twenty or thirty fisherman’s huts dotted
about the coastline. My home was huge and castle-like, but in a state of
complete disrepair. The man and woman who I called my mother and father
appeared to be nothing of the sort. Their faces didn’t resemble mine in the
slightest, and both were horribly disfigured by rickets. Not only did they
care little for me, even though we lived together our house had many rooms
so I hardly set eyes on my father, who was a strict disciplinarian and would
scold me if I did anything wrong and viciously beat me.
“There was no school on the island. The convention was that any children
had to go to a school five miles away in a town on the mainland, but
nobody ever went so I had no formal elementary education. Instead, a kind
elderly manservant taught me how to read and write. Because of my lonely
existence I looked forward to his lessons and read every book in the house
as soon as I was able. On my occasional visits to the mainland, I bought
more books and studied from them.
“When I was thirteen I plucked up enough courage to ask my formidable
master to send me to middle school. He recognized I was a keen student and
perfectly capable so he listened to my earnest request without
admonishment and said he would consider it. Then, after only one month he
gave his permission, with some unusual conditions attached. The first was
that if I was going to be educated, I should go to Tokyo and devote myself
to study, including university. I’d have to stay with an acquaintance of his in
the capital during my preparations, then once I’d found a school place I’d
live in a dormitory or boarding house. To me, all this was music to my ears.
His acquaintance, a man called Matsuyama, had already corresponded to
say he’d take me in.
“The second condition was that until graduating from university I must
never return to the island. I thought this odd but had no great attachment to
my cheerless home and crippled parents so felt no regret over this.
“The third condition was that I must study medicine, and would be directed
as to which field of medicine I should pursue when I entered higher
education. If I ignored these instructions the money I received for school
fees would be cut off. Again, this did not present any great problem to me.
However, over the years, I began to understand the dreadful significance of
these conditions. When I got older it became obvious that the second - that I
must not come home until graduating - was due to the fact my house held
many secrets that had been kept from me. The building always had the air
of an old fortress gone to waste; sunlight never penetrated many of its
rooms, and there was an eerie sense that dark events had once taken place
there. Furthermore, several doors were permanently locked and securely
bolted, and no one knew what lay beyond them. There was a large
storehouse in the grounds, but this was also locked-tight all year round.
Even when I was a child I’d felt something horrible was being hidden away.
Then there were the household members. Apart from my kindly old teacher,
everyone was crippled in some way, which I always found rather macabre.
Other than my rickets-afflicted parents, there were four boys and girls who
either lived as servants, or lodgers who never paid rent, I never knew
which. As if by some prior arrangement there was something wrong with all
of them: one was blind; one was mute; one was feeble-witted and had only
two digits on each hand and foot; and one had a body as boneless as a
jellyfish and could not stand or walk. I’d shudder with a repellent nameless
dread when I connected these creatures to the many locked doors. You may
well understand my joy at not having to return to this family home. My
parents too, would have been keen to send me far away so I couldn’t pry
into the house’s secrets. It surely would have put them at ease to get rid of
such a sensitive boy so ill-suited to the place where he’d been raised.
“But it was actually the third condition that held an even more terrible
implication. When I’d successfully enrolled at medical college, the man I’d
once stayed with, Matsuyama, visited my boarding house, telling me he’d
been sent by my father and carried a letter with him. I was taken out to
dinner and spent the whole night being lectured at. Matsuyama used the
letter to back up his argument. The gist of it was, it wasn’t necessary for me
to become a doctor in the ordinary sense and earn money, or make a name
for myself as an academic. What my father wanted was for me to undertake
some brilliant research that contributed to the advancement of surgical
medicine. At that time, the Great War had just come to an end, and soldiers
with horrific injuries were being pieced back together through the grafting
of skin and bone; it was possible to split a man’s skull open and operate on
his brain; and there had been enthusiastic reports of extraordinary successes
at switching one part of the brain for another. In such an age of wonder I
was ordered to focus on this field of study. Since both my parents suffered
from unfortunate physical afflictions themselves, their eagerness felt even
more poignant; a layman could imagine patients with missing limbs having
real arms and legs transplanted onto their body, instead of artificial ones,
making them whole again.
“I accepted their request, not being particularly against the idea, and
knowing full well that if I declined my allowance would be cut short. And
so, my cursed research began. After a rudimentary completion of my
classes on basic surgery, I progressed to experiment on animals. Whether
they were mice, cats, or dogs, it was all the same to me. I inflicted atrocious
wounds, killing many in the process. I hacked away at them with my razor-
sharp scalpel as they squealed and howled and thrashed about in pain. My
studies, in the main, belonged to the category of live dissection. Cutting
these creatures open while they were still living. I had success in creating
several monstrosities. An anatomist by the name of Hunter once
transplanted the spur from a cockerel onto the neck of a bull; the Algerian
“Rhinoceros mouse” was also a famous case, of a mouse that had its tail
grafted onto its own nose. I performed various experiments of a similar
nature. I cut off the leg of a frog, then tried attaching it to another frog; I
attempted to fashion a two-headed guinea pig; I must have killed more
rabbits than I care to remember trying to transplant the brain from one to
another.
“When you peek behind all the research that has made any large
contribution to humanity, what manufactured living terrors you’ll find! But
then, to my own horror, I began feeling a strange enthusiasm towards
producing such specimens. Each time my experiments on animals were a
success I’d proudly report back to my father. He’d then write long letters
congratulating and encouraging me. When I graduated from university he
had a laboratory constructed in the grounds of this house, through
Matsuyama’s help, and began sending monthly payments to cover my
expenditure so I could continue my studies. And yet, he never made any
attempt to see me. Even though I’d completed my degree, the second
condition I’d agreed upon remained rigidly in place, my homecoming was
forbidden and I stayed on in Tokyo. My father’s apparent generous
treatment had nothing to do with paternal love. On the contrary, I couldn’t
help but shudder when I imagined his heinous intentions. Just picturing his
wicked face chilled my blood.
“But there’s another reason why parental affection is so alien to me. The
woman I called my mother, that hideous cripple, she never loved me as a
son; in her eyes I was a plaything. What I’m about to say is not only
shameful, but makes me sick to the pit of my stomach. From my tenth
birthday onwards, I suffered incessant abuse from that woman. Her large,
moon-like face would bear down on me and she’d run her tongue all over
my body. The memory of how her lips felt even now makes my hair stand
on end. An unpleasant, ticklish sensation would wake me in the night, and
I’d find my mother lying beside me. She’d call me her darling boy and ask
me to do things I cannot repeat here. I was exposed to all sorts of repulsive
behaviour. That unbearable torture went on for three years and is the real
reason why I was so desperate to leave home. I saw every vulgarity of the
femminine mind. And at the same time as hating my mother, I grew to think
of all women as dirty and detestable. It’s possible that the transgressive
nature of my desire, of which you are well aware, stems from this period.
“You might also be surprised to learn that my offer of marriage to Hatsuyo
was at the behest of my parents. I’d been ordered to marry a girl called
Kigiki Hatsuyo even before the two of you had fallen in love. A letter came
from my father, and Matsuyama visited frequently, urging me to follow its
wishes. It’s mysterious how our fates became intertwined, albeit only a
coincidence. However, as I said before, I hated all womankind and had no
intention of taking a wife, so even with the threat of disownment and an end
to my allowance, I made excuses and delayed any proposal. Then soon
enough I learnt of your involvement, and changed my mind in a flash. Out
of a desire to get between you and Hatsuyo I decided to obey my father’s
instructions. I went to Matsuyama’s house, told him of my decision, and
asked if he would act as a go-between. The rest, you know all about.
“You may be able to draw some terrifying conclusions from all this. With
the information we now have, it’s possible to put together a single narrative,
although still vague. Until I’d read that twin’s diary yesterday and you told
me of the scene Hatsuyo remembered from her childhood, I could never
have guessed at the truth. It was quite astonishing. When you showed me
your drawing of that desolate shoreline, it was like a blow to my head. That
house by the sea that looks like a castle, it’s undoubtedly my family home,
where I spent the first miserable thirteen years of my life.
“For three people to separately describe such a similar landscape, it’s too
incredible for it not to be the same place. Hatsuyo saw a headland shaped
like a sleeping cow. She saw a castle-like building. She saw a large
crumbling storehouse. Yū-chan also wrote about a cow-shaped peninsula,
and was confined to just such a storehouse. Both these descriptions match
my own childhood home exactly. And yet the connection between us
remains a mystery. Since my father tried to force me to marry Hatsuyo he
must have known about her background. And judging by the fact that
Miyamagi, who was investigating Hatsuyo’s murder, had Yū-chan’s diary
in his possession, there has to be a link between Hatsuyo and the twins,
whether directly or indirectly. Furthermore, we must assume the twins are
living on my father’s property. In short, we three people (more precisely
speaking four if you count Kī-chan) were no more than hapless pawns
manipulated by some sinister demon. That demon being none other than the
man who raised me as his son, at least, if my suspicions are correct.”
At that point, Michio paused. With a terror-filled expression he glanced
over his shoulder like a child who’d just been spooked by a ghost story.
Michio’s words had not yet sunk in, but listening to his macabre personal
history, and seeing the look in his eyes, an unearthly atmosphere enveloped
me, and even though it was a bright summer afternoon, I felt a chill that
sent goosebumps across my body.
The Demon’s True Identity
Michio began to speak again. The day was hot and humid and my nerves
were on edge, so I soon found myself soaked with sweat.
“I wonder if you can imagine my peculiar state of mind. My father is
perhaps a murderer. A double or triple murderer at that. Could there be
anything stranger than being the son of a madman?” Michio laughed a little
wildly.
“You don’t know that for sure, although there’s plenty I still don’t
understand,” I responded, not as an attempt to comfort Michio, but because
what he’d been saying was hard to believe.
“Whether I know it or not, there’s no other conclusion to draw. Why do you
think my father insisted on me marrying Hatsuyo? Because as her husband,
what’s hers would be mine; that genealogical record would become the
property of his son. Furthermore, it would not have been enough for my
father to simply steal the document. Supposing that cryptic message behind
its cover indicated where a fortune could be found, even if he took it for
himself, the rightful owner, Hatsuyo, would still be alive and might know of
its existence, so there’d always be the chance it’d be taken away from him.
But if Hatsuyo and myself were married, he’d have nothing to fear. The
fortune, and ownership rights, would reside within the family. This is what
my father must have been thinking. What other explanation could there be
for him pressuring me?”
“But how did he know the record was in Hatsuyo’s possession?”
“That remains a mystery, for the moment. But what’s certain is something
ties Hatsuyo to my family. We know this because of the scene she recalled
as a young girl. It’s possible my father knew her from then. Hatsuyo was
abandoned in Osaka when she was three; perhaps my father didn’t know of
her whereabouts until recently. But please, let me continue. My father tried
every means to bring about our union. But even though he persuaded her
mother, Hatsuyo refused. She’d already pledged her body and soul to you.
As soon as this became apparent she was killed. At the same time her
shoulder bag was stolen. Why? Was it because it contained money? Nobody
would ever go to such lengths to steal a month’s salary. The intended target
was the genealogical record, and the cryptic message hidden inside. Since
the marriage campaign failed, Hatsuyo met her catastrophic fate; murdered
as part of a fiendish plot.”
As I listened, I began to be convinced. Then, when I thought of how Michio
must feel at having such a father, I struggled to come up with any suitable
words of consolation. Michio feverishly carried on, totally absorbed in what
he was saying.
“Miyamagi’s murder was just an extension of that plot. His talent at
detection was something to be feared. Not only had he recognized the
importance of the genealogical record, he’d travelled to that remote island
on the edge of Kishū. Miyamagi could not be left to his own devices. In
order to block his progress and get hold of that document, his life had to be
cut short. This was the natural conclusion the villain (my own father no
less) must have reached. So he waited for Miyamagi’s return to Kamakura,
then applying the same cunning trick he’d utilized in Hatsuyo’s case,
enacted his second murder, this time in broad daylight and in full public
view. Why not kill Miyamagi while he was still on the island? Maybe
because my father was here in Tokyo. I’ve come to suspect he’s been in the
capital all this time, without my knowledge.”
As soon as he said this a thought seemed to occur to Michio and he jumped
to his feet. He stood by the window and looked out at the garden, as if his
father might be crouching down right before his eyes in the shadows of one
of the bushes. But not a leaf moved in the midsummer haze; even the
cicadas, who usually kept up an incessant whine, fell deathly silent.
“What evidence do I have?” Michio continued, returning to his seat, “Well,
there was the night Tomonosuke was killed. You saw a sinister old man
with a crooked back on your way here. What’s more, you said he passed
through my front gate. Most likely he was the one who shot Tomonosuke.
My father would now be quite advanced in years, and his back may well be
bent. Not only that, he suffered terribly from rickets, so when walking, he
might appear just as you described. If that crooked man was my father, then
he had to have been in Tokyo at least since the time Hatsuyo spotted him
hanging around outside her house.”
Michio suddenly broke off again. His eyes searched the room as though
looking for some source of rescue. There was much I needed to ask, but I
remained tongue-tied and said nothing. We sat in silence for a long time.
“I’ve come to a decision,” Michio finally whispered. “After turning it over
in my mind all last night. I intend to go home, to the place where I haven’t
set foot in nearly twenty years, by which I mean that desolate island of few
inhabitants, known locally as Iwayashima, ten miles west of K-seaport at
the southernmost tip of Wakayama Prefecture. The lonely isle where
Hatsuyo once lived and where those mysterious twins are now confined.
Which long ago, according to legend, was used as a hideout for pirates, and
because of such legends, I now suspect is the location of hidden treasure
alluded to in that cryptic message. My parent’s house is on that island,
which in truth, I thought I’d never see again. Just picturing that ruinous,
melancholy building gives me a sad, fearful, loathsome feeling. Even so,
that is where I intend to go.” Michio’s words now had a solemn conviction,
“There is no other path for me to take. I cannot spend another day sitting
idly by while I have this dreadful suspicion eating at my heart. I’ll wait for
my father on that island, if he has not already returned, and confront him
once and for all. Although the idea of this fills me with dread. If I’m right,
my father is a ruthless killer. And I...I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m the son
of a murderer, raised by a murderer, a murderer paid for my education, I
live in a house built for me by a murderer. But I must never let him get the
better of me, no matter what. If he is indeed the villain, I’ll urge him to give
himself up. If he won’t, then I’ll bring everything crashing down. I’ll put an
end to his evil bloodsoaked deeds. This can only finish with us impaled on
each other’s swords.
“But before that, there is something else I must do. I must find the
legitimate owner of that genealogical record. Three lives have been lost in
pursuit of its hidden cryptic message, so the fortune it attests to must be
vast. I’ve a duty to return it to Hatsuyo’s blood relatives. I feel a
responsibility to find her real family and bring them some relief, after what
my father has done. I may uncover a clue as to their whereabouts once I
return to Iwayashima. At any rate, my plan is to leave Tokyo tomorrow
morning. What do you say, Minoura? Maybe I’m being too rash. Let me
hear the opinions of a cool-headed outsider.”
It took me a moment to reply. I was a long way from being a “cool-headed
outsider” as Michio had described me. Due to my overly sensitive nature I
was in fact far more agitated than the man himself. While listening to
Michio’s strange revelations I’d first felt sympathy towards him, but as the
villain's identity became apparent, I began to vividly recall Hatsuyo’s tragic
ending - which had been displaced from my memory by other matters - and
the flame of resentment I’d felt at losing my true love suddenly roared again
inside me. I’d not forgotten the oath of revenge I’d taken as I’d writhed
about in that field next to the crematorium where Hatsuyo’s kotsuage
ceremony had taken place. If, as Michio speculated, the true culprit was his
father, I’d not be satisfied until he’d been made to taste the same hopeless
sorrow I’d felt, and his flesh burnt away and his bones turned to ash.
Michio was ill-fated at having a murderous parent, but the scenario I faced,
in which my lover had been killed by my close friend’s father, and
moreover, that friend’s affections towards me were far from platonic, was
even more cursed.
“I’ll go with you!” I blurted out, jumping to my feet, “I don’t care if I’m
fired from my job. I’ll scrape together the travel expenses somehow. Please,
take me along!”
“So you acknowledge everything I’ve said. But why would you want to join
me?” Michio was too self-absorbed to have any time to speculate on
anyone’s feelings other than his own.
“For the same reason as you. To confirm the identity of whoever was
behind Hatsuyo’s murder. Then locate her relatives and return their
birthright.”
“And if that person turns out to be my father, what do you intend to do
then?”
All of a sudden I was at a loss as to how to answer this question. But I hated
to lie. I braced myself and spoke from the heart, “If that is the case, we can
no longer be friends. I will…”
“You’ll take good old-fashioned revenge?”
“I haven’t thought about it clearly, but the way I feel now, I won’t rest until
the flames of hell have devoured him.”
Michio said nothing in reply. He looked at me sternly, then suddenly his
expression softened and he took on a cheerful tone.
“It’s settled then. We’ll go together. If I’m right, then I’m the son of your
sworn enemy, but even if I’m wrong, it will be uncomfortable exposing my
family to you, whether they’re monsters or not; however, not only do I feel
no love towards my mother and father, I actually detest them, and if it
comes to it, I’ve no objection towards forfeiting their lives as well as my
own for the sake of your beloved Hatsuyo. Come, let’s join forces - if you’ll
forgive me - and unearth Iwayashima’s secrets.”
Michio’s eyes sparkled and he awkwardly shook my hand and gripped it
like we were blood-brothers of old and his cheeks shone red like a child.
Thus it was decided. We were to travel to that lonely island on the edge of
Kishū where Michio had spent his grim upbringing.
But before I come to that, there is one more thing I must add.
Michio didn’t say anything at the time, but later, when I’d weighed up all
the facts, I could see there was a more prosaic reason for him loathing his
father, the details of which were so dreadful and repellant they went beyond
mere criminal acts. Devilish deeds, not of a man but a beast; not of this
world, but the Inferno beneath us. Needless to say, it was a subject Michio
did not dare touch upon. Even so, I only needed to assemble information I
already had within my grasp to see the truth, but by some strange trick of
the mind I failed to put these pieces together, perhaps because my own
weak spirit had been worn down by the gruesome murders I’d already
borne witness to, and I’d not the stomach for any more wickedness.
The Island of Iwayashima
Having come to a decision our thoughts turned to the documents I’d left in
our “Investigation HQ” above the restaurant.
“Whether it’s the twins’ diary or the genealogical record, it’s extremely
dangerous for us to hold onto them. All we need to do is memorise the
cryptic message, then we can burn the other pages as they have no
particular value,” Michio proposed as we sat in a cab heading towards
Kanda. I was of course in complete agreement.
When we arrived however, and I reached into the gap in that picture frame,
I felt nothing there. It was empty. We asked the people in the restaurant
below but they were of no help. They’d not seen anyone enter the room
since we’d left the day before.
“We’ve been outfoxed. Our enemies must have been watching our every
move, despite all our precautions,” Michio said, barely able to conceal his
admiration.
“But if they have what they’ve been after all this time, we can’t waste
another second.”
“It’s enough that we’re leaving tomorrow. There’s nothing else for it now.
We must take the fight to them.”
The next day we set off on our incredible journey; towards that lonely isle
in the southern seas. I remember the date well, August 19th, 1925.
Michio left his house in the charge of his old cook and houseboy, simply
telling them he was going away. I informed my company that I was
travelling with a friend to his hometown in the country in order to recover
from a nervous collapse. They agreed to give me time off and my family
also accepted my decision. Since it was the height of the summer-holiday
season no one doubted our motives. It was in fact true that I was “travelling
with a friend to his hometown”, but what an unconventional homecoming it
was. Michio was returning to his father, not to pay his respects, but to pass
judgement on his father’s wicked deeds, and engage him in battle.
We took the train as far as Toba in Shima Province, then boarded a ferry to
K-seaport. I say ferry, this was in truth a worn-out steamer, no more than
two or three hundred tons, very much unlike the splendid three-thousand
ton class vessels that ply that route today. From there we’d have no choice
but charter a small fishing boat. With so few fellow travellers, leaving Toba
gave us the lonesome feeling of embarking on a trip to a remote foreign
land. We spent all morning aboard that old tugboat, rolling from side to
side, and when we finally got to K-seaport we found it to be no more than a
rather dismal fishing village. Our final destination, that desolate uninhabited
island with a coastline of rocky cliffs, was another half-day away, five miles
across the water.
It was the afternoon of August 21st when we landed, having had no
mishaps along the way. In the harbour, produce for the fish market was
being unloaded, and the wharf was awash with torpedo-shaped skipjack
tuna and the festering guts of shark and suchlike and the stink of rotting
flesh filled the air.
Once we’d set foot on the quay, our eyes were drawn to a shabby looking
hotel with a sign outside proclaiming “Room & Board” and a paper sliding
door at its entrance. We went inside and ate sashimi for lunch, which was at
least fresh, and asked the landlady about the chances of finding a ship to
take us to Iwayashima.
“Iwayashima you say? I’ve never been myself, even though it’s not far.
There’s something off-putting about the place. Apart from the Moroto
residence, there must be only six or seven fishing folk left. It’s nothing to
speak of, just a rock in the middle of the sea,” the woman said in a thick
accent.
“Did you hear anything about the master of the Moroto house going to
Tokyo recently?”
“Not a peep. I’d soon know if that rickety old fella ever got a steamer from
here. Not much gets by me. Though he does have a sailboat. I guess he
could’ve gone to Tokyo by his own means. Are you two gentlemen
acquaintances of Mr Moroto?”
“No, but we’d like to visit the island. I don’t suppose you know of anyone
who might be able to take us?”
“Well now, ‘fraid everyone’s out fishing, since the weather’s fine.”
We wouldn’t take no for an answer though, and after asking around were
able to find an elderly seadog willing to accommodate us, although it took
another hour to negotiate the fee and for the man to make his preparations,
with everything moving at the snail’s pace of a rural backwater town.
The man’s boat was a small sailing skiff; when we were at last on board I
asked doubtfully, “Is this safe?” to which he replied, “Safe enough,” and
laughed loudly.
A spur of land jutted out from the side of Iwayashima that faced us; it was
like a mountain rising directly out of the waves, with a sheer cliff face and a
fringe of greenery running along the top. Luckily the sea was calm, but at
the base of the cliffs the water became white and foamy. Here and there
strange rocks soared upwards, with gaps between them just big enough for a
person to squeeze through. The boatman did his best to increase our speed,
saying that we ought to get to the island while it was still light, then as we
came around the peninsula, Iwayashima’s odd appearance became apparent.
It seemed like the whole island was made of granite, there was hardly a tree
or bush to be seen; the craggy coastline was a wall of stone, 30 or 40 feet
high, and it was hard to imagine anyone living in such a place. As we got
closer we could pick out a few houses dotted along the cliff edge, then at
the far end of the island, the roof of a large citadel-like structure. Next to
this, glinting white in the sun, was what could only have been that dreaded
storehouse we’d read about.
The skiff was within spitting distance of land but we had to follow the coast
for a while, looking for a safe spot to berth. As we did so we passed a
section of cliff which had been eroded away by sea water, creating an inky
black cave, immeasurably deep. The boat was about 150 yards away when
the old seadog pointed to the cave and said, “That over there, that’s called
the devil’s chasm. It’s swallowed up many a poor soul over the years. Some
say it’s cursed. The fishermen stay well clear.”
“It creates a kind of whirlpool I suppose,” I asked.
“A whirlpool, yes, but there’s something else. The closest I heard anyone
ever get was about ten years ago,” the man replied, then he began to relate a
rather strange tale.
His story concerned not the boatman himself, but the eye-witness account
of a fisherman friend of his. One day, a wild-eyed and wretched looking
man had turned up at K-seaport, and like us, had chartered a boat to
Iwayashima. The man he’d chartered it from was the elderly seadog’s
friend. Four or five days later, this fisherman was returning from a night-
time trawl when he happened to pass the devil’s chasm just as dawn was
beginning to break and the tide was going out. The sea was calm, and as the
gentle waves rippled back and forth from the cave’s entrance, a clump of
seaweed or tangled netting was dragged outwards. In amongst this was a
white object which the fisherman thought at first to be a shark’s carcass, but
when he looked again, to his surprise, it turned out to be the body of a
drowned man. The lower half of the body was still inside the cave and only
the head and upper torso poked out.
The fisherman quickly drew his boat near and pulled the body from the
water, then got his second surprise. This was undoubtedly the traveller he’d
brought to the island from K-seaport only a few days before. He wondered
if the man had committed suicide by jumping from the rocks above, but
then he’d been told certain wives tales about that cave; that it was an
ungodly place where drowned men were often found, and always with half
their body still in the cave’s mouth. There was even a legend that an evil
spirit lurked in that endless cavern and craved human sacrifices. The name,
‘devil's chasm’, most likely originated from such folklore.
The old seadog finished his story then gave us an eerie warning, “I’ll mind
to keep a wide berth, and you gentleman should too. Beware not to become
enchanted by that creature’s magic spell.”
We paid scant attention to the man’s advice and never imagined that in the
following days we’d have cause to shudder in fear at the memory of what
he’d told us.
While he talked, we arrived at a narrow sheltered bay. Here the cliff dipped
to a height of a dozen or so feet, and the rocks formed a natural staircase
down to a landing place. In the middle of this cove was a large sailing ship,
which lay anchored like a stable master among two or three ramshackle
fishing tubs. There was not a soul to be seen.
Once we’d set foot on land we gave leave of the boatman and clumsily
climbed upwards with an uneasy feeling in our hearts. We reached the top
of the cliff and the view opened out. Hardly a blade of grass grew
anywhere; a wide stoney path skirted a rocky peak that formed the centre of
the island, and continued as far as the eye could see. Looming up ahead was
the dilapidated fortress-like Moroto house.
“That headland is indeed in the shape of a sleeping cow when seen from
here,” Michio said, and I turned to look back at the peninsula we’d just
negotiated. I wondered forlornly if this was the spot from Hatsuyo’s
memory where she’d once played. The light began to fade as evening fell
and the white walls of the storehouse next to the Moroto house turned dimly
grey. How desolate it all felt.
“It’s like a ghost island,” I said.
“A wasteland more awful than I remembered. It’s a wonder anyone made a
home here,” Michio replied.
We set off towards the house, small stones crunching beneath our feet, but
soon made a curious discovery. Just about visible in the burgeoning twilight
we noticed a decrepit old man sitting as still as a statue by the cliff edge,
gazing off into the distance. We instinctively came to a halt and watched
this strange figure. He must have heard us coming as at that moment he
turned to look our way. When his gaze reached Michio he stopped and
stared intently. His eyes didn’t blink for what seemed like an age.
“How odd. He seems to know me, but I’ve no idea who that man is,”
Michio said, looking over his shoulder after we’d walked on another
hundred yards.
“It didn’t seem like he had rickets,” I responded.
“You thought it was my father? Ha! Even after all these years, I’m not
going to forget that face,” Michio chuckled bitterly.
 The Ruined Castle
The closer we got to the Moroto house the more obvious was its extreme
state of disrepair. We passed the crumbling perimeter wall and through the
rotten wooden gate and into the grounds which were a terrible, chaotic
sight. The soil had been dug up as though ploughed, and what few plants
there’d been were now ripped from the earth and tossed aside. This disorder
made the whole property seem even more dilapidated than it actually was.
We stood at the darkening front porch, which was like a monster’s pitch-
black maw, and called out a greeting. There was no answer, but while we
were calling a third time, an old woman came tottering out from the back of
the house. It may have been a trick of the fading light, but I’d never seen
anyone so hideous. As well as being short, she was grotesquely fat, so that
her flesh drooped and sagged from her body. She was ravaged by rickets
and her back was humped. Her face was a mass of wrinkles and her skin the
colour of tanned hide. Two eyes poked out as if on stalks, and a long line of
yellow teeth jutted at strange angles from between her lips, although it
seemed she had none on her top row, so when she clamped her mouth shut
her whole face concertinaed like a weird paper lantern.
“Who is it?” the women asked angrily, peering at us through the gloom.
“It’s me,” Michio said, leaning forward. The woman fixed her gaze on him,
then gave a yelp of surprise.
“Oh my! Michi! I’m so glad you came home. I thought I’d never see you
again. And who is this gentleman?”
“This is my friend. We’ve come a long way. I missed the old place so
thought I’d pay a visit. Is Jōgorō-san here?”
“Jōgorō-san? Your pa you mean. Don’t call him that.”
This monstrous creature was evidently Michio’s elderly mother. As I
listened to the two of them talking, I felt it odd that Michio had referred to
his father as “Jōgorō-san”, but what was even stranger was the term his
mother used. It immediately made me think of the boy acrobat
Tomonosuke, who talked about his “pa” right before being killed.
“Your pa’s at home. Though right now he’s in a bad mood so watch
yourself. But don’t just stand there, come inside.”
We were taken along a dark twisting corridor that smelt of mould and into a
spacious reception room. Compared to its ruinous exterior the interior of the
house seemed well looked after, but there was still an inescapable hint of
decay.
The room looked out onto the garden, and a section of the storehouse’s
crumbling white walls could be seen dimly in the gloaming, in contrast to
the shockingly vivid wreckage of the grounds.
Before long I sensed another presence and the phantom-like figure of
Micho’s father suddenly appeared. The room was now all in darkness and
he moved like a shadow, nimbly taking a seat with his back to a large
alcove.
“Michi, what brings you here?” he asked accusingly.
Micho’s mother followed behind, carrying a box-lamp and placing it
between us. In its reddish-brown light that sinister old man took on the form
of a vindictive owl. Just like Michio’s mother, his father’s height was
retarded by rickets, but his face was unusually large, with lines that
extended like the legs of a spider and an ugly top lip that split in the middle
like a rabbit’s. It was a face that left such a strong impression, once seen, it
could never be forgotten.
“I missed the old place,” Michio gave the same answer he’d given his
mother a moment ago.
“And that’s enough reason to break your promise?”
“Not exactly, there’s also something I wanted to ask you.”
“I see. As a matter of fact, I’ve a bone to pick with you too. I guess you can
stay. I was wondering what kind of a man you’d grown into.”
My powers of description cannot do justice to that surreal meeting. This
was the reunion of a father and son after almost twenty years apart. But it
seemed the deformity Michio’s father suffered from crippled him not only
physically but spiritually; his words and behaviour, his emotions towards
his own child were not like that of a normal human being. Nevertheless,
their awkward, halting conversation went on for another hour or so. The
following two exchanges are what I remember most from what they
discussed:
“You recently went on a trip, did you not?” Michio asked, broaching the
subject at the earliest opportunity.
“No, I’ve not been anywhere. Isn’t that right?” the old man replied, turning
to his wife for confirmation, though I caught sight of a suggestive glint in
his eye.
“You weren’t in Tokyo then? I saw someone who looked just like you. I
wondered if you’d secretly come to visit.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. You think I’m able to go to Tokyo at my age? In my
condition?”
I couldn’t help noticing how the old man’s brow furrowed and he looked a
little agitated but Michio did not pursue this line of questioning. He
changed tack, but soon hit another sensitive topic:
“I see the garden has been dug up. What on earth made you do such a
thing?”
This caught Michio’s father off-guard and he was momentarily lost for an
answer.
“The garden, yes. That’s Roku’s doing. As you know, in this house, we
support those incapable of supporting themselves. Among them is a
harmless lunatic called Roku. For whatever reason, he decided to do that to
the garden. He’s quite mad so there’s no point in scolding him,” he replied,
but it seemed to me this was no more than the first feeble excuse that came
into his head.
That night, our beds were prepared for us in that same room and we lay side
by side, too excited to fall asleep. Any careless talk would have been
unwise however, so we remained resolutely silent. As my nerves gradually
settled, in the stillness of that vast house, I thought I could hear a thin
human voice, an intermittent high-pitched howling, as if someone were
having a nightmare, except it went on for an inordinate amount of time. I
exchanged a glance with Michio in the dim lamplight, and while I strained
my ears to listen, I wondered about that poor twin confined in the
storehouse. I flinched with fear when I thought how the noise might be
evidence of some desperate struggle between that boy and girl joined
together in one body.
At daybreak I woke with a start from a light slumber. Michio was no longer
lying beside me so I hurriedly got to my feet thinking I’d overslept and
went to see if I could find the bathroom. I was stumbling along unfamiliar
corridors when Michio’s mother suddenly appeared from behind a corner
and stood before me blocking my path. The suspicious old crone eyed me
up and down as though I’d been performing a search of her house. When I
asked where I could wash my face she looked somewhat relieved and
showed me to the well outside the kitchen door.
Once I’d cleaned up I began to think again about the howling I’d heard in
the night, and those twins in the storehouse. Miyamagi had seen them
through a window beyond the property's wall, and I wondered if I might be
able to do the same.
Acting as though I was just out for a morning stroll, I slipped through the
front gate and followed the clay wall towards the back of the house. The
ground was uneven and rocky, and nothing seemed to grow except for a few
weeds. It was like scorched earth, but as I made my way from the gate to
the storehouse, I spotted a copse of trees, sprouting like an oasis in the
desert. When I peered through the branches I discovered an ancient moss-
covered stone well in the centre of this small grove. It seemed too grand for
such a desolate location, even though it was no longer in use. Perhaps there
had once been other properties nearby.
Putting this to the back of my mind I carried on walking and soon reached
the base of the storehouse which adjoined the long perimeter wall. As I’d
anticipated there was a small window on the second floor on the side facing
away from the house. Everything was as it was written in the diary, right up
to the iron bars in the window. With my pulse racing, I looked up at that
opening and waited patiently. The peeling whitewashed walls shone
brilliantly in the morning rays, the invigorating scent of the sea drifted in
the air. All was bright and pleasant; it was unthinkable that horrors of any
kind could dwell inside that building.
Then I saw them. I’d looked away for a second but when I returned my
gaze there were four hands gripping those bars and two faces peering out.
One was male, ugly and swarthy with pronounced cheekbones. The other
female, smooth skinned and pale without a trace of the sun. When this
young woman’s wide-open eyes locked onto mine she shrank back in
shame, as though seeing a person of the outside world was too much to
bear.
At the same time I found myself blush and look down. What was this
foolishness? The twin’s beauty had simply taken me by surprise, and my
heart sang in my chest.
Three Days
If Michio was to be believed, his father was a brute whose repellent nature
exceeded even that of his own hideous form; a fiend of unparalleled
wickedness who, when it came to the accomplishment of evil deeds, had no
room in his heart for sentimentality. Michio too, as he’d frequently stated,
harboured not the slightest trace of affection for his father. It was his
intention to expose the man’s many sins. So it was inevitable their singular
pairing, this unhappy reunion, would come to a bitter end.
Even so, after arriving on the island we first had three days of calm. On the
fourth day, myself and Michio were thrown into circumstances that defied
description; on that same day, two inhabitants of Iwayashima were
swallowed up by the cursed cavern known as the ‘devil’s chasm’. But we at
least had a brief period of respite. That is not to say nothing of note
occurred in the meantime.
First, there were the twins in the storehouse. As I mentioned in the previous
chapter, on the morning after our first night on the island I’d glimpsed the
twins through the window of their prison cell and been struck by the beauty
of the sister (presumably the diary writer Yū-chan) and somehow, even
though such remarkable charm in such an abnormal environment was
extraordinary in itself, this had left an impression on me even greater than
could be expected.
As you know, my love for Kigiki Hatsuyo had been all-encompassing. I’d
gone so far as to swallow her ashes; and wasn’t my presence on that island
purely for the sake of tracking down her tormentor? And yet, what were
these emotions I now felt after one glimpse of that ill-fated twin? I’d been
struck by her beauty, but there was something else. Some deeper yearning. I
was in love. I couldn’t deny it, I’d fallen in love with that freak of nature;
with Yū-chan. What bitter irony! The promise I’d made to avenge
Hatsuyo’s death was still fresh in my mind; and here I was on this island to
make good on that promise. But no sooner had I arrived than I’d lost my
heart to another; and of all people, the inhuman progeny of the target of my
revenge. What a contemptible man I was! But no matter how guilty I felt,
there was no avoiding the truth. At every opportunity I made up some
excuse and snuck out to that storehouse, all the while trying to justify my
actions to myself. Then on the evening of the day I’d first seen Yū-chan,
something else happened that disturbed me even more. I discovered that my
feelings were being reciprocated. How mysterious the machinations of fate!
It was dusk, and in the misty twilight the storehouse window gaped open
like a black abyss. I stood below, waiting patiently for Yū-chan’s face to
peer out. I waited and waited but there was no sign of life, so like an
insolent youth I whistled for attention. A moment later she appeared, as
though suddenly woken, and her pale skin flashed briefly before she
withdrew again, as though dragged away. It was only a second, but I
couldn’t help noticing a slight smile on Yū-chan’s lips when she caught
sight of me. Kī-chan must be jealous and doesn’t want her to be seen, I
thought, and felt a tingling sensation on my skin.
Even though Yū-chan had gone, I stayed where I was and stared up at that
window longingly, then after a while, a white object flew out, aimed in my
direction. It was a scrunched up piece of paper and landed at my feet. When
I retrieved it and opened it out, I read the following lines written in pencil:
Ask the man who picked up my diary who I am, then rescue me from this
place. You’re handsome, and you’re clever, so I know you will help me.
The handwriting was untidy but I eventually managed to discern the note’s
meaning. I was taken aback by the frank admission of, “You’re handsome”.
Even though, judging by Yū-chan’s diary entries, her understanding of the
word “handsome” might have differed from our own.
From then on, I went unseen to that storehouse to meet Yū-chan five or six
more times over the next three days (which took considerable effort on my
part). Fearing someone from the house might overhear, we refrained from
talking, but became comfortable in each other’s presence by maintaining
eye contact. We were somehow able to convey complex and subtle meaning
with just a glance. Even though Yū-chan’s writing was clumsy, and she
knew little of the outside world, I could see she had a natural intelligence.
Through these exchanges I began to understand the misery Yū-chan had
endured at the hands of Kī-chan. Out of jealousy his treatment of her
became even worse after my arrival, and with looks and gestures Yū-chan
appealed for help.
One time, Kī-chan shoved his sister aside and glared down at me sternly for
several minutes. I can picture even now the unpleasant expression on his
dark and ugly face; it was one of unrivalled spite; brutish, envious,
imbecilic and indecent. He’d stared at me determinedly without even
blinking. My compassion for Yū-chan deepened even further when I saw
what a beast she had as her other half. As the days passed I grew more and
more in her thrall. We felt like star-crossed lovers. Each time we met her
eyes urged me to save her. I tried wordlessly to offer reassurance; that
everything would be alright; that she only needed to hold on a little longer.
There were a number of locked rooms in the Moroto house, not least the
storehouse itself. Doors bolted shut with ancient locks were everywhere.
We couldn’t freely move about the place because Michio’s mother and the
servants were always watching us, but I did manage to sneak into the back
of the building on one occasion by pretending to take a wrong turn, and was
able to determine a few scraps of information. From behind one of the
locked doors I could hear an eerie low moaning. From behind another were
noises of something incessantly clomping about. These were unmistakably
the sounds of humans confined like wild animals. Lingering in the dimly lit
corridor, straining my ears, I was assailed by a nameless horror. Michio had
talked about the cripples he’d grown up with, but perhaps there were
malformed beings even more dreadful than the monster in the storehouse
(the monster that had stolen my heart) imprisoned in these rooms. Was this
a household of freaks? But why had Michio’s father gathered such a
collection?
Other than my visits to Yū-chan, and what I’d learnt about the locked
rooms, a further unusual event occurred during that three day lull. One
afternoon, when Michio had gone to see his father and had left me alone
and feeling bored, I went for a long walk to the landing place by the cliffs.
It had been early evening the day we’d arrived, so I hadn’t noticed a sparse
outcrop of trees at the base of the island’s central rocky peak, and behind it
a small shack. All the houses on the island were scattered quite widely, but
this shack seemed particularly isolated. I wondered who on earth could live
in such a location, so on a whim, I altered my course and headed for the
tiny wood.
The shack, or more accurately, tumbledown hovel, appeared uninhabitable.
It was built on slightly raised ground, so had an unbroken view of the sea,
the sleeping-cow-shaped peninsula, and even the ‘devil’s chasm’.
Iwayashima had a jagged coastline and the section of cliff wall which
housed that immeasurably deep cave stuck out prominently. The whitecaps
breaking at the cavern’s monstrous mouth were like awful fangs, and the
longer you looked, the more you imagined seeing the eyes and nose of a
fearsome devil in the top half of the cliff.
This lonely southern isle was a strange other world for an urbanite like me,
born and raised in the city. It was like a bizarre fairytale, an old castle, a
pair of twins imprisoned in a storehouse, freaks confined in locked rooms,
and a ‘devil’s chasm’ that swallowed humans whole.
The stoney path I’d walked on blazed white in the summer sun. Other than
the monotonous sound of the waves the whole island was deathly silent and
there was not another living creature as far as the eye could see. Just then, I
heard the noise of someone clearing their throat close by and my dreamlike
state was broken. I turned and saw an old man leaning out of the window of
the shack and looking in my direction. It was the same old man we’d seen
crouched down by the cliff’s edge on the day we’d landed, and who’d never
taken his eyes off Michio’s face.
“So you’re a guest at the Moroto house?” he called out, as if he’d been
waiting for me.
“Yes. I’m a friend of Moroto Michio. Do you know him?” I replied,
wanting to find out who this stranger was.
“I do. Long ago I was in service at the house. I used to cradle Michio in my
arms and give him piggy-backs. But that was years ago, I expect he’s
forgotten me now.”
“I’m sure he hasn’t. Why don’t you come up and say hello?”
“No. I’m sorry but no matter how much I’d like to see Michio, I’ll never
cross the threshold of that scoundrel's home again. Perhaps you don’t know,
but Michio’s parent’s are demons in human form. Rickety brutes, the pair of
them.”
“Are they so bad? What is it they’ve done that’s so terrible?”
“Don’t ask. Careless talk can cost you on this island. Life is cheap to those
two. Just watch yourself. You’ll go far in this world if you steer clear of old
rogues like them and stay out of danger.”
“But Jōgorō-san is Michio’s father. And I’m Michio’s close acquaintance.
Even if what you say is true, they wouldn’t hurt us.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. Something similar happened ten years previous. A
gentleman like you came all the way from the capital to visit that house. I
heard he was Jōgorō-san’s cousin or some such. He was young, with his
whole life ahead of him, but the poor fellow was found dead, his body
floating in the waves by the ‘devil's chasm’, that cave over yonder. I’m not
saying it was Jōgorō-san’s doing, but that visitor stayed at the Moroto place,
and nobody saw him leave or board a boat. You understand? Make no
mistake, you’d better tread carefully.”
The old man earnestly tried to persuade me of the peril I was in, implying in
a roundabout way that I’d end up meeting the same fate as that “cousin”
who’d visited ten years ago. I dismissed this as nonsense, but then thought
of the three skillfully enacted murders that had already taken place and
wondered if his ominous prediction might not come to pass after all. I
shuddered with a sense of evil foreboding and the light seemed to dim
before my eyes.
But for now let me turn to Michio’s movements over those three days.
Every evening, myself and Michio would sleep side-by-side, but he
remained strangely reticent. Perhaps his inner anguish was too much for
him to put into words. In the mornings he’d leave and go to another room to
apparently spend all day at loggerheads with his father. When he returned
after the conclusion of their prolonged talks, he looked gaunt, and his
bloodshot eyes stood out in his pale face. He’d evade my questions and give
monosyllabic replies.
Then on the evening of the third day, Michio finally broke his silence.
Rolling about on his bed like a fretful child, he blurted out, “Ah, it’s too
much to bear. I didn’t think it possible but it’s all true. And it will soon be
over at last.”
“Your suspicions were not unfounded then?” I asked in a low voice.
“It’s far worse than I thought,” Michio replied mournfully. He grimaced and
his face turned grey. I pestered him on what could be “far worse” but he
said no more on the subject. Only adding, “Tomorrow I’ll turn him down
flat. Then finally it will all come crashing down. Minoura, I’m on your side.
Let’s stand together and fight this demon. Let’s fight!”
Michio extended his arm and gripped my wrist. While his words were
courageous there was something pitiful about his manner. It was only
natural; it was his own father he’d called a demon; his own father he’d
named his enemy and was determined to do battle with. This explained his
haggard appearance. I couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort him, so
as a substitute for words, I weakly returned his grasp.
The Double
The next day, disaster finally struck.
Just after noon I was served lunch by a mute housemaid (this had to be the
Otoshi from Yū-chan’s diary) then was left on my own to brood, since
Michio had not yet returned from his father’s room. Partly to walk off my
meal and partly to see Yū-chan I went outside and made for the storehouse.
Standing beneath the window I looked up, but neither Yū-chan or Kī-chan
appeared, so I signalled to her in my usual manner by whistling. A face
popped up between the iron bars, but I shook my head in disbelief. It was
not one of the twins but instead it was Moroto Michio’s drawn and
anguished features that were visible from within that dark opening. No
matter how hard I looked, this was no hallucination. Michio, who I thought
had been with his father, was locked inside Yū-chan and Kī-chan’s cell.
Once the significance of this had dawned on me I was about to call out
when Michio quickly put his finger to his lips, warning me to stay silent. I
just managed to hold my tongue.
Michio then made a series of gestures but his eyes did not connect with
mine the same subtle way Yū-chan’s did, and whatever he was trying to
communicate was too complicated, so his message did not come across.
Appearing frustrated, he signalled for me to wait, then withdrew and a
moment later a balled-up piece of paper flew towards me. I picked it up and
read the following hurriedly scrawled note (written presumably with Yū-
chan’s pencil):
I was too weak and fell under my father’s spell. Now I’m imprisoned here
along with this pair of twins. We’re being closely watched so there’s no
prospect of escape. But I’m more worried about you. You’re an outsider so
are in much more danger. Leave this island as soon as possible. Don’t think
of me. Leave all this behind. Our investigation, your revenge, my own life.
Please don’t berate me for breaking my promise, or ridicule my initial
fervour, so misguided in a coward such as myself.
I must stay here. I am Jōgorō’s son after all.
Farewell forever dear Minoura. Forget Moroto Michio. Forget Iwayashima.
And though I know it’s an impossible request, forget Hatsuyo. My last wish,
if you value our friendship, when you return to the mainland, say nothing of
this to the police.
When I’d finished reading I looked up and saw Michio staring down at me,
his eyes full of tears. A prisoner of his own demonic heredity. I felt hollow
inside, affected by an indescribable desolation. My emotions overshadowed
any criticism I had of Michio’s sudden change of heart, or even my hatred
of Jōgorō’s tyranny. Michio must have been thrown into confusion by a
fleeting sense of kinship between him and his father. Perhaps the reason for
him returning to Iwayashima had not been for my sake after all, and
certainly not to avenge Hatsuyo’s death, but an act necessitated by the ties
he still felt to this island, even though he’d never admit this to himself. And
now at the eleventh hour he’d capitulated. The bizarre conflict between
Moroto Jōgorō and Moroto Michio had reached its endgame.
We stared at each other for a long time, until Michio gestured for me to
finally go, and without any particular destination in mind, I walked
mechanically back towards the front gate of the house. As I turned, I sensed
Yū-chan’s quizzical gaze follow me from the gloom behind Michio’s
ghostly form, intensifying my feeling of hopelessness.
However, I’d no intention of running away. No matter how much Michio
opposed me, I couldn’t leave this island without having my revenge. I
would be Michio’s saviour and rescue Yū-chan, and furthermore, if the
chance arose, I would find Hatsuyo’s treasure (oddly enough, I was able to
think of Yū-chan and Hatsuyo at the same time without any sense of
inconsistency). As a last resort - disregarding Michio’s wishes - I would
turn to the police. I would hold my ground on this island and make a
determined investigation. I was on the side of justice and would give
strength to my downhearted friend. Then utilising his superior intelligence,
I would strike down the demon of the lonely isle. With such valiant
thoughts in my head I returned to the house.
Before long, the rickets-afflicted Jōgorō-san made his entrance. It had been
a while since I’d seen this hideous figure. He stood before me and barked,
“Get your things together. It’s time for you to leave my home. And this
island. So pack up and go.”
“I’ll go if you tell me to, but where is Michio? We must leave together.”
“My son has other things to attend to, don’t you worry about him. Now, get
packing.”
Resisting would have been a waste of effort, so for the time being I decided
to retreat from the Moroto house, though not of course from the island. I
had to find someplace to hide and conceive a means of releasing Michio
and Yū-chan.
But to my dismay Michio’s father took the precaution of having a brawny
manservant see me off. The servant walked ahead of me carrying my
luggage. When we got near the shack where the mysterious old man lived -
the one I’d talked to the day before - the servant suddenly made for his
rundown hovel and yelled out, “Toku-san, you home? Orders from my
master. Take this individual out on your boat and across to K-seaport.”
“Only him?” the old man replied, leaning out of the same window as before
and staring at me.
After some discussion I was left in the care of Toku-san (as the servant had
called him). I was both surprised and unsettled at how Jōgorō had entrusted
such a task to someone who’d spoken so ill of him behind his back.
Nevertheless, his selection was a huge stroke of luck. I gave Toku-san a
rough summary of all that had happened and appealed for his help. I
insisted I wouldn’t leave the island, no matter what.
The old man stressed the recklessness of my plan, but he could see I wasn’t
going to be swayed, so he relented and agreed to my request. Not only that,
he came up with his own ingenious scheme to fool Michio’s father.
The deeply suspicious Jōgorō could never assent to my presence on
Iwayashima, but any failure of the old man to remove me would only incite
the demon’s wrath even further, so he had to at least show he’d crossed to
the mainland. Rowing over on his own wouldn’t fool anyone, but
fortunately Toku-san had a son my age, and of similar build. If he were to
take his son dressed in my clothes, he’d pass for me when viewed from afar.
In the meantime I could hide in Toku-san’s shack and put on a kimono of
his son’s.
“I’ll have my boy to go pilgriming to the Grand Shrine at Ise until you’ve
finished your business,” Toku-san said, smiling.
That evening, Toku-san’s son, wearing my suit, with his shoulders thrust
back proudly, climbed aboard his father’s rowboat. The small seacraft then
followed the jagged coastline of the island, over darkening waters, carrying
my double and Toku-san, bent at his oars.
Murders in the Mist
I was now the hero of my own adventure story.
After seeing the two men off, I crouched down behind the shack’s window,
clothed in a worn-out cotton kimono that Toku-san’s son had been wearing
(and which smelt strongly of the sea) and from a gap in the paper screen
watched the tiny rowboat’s slow progress.
The “sleeping-cow” peninsula was shrouded in an early evening mist. A
star or two shone in the grey sky which blurred with the dark waters. The
wind had died down so the surface of the sea was oily and calm, but it was
high-tide so even from a distance it was possible to see the waves swirl
about the entrance of the ‘devil’s chasm’ and surge into its jaws.
The toy-like boat followed that jagged coastline, disappearing and
reappearing from behind sections of jutting rock face, drawing ever nearer
to that awful cavern. Toku-san and his son seemed perilously close to the
base of those cliffs, which towered over them like a black wall several
storeys high. The creak of the oars could be heard now and again across the
waves like the chirrup of a cricket. Out of the darkness, only the smudged
silhouettes of the men were now visible, the size and shape of two
soybeans.
After rounding another rocky spur of land they approached the ‘devil’s
chasm’ and just when the boat was turning once again, I happened to notice
something moving at the top of the bluff directly above them. I realised
with a start this was a man; one deformed by rickets and with a hump-like
back. That grotesque figure could hardly be mistaken. It was Jōgorō-san.
But why had the head of the Moroto household come out at this time to
stand at such a place?
The elderly cripple appeared to be holding something like a pickaxe, and
was bent over hard at work. Each time he pulled on the pickaxe handle,
something else moved. I strained my eyes and could see this was a large
boulder positioned precariously at the cliff’s edge.
Now I saw it all! Jōgorō was waiting for Toku-san to pass directly beneath
him so he could bring the boulder down on his boat and capsize it. The old
man and his son were in great danger. They had to get further from the cliff
face. But there was no way they’d hear me if I shouted from my position.
Jōgorō’s wicked scheme was playing out right before my eyes and I could
do nothing about it except pray.
The crippled form made one more large movement and the boulder
wobbled and in the next instant, tumbled downwards at a terrific speed,
hitting a protrusion of rock and splintering into a thousand pieces which
cascaded towards the little boat. A vast cloud of water sprayed up, followed
by a low rumbling noise.
Just as Jōgorō had planned the boat had capsized; and there was no sign of
its two passengers. Perhaps they’d been killed instantly by the falling rock;
or perhaps they were still alive and treading water; I couldn’t tell from
where I was.
I looked back at Jōgorō. The tenacious cripple, apparently not satisfied with
simply sinking the boat, was frantically levering more boulders and rocks
over the edge with his pickaxe. The water’s surface spouted and fell like in
a painting of some great sea battle. Finally, Jōgorō let go of the pickaxe
handle and stared at the scene below, then perhaps content that he’d
witnessed the last moments of his victims, he casually walked away.
The whole performance lasted only a few minutes. Because I was a distant
viewer it had seemed like a playful puppet show and not the tragic loss of
two lives. But I was not dreaming or seeing things; I was wide awake and
lucid. Toku-san and his son had in all likelihood met a watery grave in the
mouth of the ‘devil’s chasm’ due to the evil actions of a being straight from
hell.
It was now that I understood what must have been Jōgorō’s game all along.
He’d always intended to get rid of me. Doing this under his own roof was
too risky, so he’d arranged for me to leave the island, to take a boat, and had
lain in wait along its route. Using the superstitions that hung around the
‘devil’s chasm’ as cover, he’d made it look like some otherworldly power
had sunk Toku-san’s vessel; which was why he’d not used a pistol (a more
convenient weapon) but had instead gone to the trouble of overturning a
large boulder. It also now made sense why he’d chosen Toku-san in the first
place, a man he was at odds with, rather than some other fisherman. This
way he’d kill two birds with one stone. While ridding himself of a visitor
who suspected wrongdoing, he could also do away with a belligerent old
servant who knew, to a certain extent, where the bodies were buried.
He’d executed his plan to perfection. As far as I was aware, Jōgorō was
now responsible for the murders of five people. Although when I thought
about it, in an indirect way, if it hadn’t been for my presence there’d have
been no motive for any of those killings: If I’d not met Hatsuyo she’d most
likely have accepted Michio’s proposal, their marriage then eliminating any
reason for her to be killed; it goes without saying Miyamagi would not have
fallen victim to Jōgorō if I’d not sought his help; the boy acrobat would also
still be alive but for my intervention; and if I hadn’t come to this island and
agreed to Toku-san’s plan to use his own son as my double, both would
have avoided their terrible fate.
The more I considered this, the more I shook with a feeling of awful dread,
and the more my hatred of the devilish Jōgorō intensified. I was determined
to make my stand on this island, and would not be satisfied until I’d
exposed the demon’s evil deeds and taken revenge, not just for Hatsuyo, but
for those other four souls. Maybe I wasn’t up to the task. Maybe it would be
better to seek the help of the authorities. But for this extraordinary fiend,
there could be no justice under our country’s legal system, only more
ancient laws: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He had to taste that same
pain he’d inflicted on others, then my ire would be pacified.
I was in a fortunate position, Jōgorō believed I was dead. It was now
imperative that I remained disguised as Toku-san’s son and avoided the
demon’s prying eyes. I also needed to conspire with the imprisoned Michio
on the next stage of my plan. Once Michio had heard about these most
recent murders, he couldn’t possibly side with his father. But even if I
didn’t have his approval, I would not be swayed from my course.
Fortunately, for several days, the bodies of Toku-san and his son never
floated to the surface. They’d perhaps been sucked into the deepest reaches
of the ‘devil’s chasm’. In the meantime, I kept up my impersonation of the
other man quite successfully. Toku-san’s boat had not returned, so a number
of fishermen came to the shack to see if anything was up, but I feigned
illness and hid in a dark corner behind a folding screen so they couldn’t see
my face.
During the day I stayed inside, but at night, under the cover of darkness, I’d
roam the island. As well as calling on Michio and Yū-chan at the
storehouse window, I gained a thorough knowledge of Iwayashima’s
topography and made note of anything that might be of use to me. Of
course I paid close attention to the Moroto house, and when I was sure no
one was about, I’d even creep in through the front gate and circle round to
one of the locked rooms, put my ear to a crack in the bolted shutters, and
listen for any noises from within.
Thus, I was recklessly readying myself for battle with a murderous demon
of unparralled wickedness. What living hell was I heading for? What
oblivion lay in wait for me? It won’t be long now before I record the events
I referred to at the beginning of my story; horrors which turned my hair
snowwhite during the course of an endless night.
The Sinister Figure on the Roof
My disguise as Toku-san’s son kept me from danger but didn’t help me in
any other way. I couldn’t be seen outside the shack, let alone find a boat and
row to safety off the island. It was as though I were in fact the criminal.
When the sun was up I’d lie low within Toku-san’s former home, then at
sundown, I’d surreptitiously crawl outside to stretch my stiff limbs and
breathe in the evening air.
I’d enough food for the time being to stop me from starving, as long as I
could bear the foul taste. Toku-san had stocked up on rice, flour, miso, and
firewood (all of which would have to have been bought on the mainland).
For those few days I survived by chewing on unidentifiable strips of dried
fish and slurping miso soup.
During this time I came to understand that whatever challenge or hardship
we face, it is never as dreadful as that which we imagined. My situation was
fantastical and nightmarish. Being merely a bean counter from a stuffy
Tokyo office I found it difficult to comprehend. Often, while lying alone in
Toku-san’s filthy hovel, staring up at the bare timber ceiling, surrounded by
the sound of waves and the salty smell of the sea, I got the strange sensation
that all was perhaps a dream. Yet even in such fearful circumstances I felt
the beat of my heart as normal, and my mind was lucid. People can endure
more than they think, when it comes to it. I considered how soldiers were
able to charge towards a hail of bullets and was even cheered a little,
despite my miserable position.
All that aside, I urgently needed to first consult with the imprisoned Moroto
Michio about all I’d seen. Although daytime was too risky, moving around
in the dead of night was also out of the question, as there were no lights on
the island. I waited for dusk, for the moment when a person’s features could
not be clearly distinguished except close up, then headed for the storehouse.
It turned out I’d no reason to be concerned, there wasn’t a soul to be seen, it
was as though the population of Iwayashima had just vanished. Even so,
when I arrived at my destination I shielded myself behind a rock beneath
the storehouse window and surveyed my surroundings. I listened for the
murmur of any voices leaking from the twins’ cell or beyond the wall of the
Moroto house. All was quiet. The window was a black void in the
encroaching gloom. Other than the monotonous crash of the waves on the
shoreline far away, there was not another sound. It was a desolate scene,
everything was grey and lifeless. It occurred to me again that it was all no
more than a waking dream.
For a long time I hesitated, then I plucked up the courage to take aim at the
window and hurl the pebble wrapped in paper that I’d brought with me. The
white missile slipped between the bars and into the room. On that paper I’d
written everything that had happened the day before and begged for
Michio’s guidance.
I then returned to my hiding place behind the rock and waited, but Michio’s
reply did not come straight away. Just when I was beginning to worry that
he was angry with me for not leaving the island, and it was getting so dark
it was hard to even make out the outline of the storehouse, a pale shape
suddenly appeared at the window and another ball of paper sailed through
the air and landed at my feet.
The figure was not that of Michio but Yū-chan it seemed. I was delighted to
see her but could tell even in the darkness she was somehow downhearted.
Perhaps Michio had filled her in about my history.
I opened the paper. There was a single pencil-written line, in characters
large enough to read in the twilight:
I can’t think now. Come again tomorrow.
It was of course in Michio’s handwriting. I was crestfallen. Michio must
have been so devastated at hearing such an irrefutable account of his
father’s crimes he couldn’t face me, and had to get Yū-chan to toss out a
reply. Yū-chan’s pale form seemed to stare down at me as I nodded and
trudged back towards Toku-san’s shack. Once I’d returned I curled up on
the floor like a wild animal, all sorts of thoughts flashing through my mind.
The next evening, I went again to the storehouse window. This time Michio
did appear at my signal, and threw down the following note:
Words cannot express how grateful I am for all that you have suffered, and
for not abandoning me to the mess I have made for myself. How I despaired
at the thought of you leaving this island. How keenly I felt the loneliness of
being apart from you. Jōgorō’s crimes have been laid bare. I mustn't think
of him as my father anymore. Hate is the only emotion I feel. All affection
towards him has now gone. My attachment to you though is as strong as
ever. With your help, I must escape this storehouse, rescue Jōgorō’s
unfortunate victims, and discover Hatsuyo’s rightful inheritance; so that
you may also be enriched. I have an idea regarding the first of these tasks.
But we have to be patient. I can explain my plan piece by piece. Keep
coming to this window as often as possible, but stay out of sight. During the
day is safe as hardly anyone ever visits here.
This was an abrupt change of tack from Michio; it seemed he was now
determined to cut all ties with his father, his illicit love for me being his
primary motivation. This left me feeling rather uncomfortable. Michio’s
erratic emotions were utterly mysterious, and even a little unsettling.
At any rate, for five days we continued our secretive trysts (this may be a
strange way of putting it, but somehow appropriate considering Michio’s
attitude). There is much I could write concerning my thoughts and
movements during that period, but most of this will be of little relevance to
my story as a whole; instead I’ll briefly describe one significant episode.
This was a puzzling discovery I made on the morning of the third day when
I happened to be nearing the storehouse, on my way to pass more notes with
Michio. The sun had not yet risen above the horizon and the island was
covered by an early morning mist, so visibility was low, which perhaps
explained why I didn’t notice anything until I was about 20 yards away
among the rocks outside the property wall, though more than anything it
was because what I saw was so unexpected. There was a figure stumbling
about on the roof of the storehouse.
I stopped in my tracks then quickly retreated behind a corner of the earthen
wall. When I looked again, I knew straight away the identity of that dark
shape. Although I wasn’t able to see Jōgorō's face, the outline of his
crippled form instantly gave him away.
I couldn’t help but fear for Moroto Michio’s life. Whenever that
monstrously malformed figure had previously appeared, calamity had soon
followed. There was Hatsuyo’s “crooked old man”, and the repulsive
looking creature I’d witnessed the night of Tomonosuke’s murder, then
most recently on the cliff edge the fiend who’d brandished a pickaxe the
night Toku-san and his son had been swallowed up by the ‘devil’s chasm’.
But did Jōgorō really mean to do away with Michio? Hadn’t he shown him
leniency and imprisoned him in the storehouse exactly because he couldn’t
bring himself to murder his own son? Then again, Michio had taken sides
against his father. It was hard to believe this monster would hesitate at
eliminating one of his enemies. No, Jōgorō must have realised his son was
now lost to him, and had decided to take him out of the picture.
While I turned these troubled thoughts over in my mind, the morning mist
thinned and Jōgorō’s hideous form became more distinct as he sat astride
the ridge at the roof’s highest point, diligently engaged in some activity.
Yes, I could see it now, he was trying to remove the onigawara (a kind of
decorative tile with the face of a demon positioned at the top of the gable);
there were two of these at each end of the roof, grand and dignified, in
keeping with the storehouse’s size. Their design was rather old-fashioned
and of a type rarely seen around Tokyo.
With the onigawara removed there’d only be a single wooden beam
between Jōgorō and Michio’s cell directly beneath him. It was likely
Michio was still asleep and unaware of the danger he was in and the
dreadful plot that was playing out above his head. Even so, I couldn’t
whistle a signal without giving away my position, so all I could do was look
on anxiously.
Jōgorō finally pulled the onigawara free and held it under his arm. The tile
was almost a metre long so this was no mean feat for the cripple. Next, he
turned to the space where the onigawara had been. He glanced downwards,
a smile flickered across his ugly face. The merciless killer was ready to
show his claws.
I broke out in a cold sweat as I watched this fantastical spectacle - too
petrified even to blink - then quite unexpectedly Jōgorō clambered out of
sight, down the other side of the roof, still with the onigawara under his
arm. I assumed he’d gone to unburden himself of this bothersome tile and
that he’d soon return unencumbered, but no matter how long I waited he
didn’t reappear. Hesitantly I crept from the wall to the rock where I’d
hidden before, and again took in the scene. The mist had now completely
cleared and the sun peaked out from behind the rocky outcrop at the centre
of the island and reflected off the storehouse walls in a dazzling display. But
Jōgorō was nowhere to be seen.
The Kami and the Buddha
Thirty minutes passed and I felt it was safe to signal my presence to Michio,
so I braced myself and whistled softly. Then, as though he’d been waiting
for me, Michio’s face appeared in the storehouse window. I poked my head
out from behind the rock where I’d been hiding and looked at him as if to
ask “All clear?” He nodded, so I ripped a page from my notebook, scribbled
down what I’d just witnessed, wrapped the page around a small stone lying
close by, took aim, and launched this at the window. After a while Michio
sent his reply, which went as follows:
Your letter told me a great deal. You should be glad. It seems we may soon
be able to accomplish one of our goals. And do not fear, there’s no threat to
my life at present.
I don’t have the time to go into all the details. I’ll only write of those things
I need you to do. This should give you a hint as to my overall plan.
First, without putting yourself in any danger, scour the whole island and
report back to me on any sites of worship, such as a small shrine, a stone
jizō statue, anything with a connection to Buddhism or Kami.
Second, some of the staff at the house will soon carry luggage onto a boat
and off the island. If you see them, tell me as soon as possible, and make a
note of how many people there are.
On receiving these unusual orders I dithered for a moment; it was
impossible to guess what was on Michio’s mind, but to carry on throwing
notes at each other would have been too risky, so I withdrew.
After that, in accordance with Michio’s demands, I trekked all day long
around the island, avoiding any dwellings or pathways as much as possible,
sneaking about like a fugitive. So that my disguise would not be seen
through even if I did meet someone, I wrapped a handkerchief around my
head and caked my hands and feet with mud using Toku-san’s son’s ragged
cotton kimono, which of course I was still wearing. As long as no one
looked too closely I was probably safe.
Walking outside in the afternoon sun was exhausting. It was August, the
hottest time of the year, and even though we were by the coast, the broiling
heat was unbearable. And yet I had to endure it, given the exceptional
circumstances. One thing I did learn from my tour of Iwayashima was just
how deserted it was. There were houses, but it was unclear if anyone was
living there. After a whole day of rambling the only people I saw were two
or three fishermen in the distance. There’d been no need for caution, it
seemed.
By the evening I’d completed a whole sweep of the island and had
discovered two sites that appeared to have a religious connection. On the
western edge of Iwayashima (the opposite side to the Moroto house) where
there were hardly any buildings at all and the cliffs were particularly
rugged, several mysterious rocks soared up close to the coastline.
Distinctive among them was a large rock in the shape of a pointed eboshi
hat [such as those worn by nobility]. On top of this was a miniature torii
gate, sculpted out of stone, just like the one crowning the larger of the
sacred Meoto Iwa rocks in Futami. Maybe at one time this island had been a
prosperous place, hundreds of years ago, when a castle lord had resided in
the Moroto house perhaps, wielding great power over his subjects. This
torii would have been constructed to ward off evil, but the granite gate was
now covered with dark-coloured moss and was so weather-beaten it could
almost have been mistaken for a part of the rock it was standing on.
On the same western cliffs, at a slightly elevated spot facing the eboshi
rock, was a jizō statue, also extremely ancient. Long ago, it seemed there’d
been a path going right round the island. Here and there traces of this still
remained. The jizō statue stood by the side of this path, acting like a
guidepost. No one came to worship here so there were of course no
offerings. The stone statue itself had been modelled on a human figure,
rather than the usual image of the guardian deity of children and travellers,
though its eyes, nose, and mouth had been worn away by the elements,
leaving its face expressionless. It made you stop in your tracks to see this
solitary form spring up in such desolate surroundings. The statue was on a
large stone plinth, and one could only wonder at how many years it had
stood there in the same position.
It occurred to me later that jizō statues had once been all over the island;
there were even the remains of a plinth on the north cliffs. Perhaps these
other jizōs had been knocked over by mischievous children and had
disappeared long ago, leaving only the one on the western side, which had
had the most inconvenient location.
After making a circuit of Iwayashima I explored its interior but found no
other religious sites other than the two I’ve just mentioned. I remembered a
fairly impressive shrine in the garden of the Moroto house, though I did not
know which Kami it was dedicated to. At any rate, Michio had not asked
me to search the grounds of that property.
The torii on the eboshi rock was a symbol of Shintoism and the Kami
deities. The jizō statue was a representation of a bodhisattva and a symbol
of Buddhism. The Kami and the Buddha. Now I understood why Michio
had sent me on this mission. Needless to say it was in relation to the cryptic
message we’d uncovered in Hatsuyo’s genealogical record. I recalled its
lines:
When the Kami and the Buddha meet,
Strike at the southeast demon,
There find Amitābha’s blessing,
But choose wisely at the crossing of ways
Couldn’t the “Kami” refer to the torii on the eboshi rock, and the “Buddha”
refer to the jizō statue? And then, aha! Now it came to me. Could the
“demon” be the onigawara I’d seen Jōgorō take down from the storehouse
roof that morning? That decorative tile had been on the southeastern edge
of the building. In other words, the “southeast demon”. The rest of the
message, “There find Amitābha’s blessing”, indicated the treasure was
hidden inside the onigawara itself. In which case, Jōgorō must have already
smashed the tile and recovered the loot. But why hadn’t Michio concerned
himself with this? I’d expressly written in my note that Jōgorō had removed
the onigawara, but after reading my correspondence, it seemed Michio’s
attention had been drawn to something else, suggesting there was a different
solution. After all, the first line now seemed redundant if all it took was to
break apart the “demon” tile. But then what on earth did that first line
mean? Even if the eboshi rock’s torii was the “Kami” and the stone jizō was
the “Buddha” how could these two objects “meet”? Maybe I was barking
up the wrong tree entirely?
I racked my brains but couldn’t unravel this puzzle. Only one thing was
clear from the events of the day. The thief who stole the genealogical record
and Yū-chan’s diary from that second-floor room above the restaurant in
Kanda had to be the sinister old cripple. Otherwise why now take down the
onigawara? He’d already dug up his garden and searched his house, but
once he’d got his hands on the cryptic message he’d put all his efforts into
solving its riddle, finally connecting the “southeast demon” with the
“demon” tile on the storehouse.
If Jōgorō’s interpretation was correct, wouldn’t he already have the
treasure? Or perhaps he’d made a mistake and there was nothing inside the
onigawara at all. Could it be that Michio had cracked the code instead? I
was itching to find out.
The Company of Freaks
That same evening I went back to the storehouse and reported all I’d
discovered to Michio in the usual manner. Just to be certain, I even drew a
simple map with the locations of the eboshi rock and the stone jizō statue.
After waiting some time, Michio appeared at the window and threw down
the following note:
Do you have an accurate watch?
This question came completely out of the blue. But our method of
correspondence was extremely limited and my life was quite possibly in
danger so it was natural that Michio didn’t have the time to go into all the
whys and wherefores behind his reasoning. Michio’s terse messages could
only give a clue as to what was going on in his mind.
Luckily I did have a wristwatch. I’d strapped it high up my arm to keep it
hidden. I’d also kept it wound so it should have been showing the right
time. I rolled up my sleeve so Michio could see, and gestured with my hand
to signal that it was accurate. Michio appeared satisfied and nodded, then he
drew back. A while later he threw down the following much longer note:
This is very important so please do exactly as I say. As you may have
guessed, I’ve an idea where the treasure is buried. Jōgorō is also close but
has made a critical error. I’m confident we can beat him to the chase.
Tomorrow, if the weather is fine, go to the eboshi rock at about four o’clock
in the afternoon and pay close attention to the shadow of the torii. That
shadow should overlap the stone jizō. Remember the precise time this
happens, then return here.
I accepted my orders and hurried back to Toku-san’s shack, but that evening
all I could think of was that cryptic message. The meaning of the line,
“When the Kami and the Buddha meet,” was now clear to me. They
wouldn’t meet in actuality, but the shadow of the “Kami” (the torii on the
eboshi rock) would fall across the “Buddha” (the stone jizō). What a
marvellous notion! I had to admire Moroto Michio’s brilliant insight.
But the following line, “Strike at the southeast demon,” was a mystery
again. Jōgorō had apparently made a huge blunder; it seemed the “southeast
demon” was not the onigawara from the storehouse after all. But what other
“demon” was there?
With this question left unanswered I eventually drifted off to sleep. The
next morning I was awoken by a noise so alien to this island: the clamour of
human voices. I listened as a group of people passed by the front of the
shack and towards the landing place where we’d first arrived on
Iwayashima. It was unmistakably the staff from the Moroto household. I’d
been ordered to keep an eye out for them so I quickly got up and opened the
window shutters just enough to see out. There were three figures moving
away from me. Two carried a wooden box slung between them, while a
third followed to the side. This was Sukehachi from Yū-chan’s diary. The
other men were two brawny looking characters I’d seen before.
Michio had written in his note the previous day, “Some of the staff at the
house will soon carry luggage onto a boat and off the island,” and I
wondered if this was what he’d been referring to. He’d also asked me to let
him know how many people had been involved.
I watched as the trio gradually dwindled in size then disappeared among the
shadows of some rocks. Before long though, a sailboat came into view,
being rowed out to sea with its sails down. It was some distance away but
on board I could see the same three figures from before as well as the
wooden box. As the boat moved further out, its sails filled with the morning
breeze and it slipped off towards the horizon.
I had to inform Michio of this as soon as possible. By then I’d grown used
to walking about in the daylight; and having come across so few people I
now made light of the risks this entailed. Without hesitation I left the shack
and hurried to the storehouse.
After receiving my written report, Michio sent a bold reply:
Those three should not be back for another week. I’ve some idea where
they’ve gone. There’s no one we need fear anymore. Now is the time to
strike. But I must ask for your help. Wait there behind that rock for one
hour. Then on my signal, shout and scream and run into the house. If
anyone tries to flee, grab them. Don’t worry, the only people left are women
and cripples. The battle has finally begun!
This unexpected turn of events had put off my treasure hunting for the time
being. I waited impatiently for Michio to signal to me from the storehouse
window. His stirring words had set my pulse racing. If whatever he had
planned succeeded, we’d finally be able to converse in the normal manner
once again; and I’d be able to see Yū-chan’s face up close, and hear her
speak, having longed to do both ever since arriving on the island. My recent
bizarre experiences had given me a taste for adventure, and I thrilled at the
mention of a battle.
Michio was going to war against his parents. This was not the usual way of
the world. I wondered how he must be feeling as that moment drew near.
Did he really intend to stand up to his formidable mother and father?
I crouched down behind that rock for an interminable amount of time. It
was another sweltering day. I was in the shade but the pebbles beneath my
feet felt like burning coals. Normally I’d be cooled by an ocean zephyr but
the air was still. There wasn’t even the sound of waves. It was so quiet I
almost wondered if I’d lost my hearing. As the summer sun’s rays blazed
down mercilessly the silence was bottomless. I stared at the storehouse
window, dizzily close to passing out when Michio finally waved at me. His
arm stretched out between the iron bars and moved up and down two or
three times. I instantly got to my feet and started running. I circled the
storehouse, through the property’s front gate, and stormed into the house.
As I entered the porch area I checked for any signs of life but there were
none. Even though our opponent was an old man with rickets, he was
fiendishly cunning and utterly ruthless. I feared for Michio’s life, and what
ordeals he might be going through.
The house was eerily silent. I stepped up into the hallway and tip-toed down
a long winding corridor. After turning a corner I came to a straight passage
about 20 yards in length and two or three yards wide. The floor was of
ancient tatami, reddish-brown in colour. The old-fashioned design of the
house meant sunlight barely penetrated here and it was as though night had
fallen early.
At the same time I entered the passage, something else appeared at the other
end. It seemed to become entangled with itself as it ran towards me at great
speed. I was initially baffled by its strange appearance, but as it approached
and bumped into me, shrieking weirdly, I realised it was the conjoined
twins, Yū-chan and Kī-chan. They were both dressed in rags; Yū-chan’s
hair was tied back in a simple braid, but Kī-chan’s was wild and unkept, as
though it had been cut only occasionally. The two of them were beside
themselves with joy at being released from their prison and danced like
children. As they laughed and cavorted in front of me, it felt like I was
watching an exotic mis-shaped animal. Without realising it, I found myself
holding Yū-chan’s hand. She giggled and squeezed back affectionately. I
was impressed that her fingernails were well-manicured despite the
circumstances she’d been held in. This small detail moved me greatly.
When the savage Kī-chan saw I was getting on so well with his sister, he
immediately lost his temper. I discovered how a human with no culture or
education will bare its teeth in the manner of an ordinary primate when
angry. Kī-chan snarled at me like a mountain gorilla, and pulled Yū-chan
away. Just then, a woman burst from a room to my rear, perhaps attracted
by all the commotion. It was the mute Otoshi. When she saw the twins had
been freed from the storehouse she turned white and tried to push them
back down the passage, but I easily overcame her. I pinned Otoshi’s arm
behind her back and when she twisted her head to look at my face she
instantly recognized me and all the fight went out of her. The mute looked
utterly bewildered and made no attempt to resist.
Then from the end of the passage where the twins had come from, an odd
group of individuals emerged. At their head was Moroto Michio, followed
by five or six mysterious looking creatures staggering behind him.
I’d known there were freaks living in the Moroto house, but I’d never seen
them, since they’d all been shut away in locked rooms. It seemed Michio
had just now unlocked those rooms and given these grotesqueries their
freedom. Each one of them, in their own way, appeared to be rejoicing, and
under Michio’s sway.
One was a so-called ‘bear-girl’. Half her face was covered in fur as though
splattered by black ink. Her arms and legs were normally proportioned, but
she was deathly pale, undernourished perhaps, and she muttered
incoherently under her breath. Even so, she appeared happy.
Another was a child with double-jointed legs who squatted like a frog. He
was only around 10-years-old and had a sweet smile. Despite his disability
he hopped about energetically.
Then there were three dwarfs. Each with an adult-sized head on a child’s
body, but they differed from the usual exhibits seen in freak shows in that
they were extremely frail. Their feeble limbs seemed to lack bone structure
and they struggled to walk. One crawled across the floor pathetically like a
baby. All three of them were so weak they were barely able to support their
own oversized heads.
Seeing the conjoined twins, along with these other abnormalities, crowded
together in that long passageway, made my head spin. It was a comical
sight, but also one that sent a shiver down my spine.
Michio approached and called out cheerfully, “Minoura, we did it, we beat
them at last!”
“‘Beat them’? You mean..”
I thought for a moment Michio was about to confess that he’d done away
with both his parents, but then he added, “We trapped those two fiends in
the storehouse in our place.”
Michio had lured his father and mother inside his cell by pretending he’d
something to say to them, then in a flash had rushed outside - together with
the twins - and had bolted the door behind them. The crippled pair had been
caught completely unawares. It was hard to believe that Jōgorō had been so
easily fooled, he’d perhaps been lulled into a false sense of security.
“Who are they?” I asked, pointing at the monstrous group of creatures
before me.
“My father’s freaks.”
“But why raise such a curious group here in this house?”
“They’d something in common with Jōgorō I suppose. But let’s discuss
such details later. We have to hurry. I want to get off this cursed island
before those three servants return. They should be gone for five or six days.
In the meantime we have some treasure hunting to do. Then we can finally
free our new friends from this terrible place.”
“What about your two prisoners? What will you do with them?”
Michio looked at me gloomily and muttered, “My parents? I don’t know.
It’s spineless of me but I guess I’ll just run away. If I steal the loot and
disappear with their precious freaks, what can they do about it? Perhaps
they’ll end up renouncing their evil ways. At any rate, I don’t have the guts
to bring any action against them, or make them pay for what they’ve done.
It may be weak of me, but I must turn tail and never look back. Please, at
least spare me this one act of cowardice.”
The Triangle
The company of freaks were well-behaved so we left them in the charge of
Yū-chan and Kī-chan. Even the ill-natured Kī-chan did as he was told;
Michio had given him his freedom after all.
Through hand gestures Yū-chan conveyed Michio’s instructions to the mute
Otoshi. Her job was to provide meals for everyone, including Jōgorō and
his wife. She was told many times never to open the door of the storehouse,
but to pass food through the ground floor window. It was not as though she
felt any loyalty towards her previous master, indeed, she both feared and
loathed the brutal Jōgorō, so she’d no objection to this new state of affairs.
Michio efficiently set about dealing with the aftermath of his escape, so that
by noon everything was in place. Only three male servants had been
employed in the Moroto household and they were all off the island so
victory had been all too easy. As far as Jōgorō had been concerned, I was no
longer around, and besides he’d never imagined his own son would turn
against him, so he’d let his guard down and sent his three strongest allies
away. Michio took advantage of Jōgorō’s complacency and his daring
ambush had worked out splendidly.
I questioned what these men were doing and why they wouldn’t be back for
a week or so, but Michio refused to go into any details. “Rest assured
they’ll be gone for five or six days at least. Don’t ask me how I know, but I
do,” was all he’d say.
That afternoon the two of us set out for the eboshi rock. Our hunt for the
buried treasure was on again.
“I cannot wait to get off this damned island, but if we run now, we’ll be
leaving a fortune to my parents, to fund their wicked deeds. If the money’s
here, I’m determined to find it. We can then give consolation to Hatsuyo’s
mother back in Tokyo, and bring some happiness to those freaks whose
lives have been destroyed. As for me, I might at least find some solace at
last. We must hurry to unearth this treasure, if it does turn out to exist. The
proper thing would be to go public and trouble the authorities, but since
such a course of action would send Jōgorō to the scaffold, I prefer to leave
them out of it,” Michio said apologetically as we walked.
“I understand. I suppose there’s no other way,” I answered, believing this to
be true. After a while I moved the conversation onto more pressing matters.
“Rather than the treasure itself, I’m more interested in solving the cryptic
message and seeing where it leads us. I’m baffled by the whole thing, but it
seems you’ve worked it all out?”
“Possibly, but I won’t know for sure until I’ve tested my theory. Part of
which I’ve already revealed to you.”
“Indeed, the meaning behind ‘When the Kami and the Buddha meet’. It’s
all to do with the shadow of the torii passing over the stone jizō. But after
that I’m clueless.”
“Is that so? But you’re halfway there.”
“What about ‘Strike at the southeast demon’? I can’t think what that
means.”
“You told me yourself. The onigawara from the storehouse roof of course.”
“But that can’t be right. Otherwise smashing the tile would have revealed
the hidden treasure.”
“Why not follow the same approach as with the torii and the jizō? In other
words, don’t think about the onigawara itself, but the shadow it casts. If the
first line is to make sense, there’s no other way of looking at it. This was
where Jōgorō went wrong. He climbed the storehouse roof believing the
treasure would be found there. From my window I saw him break apart the
tile he removed, but of course there was nothing inside. Thanks to his
actions though, I got a clue as to the riddle’s solution.”
I couldn’t help redden a little from embarrassment. What a fool I’d been!
“How silly of me. Such a thing never even crossed my mind. So, at the
precise moment when ‘the Kami and the Buddha meet’, we only need to
pinpoint the spot where the edge of onigawara’s shadow falls,” I remarked,
remembering Michio’s interest in my wristwatch.
“Just so, though there’s always a chance I may be wrong.”
Other than this exchange we were mostly silent as we walked. Michio was
unresponsive so I kept quiet. No doubt he was thinking about his act of
treachery in imprisoning his own father. He never used that word - calling
him simply Jōgorō instead - but even so, he must have been saddened by his
betrayal of the man who’d raised him.
We arrived at our destination a little early. The shadow of the torii had only
just reached the cliff edge. I wound my watch and we waited for the sun to
move across the sky. We found a place in the shade to sit down, but there
was still, unusually, no breeze and the sweat trickled down my back and
chest. The torii’s shadow crept across the ground, so slowly its movement
was imperceptible. Then, when it was six or seven yards from the stone jizō
a thought occurred to me. I unconsciously looked towards Michio and I saw
by his strange expression that he was thinking the same thing.
“It’s not going to reach,” I said.
“The shadow is several yards too far to the side,” Michio remarked
despondently, “It seems I was mistaken.”
“Perhaps the Kami and the Buddha referred to in the cryptic message are
located elsewhere. There are remains of other jizō statues all along the
coast.”
“But a shadow can only be cast from an elevated position. This is the only
rock near the cliffs high enough, and moreover, there’s no trace of a shrine
on the peak at the centre of the island. This torii simply has to be the
‘Kami’ from the riddle,” Michio said regretfully.
As we talked the torii’s shadow steadily progressed, extending so far that its
edge was now close to being in line with the jizō. The gap between the
shadow and the statue was only about five yards. Michio stared intently at
this space then all of a sudden burst out laughing.
“How could we have been so stupid! The answer is child’s play!” he
exclaimed, chuckling to himself. “The days are longer in the summer and
shorter in the winter. Don’t you see? The sun’s position changes in relation
to the earth. Shadows never fall at precisely the same location on any given
day. Except for those two occasions each year when the sun is an equal
distance from the planet, either approaching the equator or moving away
from it. It’s so blindingly obvious!”
“Of course! But then doesn’t that mean we only have two chances a year to
find the treasure? On those two occasions the torii’s shadow crosses the
statue?” I asked.
“That’s what the person who hid it must have thought. They were perhaps
under the misapprehension that such a method would make the treasure
even more arduous to find. However, if the torii and the jizō are indeed
signposts to the loot, we don’t actually have to wait at all. There is another
way.”
“We can draw a triangle! With the end of the torii’s shadow and the stone
jizo as two points.”
“Precisely. We just need to measure the angle at the other end of the
triangle, and its dimensions, then, when we observe the onigawara’s
shadow we can use this angle to calculate the location of the treasure.”
This simple discovery thrilled us immensely. We waited until the shadow of
the torii reached exactly the height of the stone jizō. I checked my
wristwatch and made a note of the time, 5.25 p.m. We then measured the
distance between these two points, and after a great deal of effort - inching
down a sheer cliff face and clambering up jagged rocks - we calculated how
far the statue was from the torii itself. Finally I drew this triangle in my
notebook. We now had all the information we needed. At five twenty-five
the next day, we could verify where the shadow of the storehouse roof fell,
and finally be able to locate the treasure’s hiding place.
However, we’d not yet fully decoded that cryptic spell. There was still the
ominous last line, “But choose wisely at the crossing of ways.” What on
earth could the “crossing of ways” mean? Perhaps this was some kind of
hellish labyrinth, and we were heading directly for it.
The Well
That night we slept side-by-side in a room in the Moroto house and I was
woken several times by the sound of Michio’s voice. He appeared to be in
the throes of an incessant nightmare. His nerves must have been shattered
after locking up the man he considered his father.
Occasionally he called out my own name. I was somewhat alarmed when I
realised how much I must have occupied his subconscious thoughts. I
fretted over how reprehensible it was to spend all this time with Michio and
yet pretend not to notice the extent to which he - despite us being the same
sex - continued to brood over me.
The next day we’d nothing to do until five o’clock so were again stuck in
each other’s company. This put Michio on edge, and we killed time by
walking up to the cliffs and back again. He seemed afraid to go anywhere
near the storehouse.
Jōgorō and his wife were surprisingly docile. Perhaps they’d accepted their
fate or were instead pinning their hopes on the return of the three male
servants. I couldn’t help taking an interest in them and went to the
storehouse myself several times to listen at the door and peer in through the
ground floor window, but I saw and heard nothing. When the mute Otoshi
passed their meals through the same window, Jōgorō’s wife would meekly
come down the stairs to collect them without saying a word.
The freaks were all gathered together in another room and were also quiet,
except when I came to talk to Yū-chan, then Kī-chan would get angry and
shout nonsense at me. Yū-chan seemed ever more tender-hearted and
intelligent everytime we spoke. Our friendship gradually grew more
intimate. She was like a precocious child and fired questions at me one after
the other. I answered each as best as I could. On the other hand Kī-chan’s
brutish and ill-mannered behaviour got on my nerves so I made sure he
noticed how well I was getting on with his sister. This enraged him even
further and his face turned red and he squirmed and shot daggers at Yū-
chan.
Yū-chan herself was very much taken with me. Such was her desire for us
to meet, and in a display of great strength, she even managed to drag Kī-
chan to whatever room I happened to be in. How happy this made me feel!
Though later I was to realise her adoration came at a terrible price.
Among the company of freaks, the sweet natured ten-year-old boy who
crouched on all fours like a frog was my favourite. His name was Shige and
he was a cheerful soul who hopped along the corridors larking about by
himself. There seemed to be nothing wrong with his intellect; he had a
mature way of speaking with the odd childish phrase thrown in.
But I digress. Let me return to the main thread of my story. At 5 o’clock
that day, myself and Michio followed the outer property wall to the
storehouse and stood by the rock I’d previously used as a hiding place. We
looked up to where the onigawara had been and waited for the appointed
time. The sky remained clear, as we’d hoped, and the long shadow of the
southeastern end of the storehouse roof stretched away from the main
building.
“The onigawara is missing so we’ll have to measure a couple of feet farther
from where the shadow falls,” Michio said, glancing at my watch.
“It’s twenty past. Only five minutes to go. But it’s hard to believe
something could be buried in such rocky ground,” I responded.
“There’s a small patch of vegetation over there. At a rough guess I’d say
that’s where the shadow is moving.”
“That grove of trees? I passed there the first day we arrived. There’s a large
disused well at its centre,” I said, remembering the grand stone structure I’d
seen.
“Huh. An old well. Odd that one should be placed in such a spot. Was there
water?”
“It seemed dried up. Though it was awfully deep.”
“Perhaps there were once other houses in the vicinity. Or the property here
used to extend further out.”
As we talked, the appointed time arrived. My wristwatch showed exactly
5.25 p.m.
“The position will have shifted somewhat from yesterday, but not
significantly,” Michio muttered, almost to himself, as he ran to the tip of the
shadow and marked the spot with a stone. I took out my notebook and
wrote down the distance from there to the storehouse, then using the angle
we’d already recorded, and the other measurements, we calculated where
the third point of the triangle would be. As Michio had anticipated, it was
directly over the grove of trees.
We pushed aside the leafy branches and approached the well. Thick
vegetation blocked out the light on every side and the air was damp. When
we peered over the stone lip of the pitch black opening, an eerie chill
brushed against our cheeks, rising from deep within the earth.
We rechecked our measurements just to make sure, but there was no
mistake. The demon’s shadow fell at exactly this point.
“It doesn't make sense. Why choose somewhere so exposed? Maybe the
treasure is buried in the mud at the bottom, but that would have meant
dredging the well when it was still in use. It makes a risky hiding place,” I
said, unconvinced anything was to be found there.
“You’re right perhaps. Such a simple hole in the ground lacks any useful
nooks and crannies. Anyone of a prudent nature would not have hidden
valuables where they could so easily be found. But you remember the last
line of the cryptic message? How did it go, ‘Choose wisely at the crossing
of ways’? I wonder if there are not more passages at the bottom of this well.
Such spaces, or ‘crossings’, might twist and turn like a maze.”
“Sounds rather fantastical,” I objected.
“Not so. Rocky islands like this are often riddled with cracks and crevices.
Take the ‘devil’s chasm’ for instance. Rainwater can erode subterranean
layers of limestone and create a vast underground complex. This disused
well could be an entrance to such a network.”
“And a natural maze like that would make an excellent hiding place. If
you’re right, someone has made doubly sure their treasure stays hidden.”
“Which suggests it has enormous value. However, there is one thing about
the cryptic message I still don’t understand,” Michio admitted.
“Really? Hearing you talk, I thought you had it all figured out.”
“It’s a small detail perhaps. But, ‘Strike at the southeast demon’. If we were
to dig up the ground, to ‘strike’ would fit, but climbing into a well? It
doesn’t tally. The riddle, childish at first, is in truth well thought out. The
writer wouldn’t have left any unnecessary information. If there was nothing
to strike, they wouldn’t have said so.”
We discussed this for a while in the gloom of the grove but couldn’t come
up with a satisfactory explanation. In the end we decided there was nothing
for it but to go down the well and see if there really were any cavities to
explore. Michio hurried back to the house and returned with a long length
of thick rope, of a type used by fishermen.
“I’ll go,” I volunteered, since I was smaller and lighter than Michio.
Michio tied one end of the rope securely around my waist. He then took the
middle part of the rope and wound this once around a section of stone that
protruded from the top of the well. Finally he grasped the other end. In this
way he’d let out slack as I climbed down.
I pocketed some matches Michio had produced, held onto the rope firmly,
swung my legs over the well’s lip, then inched my way into the pitch-black
depths.
The brick walls of the well were uneven but covered in moss so my feet
slipped when I tried to get a foothold. After descending about six feet I lit a
match and looked down but couldn’t see to the bottom. I dropped the flame
and it fell a further ten feet before going out. Some water still remained
perhaps.
I worked my way downwards four or five feet more, then lit a second
match. This time, as soon as I tried to peer below me into the darkness, a
sudden draught blew the flame out. I was puzzled and lit a third match, and
before this could be extinguished I discovered where the draught had come
from. There was an opening in the wall. A couple of feet from the bottom of
the well, a section of brickwork about two feet wide had crumbled away,
leaving a hole of impenetrable inky blackness. The entrance was
misshapen, but it was clear someone had deliberately broken through the
previously solid brick. Here and there in the same area, other bricks had
apparently been worked loose, removed, then reinserted. And at the bottom
of the well, now that I could see it, I could make out three or four broken
wedges poking out from the water. It was beyond doubt, a passageway had
been smashed into. Michio’s hunch had proved startlingly accurate. Here
was the cavity, as well as the justification for the line, ‘Strike at the
southeast demon’. I quickly hauled myself up the rope and when I was back
outside reported everything I’d discovered to Michio.
“Strange. It seems someone’s stolen a march on us and already smashed a
way through. Did it look like the damage to the brickwork was recent?”
Michio asked a little excitedly.
“No, it must have happened years ago. The moss has all grown back,” I
answered plainly.
“Well it surely wasn’t whoever wrote the cryptic message. And we know it
wasn’t Jōgorō. Someone else must have solved the riddle ahead of us. And
if they got as far as discovering the hidden passage, the treasure must be
long gone.”
“Although, on such a small island as this, how could something like that
have gone unnoticed? There’s only one place boats can land and launch
from. Nothing here is kept secret from the Moroto household,” I countered.
“True. A villain like Jōgorō would not have risked murder for the sake of a
nonexistant reward. He had to have been certain the treasure was still here.
He knew at least we hadn’t taken it.”
For a while we puzzled over this curious state of affairs, and the possibility
our efforts had been in vain from the very beginning. If, at that moment,
we’d remembered the story told to us by the boatman who’d brought us to
the island, and had put all the various pieces together, we would have been
more confident there was still a fortune to be found. But we never made that
imaginative leap (not surprising in my case).
You may well recall the old seadog’s mysterious tale. The visit to
Iwayashima ten years ago by a traveller who claimed to be Jōgorō’s cousin,
and the discovery of his body at the entrance to the ‘devil’s chasm’ soon
after.
It was perhaps fortunate we never made this connection. If we’d dwelt too
deeply on the causes of that traveller’s death, we’d never have had the
courage to go looking for untold wealth in the bowels of the earth.
The Labyrinth
Only one course of action remained. We had to go into the opening I’d
discovered and find out for sure whether or not the treasure had been taken.
We returned to the house one more time to pick up a number of items
necessary for our exploration: candles; matches; a large fisherman’s knife;
and a length of thin twine used for fishing nets (which we rolled into a ball
as tightly as possible).
“The cavity is likely to be extraordinarily deep. But not only that, if we’re
to believe the riddle’s description, the ‘crossing of ways’, it will branch off
in several directions like the paths of a forbidden forest. You’re read ‘The
Improvisatore’ by Hans Christian Andersen have you not? There’s a section
where the hero enters the catacombs of Rome. That’s where I got the idea of
bringing this ball of twine, just like the painter Federigo in the book,”
Michio explained.
Much later, I reread ‘The Improvisatore’, and when I came to the relevant
section describing the underground tunnels, I couldn’t help but shudder in
recollection of my own adventures:
Deep below, hollowed out of the soft pozzolan earth, the one passage
crosses another. Their multitude, their similarity one to another, are
sufficient to bewilder even him who knows the principal direction. I had
formed no idea of the whole, and the painter felt so confident, that he had
no hesitation in taking me, the little boy, down with him. He lighted his
candle, and took another with him in his pocket, fastened a ball of twine to
the opening where we descended, and our wandering commenced. Anon the
passages were so low that I could not go upright…
[From ‘The Improvisatore’ by Hans Christian Anderson, first published
1835, translated by Mary Howitt]
The painter and the boy had stepped into a subterranean maze. Our own
experience was strikingly similar. We clambered down the rope I’d used for
my initial descent and stood in the freezing cold and ankle-deep water at the
bottom of the well. The opening in the brick wall faced us at about waist
height.
Just like Federigo, Michio lit a candle and securely tied one end of the ball
of twine to a brick sticking out at the passageway’s entrance, then we made
our way through the cavity, letting out the twine as we went. We crawled on
all fours like two bear cubs, Michio going first, holding the candle aloft,
and me following with the twine.
“It’s just as I thought, it seems remarkably deep,” Michio said.
“The air is so stuffy,” I replied.
We spoke quietly as we slowly crept forward. After progressing about ten
or twelve yards the tunnel widened and we were able to walk, as long as we
crouched over a little, then soon came to the mouth of another passageway
in a sidewall.
“A branch line, as expected,” Michio said. “This is where the labyrinth
begins. But we shan’t get lost if we keep hold of the twine. For now, let’s
continue on the main route.”
We ignored the turning and went on, but after only five more yards there
was another pitch-black opening. This time, when Michio reached in with
the candle, we could see the tunnel appeared wider, so we decided to
change course.
As we went on, the way began to twist and snake in every direction. It
didn’t just meander left and right, but up and down; sometimes descending,
sometimes climbing; and where the roof of the tunnel became low, the
ground grew boggy and slippery.
There were so many branches and openings it was impossible to keep track
of them all. Unlike man-made caves, some sections were too narrow to
even crawl through, and there were places where the rock had cracked open
to reveal long thin fissures. Then before we knew it, we emerged into a
huge cavern with five or six exits branching away on all sides.
“It spreads out like a spider’s web. I never thought this labyrinth would be
so vast. If it continues like this, it must extend beneath the whole island
from end to end,” Michio said dejectedly.
“There’s not much twine left. When this ball runs out, I guess we can’t go
any further.”
“We’ll have no choice but to retreat and find a longer piece. That twine is
the only thing stopping us from being lost underground forever.”
Michio’s face flickered red and brown in the candlelight. Because he was
illuminated from below, unfamiliar shadows appeared above his eyes and
cheeks and he seemed like another person entirely. Whenever he spoke, the
black circle of his mouth opened uncannily wide.
The candle’s faint beams reached only a half dozen feet in each direction,
so it wasn’t clear what colour the surrounding rocks were, but the cavern’s
ceiling was white and grotesquely gnarled and water dripped from those
places where it protruded downwards. It was a kind of grotto with a
collection of eerie stalactites.
The route we took began to descend in earnest. Down and down it went to
an unsettling degree. In front of me, Michio’s silhouette swayed from side
to side as we progressed. Each time he moved to the left or right, the
candle's flame blinked in and out of view. The uneven surface of the
reddish-brown rock walls passed over my head in a monotonous stream.
Soon it felt like the walls and ceiling were moving further away as we
walked. We’d apparently stumbled across another large cavern. Just then I
realised the ball of twine had almost dwindled to nothing in my hands.
“I’m out of twine!” I blurted out. Even though I’d not spoken loudly, the
sound reverberated in my ears. Then a small voice responded from
somewhere in the distant depths, “I’m out of twine!”
It was my own echo. Michio turned to me in surprise. “What’s that?” he
said, holding the candle out in front of him. Its flame now illuminated his
entire form. Then in the next instant he gave a short cry and suddenly
disappeared from view. The flickering light from the candle went out at the
same time.
“Ah!...Ah!...Ah!” Michio’s cry repeated, becoming fainter each time.
“Michio! Michio!” I called out in alarm.
“Michio! Michio! Michio! Michio!” my own voice echoed back mockingly.
In utter terror I groped around in the dark, inching my way towards where
Michio had stood just seconds before, then I lost my own footing and in a
flash, found myself tumbling forwards.
I landed on top of Michio and he yelped in pain. It immediately became
clear to me what had happened. The ground had dropped abruptly, by only a
couple of feet, and we’d both fallen head-over-heels into a shallow trench.
Michio had hurt his knee with the impact and had not been able to respond
to me immediately.
“That was rather nasty,” Michio muttered somewhere in the darkness. He
then appeared to get to his feet. I heard the sound of a match being struck
and Michio’s figure emerged from the inky blackness. “Are you injured?”
“No, I’m fine,” I replied.
He then relit the candle and we set off once again. But we hadn’t gone a
dozen or so yards before I stopped dead in my tracks. I’d realised with a
start that I was now empty handed. “Michio, can I take the candle for a
moment?” I asked, trying to suppress the rising panic within me.
“Why? What’s the bother?” he said, doubtfully agreeing to my request.
“It’s nothing. It’s nothing,” I said as I quickly grabbed the flame and
scrambled around on the cavern’s floor. Though no matter how hard I
searched, I was never going to find that thin twine in the faint candlelight.
Even so, with a deep sense of remorse, I continued looking.
Michio soon cottoned on and rushed over. He grabbed my arm and
exclaimed with uncharacteristic fervour, “Have you lost sight of our only
means of getting out of here?”
I nodded wretchedly.
“Then we’re doomed. Without that twine we’ll be wandering in circles
around these catacombs for the rest of our lives.”
We both began to scour the cavern’s floor with increasing desperation. With
the idea of focusing our search near the trench where we’d fallen, we held
the candle just above the ground and tried returning to the same spot, but
there were steps and troughs in every direction, as well as there being
numerous entrances to the cavern itself, so in the end we lost track of where
we’d come in, where we’d started looking, and where we’d already looked.
The more we searched the more forlorn we became.
The hero of ‘The Improvisatore’ endured a similar ordeal. The boy’s terror
is vividly portrayed in Mori Ōgai’s famous translation [the English
translation by Mary Howitt is reproduced here instead]:
All was quite still, the falling waterdrops alone sent forth a monotonous
sound...I was suddenly terrified by my friend the painter, who heaved a
strange sigh, and sprang about...I became so terrified at his singular
behaviour, that I got up and began to cry...I then took him by the hand and
strove to draw him with me.
“Child! Child! Thou art a noble fellow!” said he; “I will give thee pictures
and cakes - there, thou hast money!” And he took his purse out of his
pocket, and gave me all that was in it: but I felt that his hand was ice-cold
and that he trembled...Then he bent himself down to me the next moment,
kissed me vehemently, called me his dear little Antonio, and whispered, “Do
thou also pray to the Madonna!”
“Is the string lost?” I asked.
The painter and the boy in ‘The Improvisatore’ soon recovered the end of
the string and safely escaped the catacombs. But would myself and Michio
be similarly blessed by such good fortune?
The Cut Twine
Unlike the painter Federigo we didn’t pray to the Madonna. It was for this
reason perhaps that we couldn’t find the end of the twine so easily. For over
an hour we frantically cast about, our bodies coated with sweat despite the
subterranean chill. More than once, in despair and remorse, I threw myself
down on the cold rocks and struggled to hold back my tears. If it hadn’t
been for the strong-willed Michio’s encouragement, I’d most likely have
abandoned my search and slumped in a corner of that underground prison to
await death from starvation.
Many times the candle was extinguished by the fruit bats that inhabited the
caves. Their horrid furry bodies often brushed against our faces as well as
the flame. Michio would patiently strike another match then continue his
methodical sweep of the cavern floor. “We mustn’t panic. If we just stay
calm, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t find what we’re looking for,” he
said with remarkable fortitude.
Finally, thanks to Michio’s presence of mind, the end of the twine was
discovered. But our joy was to be short-lived.
We grasped at that lifeline to the outside world and almost cheered and
danced with delight. I tugged the string in jubilation, but it felt suspiciously
slack, and did not stretch in the way it had done before.
Michio, standing beside me, noticed my hesitation. “Does it respond
differently?” he asked. Something was indeed wrong. Guessing at the
possible misfortune this lack of resistance suggested, I tried one hard pull.
The twine rippled snake-like and sprang up towards me. The momentum
made me lose my balance and I fell on my backside. Michio shouted,
“Stop!” just as I landed. “The twine has snapped. You mustn’t pull on it. Put
it down gently and it will hopefully lead us back towards the well. We
might be able to get close, as long as the break is further up.”
I did as Michio told me and we retraced our steps, following the twine as it
winded its way along the rocky floor, holding the candle just inches above
it. But alas! The trail went abruptly cold as we reached a passage into the
first cavern. Michio picked up the severed end and examined it closely in
the candlelight. “Take a look at this,” he said, holding it out to me.
At first I couldn’t see what he was getting at and fidgeted nervously, so
Michio explained, “You probably thought the twine snapped when you fell
into that trench and happened to pull too strongly. No doubt this made you
feel somewhat guilty. But you can rest easy. This is not what happened. The
truth however is far more chilling. Look here, this cut was not made by the
twine rubbing against the jagged edge of a rock, it appears to have been
severed by a sharp blade. If it had frayed with the force of your fall, the
breaking point would have been at the last corner we turned. But it seems in
fact to have been much nearer to where we first entered these caves.”
It was just as Michio said, the cut was clean. Furthermore, when we wound
the twine back into a ball to see how large it would become, and so be able
to judge its length, it almost reached its original size. There could be no
doubt. Someone had severed the twine close to the entrance at the bottom of
the well.
It was not clear how much of the twine I’d hauled in when I’d initially
tugged on it, but we reckoned this to be several dozen yards. Though even
before my tumble, if the twine had been unattached, I may have been
dragging it along as I walked, so it was impossible to estimate how far the
entrance was from our current position.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. Let’s just keep going,”
Michio said, lighting a fresh candle and striding off. There were several
branches leading out of the cavern but we headed in a straight line from
where the twine had come to an end, believing this to be in the direction of
the exit, and soon arrived at another passageway. We followed this,
sometimes meeting more branches, sometimes coming to a dead end. Then
we’d double back and try a different route. More than once we came out
into another cavern, not even sure if it was one we’d been in before. We
tried branch after branch, but only got more confused, stumbling further and
further into the labyrinth.
“We need to find a light source. Then we only have to head towards it to
find our way out,” Michio suggested, but we couldn’t detect even the
merest glimmer in the darkness.
After an hour of desperate wandering we’d still no idea what part of the
island we were under, whether we were getting any closer to finding our
way back to the well or were heading ever deeper underground.
The passage we were on descended sharply and led to yet another cavern.
This rose a little in the centre, then there was a high step which we climbed
up then sat down upon, after being exasperated by a wall of rock beyond
this.
“It feels like we’ve been going round and round in circles,” I remarked.
“Humans are such pathetic creatures. This island is a mere pebble. I could
easily swim around it. And above our heads, the sun is shining, there are
houses and people. Maybe only 50 or 100 feet away. So close, and yet
we’re powerless to break our way through.”
“That’s the dreadful nature of mazes. Take the ‘Mystery Bamboo Forests’
you find at certain carnivals. These are at most only 20 yards square, you
can see the exit through the bamboo stems but you can’t reach it, though
you try every turning. That’s the spell we’re under now,” Michio replied
calmly. “There’s no point in being hasty at a time like this. We must use our
heads and not our feet. We have to think our way out. We have to consider
the properties of the maze itself.”
For the first time since we’d entered the caves Michio lit a cigarette using
the flame from the candle. “We’d better conserve these too,” he added, and
blew the candle out. Now only the red pinprick of his cigarette was visible
in the all-encompassing darkness. As a keen smoker, Michio had taken a
packet of Westminster’s from his travel trunk before we’d lowered
ourselves into the well. He lit a second cigarette with the end of his first,
and we remained silent until he’d smoked this halfway down. Michio
seemed to be deep in thought, but I was too exhausted to do anything except
slump against the rock wall behind me.
 The Devil’s Chasm
“It’s the only way,” Michio’s voice suddenly reverberated in the darkness,
“Tell me Minoura, if all the passages in these caves were laid end to end,
how far do you think they’d stretch? Three miles? Six? Surely it can’t be
more than that. If we say six, then we only need to walk twelve miles.
Walking twice the length of these passages is all we must do to guarantee
our escape from this place. It’s how we defeat this monstrous labyrinth.”
“But what’s to stop us blindly retracing our steps and walking forever?” I
responded in despair.
“There’s a way to make sure that doesn't happen. Here’s how. Imagine you
form a large circle with a piece of string and lay it flat on the ground. Then
with your finger you pull the string inwards at several places, so the circle
takes on a more intricate shape, something like that of a maple leaf. Now,
make it more complicated with even more indentations. Don’t you see? It’s
just like a network of caves. The string describes the walls on both sides of
the passages. If those walls could move as freely as the string, and were
pulled tight, you’d end up with a large circle again. Now, let’s say we kept
walking with our right hands touching the wall to our right. If we came to a
dead end we’d turn around, but without taking our hands off the wall, and
so return making our way along the opposite side. By continuing this way,
traversing each passage twice, we’d be certain to find the exit, once we’d
traced the entire circumference of the circle. It’s clear when you consider
the example of the string. Therefore, if all the passages stretch six miles,
twelve miles is all we have to walk to ensure success. It’s a rather
roundabout method, but the only one available to us.”
I’d considered our position hopeless, but when I heard Michio’s ingenious
suggestion I sat bolt upright, “Indeed! Let us try it right away!” I urged.
“Certainly we will, but there’s no need to hurry. It’ll require a trek of
several miles so we should rest a little first,” Michio said, flicking his
cigarette away in front of him. The red glow spun like a Catherine wheel,
tumbling five or ten feet, then it suddenly fizzled out. “That’s odd. There
seems to be water down there,” Michio added uneasily.
In the same moment I heard a strange noise, like the glug, glug of wine
being poured from a bottle. “What a curious sound,” I said.
“Indeed,” Michio responded.
We both listened intently as the noise grew louder. Michio quickly lit a
candle and held it aloft. He peered into the darkness, then finally shouted in
surprise, “Seawater! There’s seawater down there! This cavern must lead
out to the ocean, and the tide is coming in!”
We were reminded of how much we’d just descended. Our location was
now perhaps below the surface of the sea. If so, along with the high tide, the
volume of water in the cavern would increase until it had filled to the level
outside.
The platform we were sitting on was the highest point on the cavern’s floor,
so we hadn’t noticed the danger we were in. Now the space below appeared
to be almost entirely flooded.
We dropped down and splashed through the rising deluge, hurriedly making
our way back to the passage we’d come from, but it was already too late.
With the water deepening the opening was now completely submerged.
Even Michio began to lose his composure. “We must find another way!” he
yelled.
We thrashed about looking for an exit, screaming incoherently at each other,
but there were no signs of an escape route in the half of the cavern that
wasn’t already underwater. To our great misfortune we were being forced
upwards like mercury in a thermometer, with only a ceiling of rock above
our heads.
The seawater could only have been pouring in from a point opposite to the
passage we’d walked down. But what disturbed us most was how rapidly it
was filling the cavern. There was no way it could have risen so fast if this
was just the result of the tide coming in. Here was proof that the cavern was
below sea level. There must have been a fissure in the rocks, just above the
waves at low tide. Then, as soon as this barrier was breached, in rushed the
water all in one go.
We took refuge on the high step where we’d sat before, but soon enough,
the seawater was lapping around our ankles. There was a scuttling sound of
something moving nearby, and when we held out the candle we saw that
five or six giant crabs had crawled up to join us, driven there by the waves.
“I understand at last. I see it all. Minoura, nothing can save us now,” Michio
said mournfully, as if struck by a sudden realisation. The grievous tone of
his voice alone was like a dagger to my heart.
“We’re on the other side of the ‘devil’s chasm’. That demonic whirlpool is
the source of all this water. Now everything makes sense,” Michio
continued hollowly, “It’s just as that old seadog said. A man claiming to be
Jōgorō’s cousin visited the Moroto house, then soon after his body emerged
from within the ‘devil’s chasm’s’ jaws. Somehow that man must have got
hold of the cryptic message and worked out its secret, then like us, entered
these caves. No doubt it was him who broke through the well’s brick wall.
He then lost his way, just as we did, got caught out by the rising sea level,
and drowned. His body was then washed into open water by the tide. That’s
how the boatman described it, floating half in and half out of the cursed sea
cave. In other words, this cavern is the ‘evil spirit’ at the heart of the
‘devil’s chasm’.”
While Michio had been talking, the water had risen up to our knees. We
slowly clambered to our feet. It seemed all we could do now was delay the
inevitable.
Afloat in the Abyss
When I was a child, I once killed a rat I’d caught in a wire mesh trap by
dropping him in a washtub and filling it with water. I was too cowardly to
try any other method of execution; stabbing him through the mouth with a
metal chopstick for instance. Nevertheless, it was a terribly cruel thing to
do. Still in the trap, the rat scampered back and forth and climbed his
narrow cage in terror as the tub filled up. I thought about how much he
must have regretted being tempted by the bait I’d left him, and an odd
feeling came over me that I couldn’t put into words. Even so, it wouldn’t do
to let the rat live, so I kept on pouring. When the water just about skimmed
the roof of his trap, the rat thrust its pink mouth through one of the holes in
the hexagonal mesh, desperate to breathe, and squeaked in a heart-rending
way. I closed my eyes and tipped in the last of the water, then ran from the
room without looking back. Ten minutes later, I returned to find the rat’s
body bloated and floating lifelessly.
In a lonely cavern on the island of Iwayashima, Michio and I now found
ourselves in the same predicament. Standing on the raised platform, feeling
the water slowly creep up my legs, in the pitch-black darkness, that
childhood memory returned to me.
“Do you think the water level at high tide reaches as high as this ceiling?” I
yelled, casting around for and grabbing Michio’s arm.
“I was just wondering the same thing,” Michio replied softly.
“Perhaps we could figure it out, if we compared how many of the passages
we walked through climbed upwards, and how many sloped downwards.”
“Far more descended, did they not?”
“I got that impression too. Even if we take into account the distance from
the ground to sea level, it still feels like we’re much lower.”
“Which leaves only one outcome.”
It was as black and silent as the grave as we stood there stupefied, the icy
sea water gradually, but unrelentingly, advancing, passing our knees and
reaching waist height.
“Please think of something. I can’t bear to simply wait for death to come,” I
pleaded, shivering with the cold.
“Don’t give up hope just yet. Just now I examined the cavern’s ceiling by
the light of the candle. It seems to be an irregular cone shape, getting
narrower and higher towards the centre. As long as there are no fissures in
the rock, then we still have the slimmest of chances,” Michio said, deep in
thought. I’d no idea what he was hinting at, but I didn’t have the energy to
ask any further questions.
I felt dizzy and clung to Michio’s shoulder as the water surged around my
belly. Then I inadvertently lost my footing and fell sideways, feeling myself
adrift in the flood. Michio wrapped his arm around my waist and took a
firm hold of me. I couldn’t see his face in the inky blackness, even though it
was only inches from mine, but I could hear his steady breathing and feel it
hot against my cheek. His clothes were sodden, and his muscles taut, but his
embrace warm. I was hit by the smell of his body which was pleasant to my
senses. All this reassured me. Thanks to Michio I was able to stand again; if
it hadn’t been for his help, I’d almost certainly have drowned there and
then.
And yet the flood showed no sign of abating. In no time at all the water
reached our shoulders. In another minute it would be up to our chins and
we’d have to start swimming in order to breathe.
“It’s no good, we’re not getting out of here,” I said, my voice breaking.
“Don’t despair. Hang on until the last second,” Michio shouted, “Can you
swim?”
“I can, but what’s the use? I can’t take any more. I just want death to come
quick.”
“Don’t talk such feeble nonsense. We’re not done yet. A little bit of
darkness and people fall to pieces. Get a hold of yourself. Where there’s life
there’s hope.”
We were now treading water. Soon our limbs would tire, or we’d freeze in
the subterranean chill, or the cavern would fill up completely and then
what? If only I was some kind of sea creature with gills, I wondered to
myself inanely. Despite Michio’s words of encouragement, I was resigned
to my fate.
“Minoura! Minoura!” Michio cried, pulling at my arm sharply. Coming to
my senses I realised I’d been half asleep and sinking underwater. If I stay
like this and let my mind wander, I’ll soon have no more worries, I thought
vaguely, drifting on the edge of consciousness. How surprisingly easy it is
to just lay back and die.
Time lost all meaning, and after what seemed like an eternity, or maybe just
a few seconds, Michio’s frenzied voice again woke me with a start,
“Minoura! We’re saved!”
Without the strength to reply I weakly squeezed Michio’s arm as a sign that
I’d heard him.
“The air feels strange doesn’t it? It’s changed somehow.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled in response.
“And the water has ceased rising.”
I suddenly registered Michio’s good news, “It’s reached high tide?”
“Perhaps. But I think there’s another reason. The air has nowhere to escape,
which creates pressure and stops the water from rising any further. It’s like I
said earlier, the ceiling is cone shaped, with no apparent cracks, giving us a
slim chance. I’d hoped as much from the beginning. We’ve been saved by
an air pocket.”
In exchange for sealing us in, the impermeable nature of the cavern had
come to our rescue. I won’t go into too much detail over what happened
next. A brief summary will suffice. In the end we survived that water trap
and were able to continue our underground exploration. It took a while for
the flood to recede, but since we knew we were out of danger our spirits
were restored. Staying afloat no longer seemed such a hardship. Eventually
the tide went out. The water withdrew as fast as it had poured in. It
appeared, after all, that the point at which the sea entered the cavern was
indeed higher than the cavern itself (which explained why it suddenly
rushed in, once the tide had reached a certain level). The water did not go
out the same way however, but drained through several cracks in the cavern
floor, too small for us to have noticed. Without these, the cavern would no
doubt have been permanently flooded. Soon we were able to stand on solid
ground again. We no longer feared drowning, but quickly discovered how
one calamity often follows on the heels of another. Our matches were
soaked. Even though we had candles, we had no way of lighting them.
When we realised this, our faces must have been a picture of utter dismay,
though of course we could not see each other.
“We’ll use our hands. We’ve already gotten used to the darkness. Being
blind makes us more sensitive to the direction we’re travelling,” Michio
said, unwilling to admit defeat, and yet close to tears.
Surrender
We followed Michio’s original plan, and each walked with our right hand
brushing against the passage wall. When we came to a dead end we’d turn
around and retrace our steps without breaking contact with the rock’s
surface. This was the only method left open to us if we were to find our way
out of that maze.
Other than occasionally calling out to each other so we wouldn’t get
separated, we stumbled on through that impenetrable void in silence. We
were both extremely tired and assailed by an almost unbearable hunger. It
was a journey without end. As we progressed (although every step in that
darkness felt the same, as if we weren’t moving at all) I fell into a waking
dream.
I saw a spring meadow; flowers of every description bloomed in a
spectacular display. Soft white clouds sailed across the blue sky, and the
bright song of skylarks filled the air. My lost love, Hatsuyo, appeared on the
horizon, as clear as day, picking wildflowers. Yū-chan was also there, but
no longer attached to the despicable Kī-chan. She was simply an ordinary,
but beautiful young woman.
Delusions of this kind are a safety valve for those on the verge of death.
Such visions suspend one’s agony. It was thanks to mine that I was just
about able to summon enough courage to stay alive. My murderous despair
was eased somewhat. But my hallucinations only went to show how close I
was to the end of my life.
I’d no idea how long we’d been walking, or how far we’d gone. The fingers
of my right hand were grazed and sore and from being continually dragged
across the rough passage walls. My feet moved mechanically. It seemed like
I was no longer in control of them. I wondered if I’d be able to stop even if
I tried. A whole day had perhaps passed. Maybe two or three. Each time I
tripped and fell, Michio would shake me and stop me from drifting off to
sleep on the spot, and on we’d go.
But even Michio finally exhausted himself. He suddenly crouched down
and cried out, “That’s it, no more.”
“You surrender?” I asked, as though this were the moment I’d been waiting
for.
“I surrender,” he said bluntly. “We’ll never escape, no matter how far we
walk. We must have gone over twelve miles by now. We ought to have
found the exit, these tunnels can’t be that long. Except, there is another
reason. One that’s finally dawned on me. How idiotic,” Michio said in a
dry, cracked voice, like that of an invalid on his deathbed. “For quite some
time now I’ve been focusing all my attention on my fingertips, in an
attempt to memorise the wall’s touch. I can’t say for sure, it may only be a
trick of the mind, but it feels like every sixty minutes or so the pattern of the
rock repeats itself. In other words, we’ve been going round in circles for
several hours.”
I heard Michio’s words but hardly dwelt on their meaning. I was now past
the point of caring. Nevertheless, Michio continued, as though delivering
his last will and testament.
“It was stupid of me to think that within this complex network of caves
there were no passages without end, that is, paths that double backed on
themselves. Islands in the labyrinth, if you will. It’s obvious really. Using
the example of the string, inside one large jagged circle, is another circle,
made from a shorter piece of string. If the wall we start from describes the
line of this inner circle, even though it twists and turns, it only goes round
and round forever. We could take our hands off the wall, and follow the
opposite side with our left hands, but who knows how many islands there
are? Perhaps islands within islands within islands.”
Putting this down on the page now, it makes perfect sense to me, but back
then I listened as if in a trance. Michio’s logical thinking sounded like
someone muttering gibberish in their sleep.
“In theory, we only have a one in a hundred chance of getting out. We’d
have to strike it lucky and stumble across the outermost piece of string. But
we don’t have the strength for that now. I can’t even take one more step.
Minoura, I give up. Let’s die here together.”
“Together. Let’s die together,” I replied abstractedly, on the edge of
consciousness.
“I surrender, I surrender,” as Michio repeated these words, his voice became
indistinct, as though falling under the influence of some narcotic, and he
slumped forward and was finally still.
But the body’s tenacious will to survive cannot be defeated so easily. We
were not dead but had both fallen into a deep slumber. Our fatigue from not
having a wink of sleep since entering the caves, along with our own
resignation, had overtaken us at last.
The Vengeful Demon
I don’t know how long I slept for, I only remember waking from a
nightmare in which my belly was scorched with fire. When I tried to move
there was a sharp pain in all my joints.
“Rise and shine. We’re still alive. And still in these caves,” Michio said
gently. He must have woken before me and sensed my movement.
Once I’d registered that I’d not perished but was still lost in the darkness,
with nothing to eat or drink, and no prospect of escape, I began to tremble
with fear. The clarity of thought that sleep had gifted me was a curse rather
than a blessing.
“I’m scared,” I said, reaching out for Michio and edging towards him.
“Minoura, we’ll never make it above ground again. Nobody can see the
plight we’re in, we can’t even see each other’s faces. After we die, our
bodies will lie here undiscovered for eternity. But just as this place has no
light, it has no laws, no morality, no customs. It is another world, where
humanity has been extinguished. In the short time we have left, I want to
disregard all those things. We need not feel embarrassment or jealousy, or
hide behind good manners or put on a show anymore. We’re like two
newborn babies, the only living creatures in this realm of darkness.”
Michio spoke as if he were reciting a poem, and as he did so, he shuffled
next to me and put his arm around my shoulder and held me tightly. We
were so close, each time his head moved our cheeks would touch.
“I have kept something from you,” he continued, “Out of convention and
my own sense of shame. But down here, there’s no reason to conceal
anything. It’s about my father. That wicked brute. Though whatever I say,
think no less of me. In this place, our family, our friends, they are all a
dream from a previous life.”
Michio paused, then he began to describe a most grotesque and monstrous
plot.
“As you know, during the few days we stayed at my parents house, I spent
all my time in another room in discussion with Jōgorō. It was then he told
me everything; all his foul secrets. My father was the result of a union
between the former head of the Moroto house, though it wasn’t known by
that name then, and a maid hideously crippled with rickets. There was of
course a wife; and anyway the affair was just a passing fancy; so when the
woman gave birth to a child similarly crippled, Jōgorō’s father loathed the
pair of them. The maid was given some money and they were banished
from the island. Since Jōgorō’s mother was not married, he took her family
name, which was Moroto. His birth father was called Higuchi, and it is the
Higuchi family that Jōgorō is a descendant of, but he detested that bloodline
and insisted on keeping his mother’s name. She returned to her hometown
deep in the mountains taking the newborn Jōgorō with her, and they lived
there like beggars. She never stopped cursing the world and everyone in it.
These curses were the lullabies she sang to Jōgorō as he grew up. Both
mother and son hated and feared regular people; they were like wild
animals existing outside of normal society.
“My father gave a detailed account of everything he went through and the
persecution he suffered during his journey into adulthood. When his mother
died, all she left him were her bitter curses. Now a fully-grown man,
prompted by some twist of fate, Jōgorō returned to Iwayashima. It
happened that just then Jōgorō’s half-brother, who’d succeeded their father
as head of the Higuchi family, had died, leaving a beautiful widow and her
baby girl. Jōgorō somehow managed to worm his way into this household,
then, as bad luck would have it, he fell in love with his sister-in-law. He
used every means at his disposal, in his position as her custodian, to
persuade the young woman, but she turned him down flat. After callously
remarking, ‘I’d rather die than conform to the wishes of a freak,’ she took
her child and fled the island in secret.
“Jōgorō told me all this through gritted teeth, ashen faced and trembling
with rage. Before that day, due to his warped view of the world, he’d
merely wished ill-will on anyone who wasn’t crippled like him. But from
then onwards he transformed into a vengeful demon. He searched high and
low and found a bride even more freakish than himself - this being his first
step in taking revenge on the human race - then, if he came across any other
malformed creature, he’d bring them to the house and shelter them. He even
prayed that if he ever had children of his own, they’d also be born horribly
disfigured. But the fates can play cruel tricks sometimes. The eventual
offspring of those two cripples was none other than myself. A perfectly
healthy child, with no resemblance to my father or mother whatsoever.
Because of this, they hated me from the very beginning. And as I got older,
my parent’s resentment towards the rest of humanity deepened. They then
formulated a chilling plan. They pulled some strings and purchased
newborn babies from destitute families who lived far away. The more
adorable the infant, the more they grinned in malevolent glee.
“Minoura, I only reveal this to you now because we’ll soon vanish into this
black void, but the scheme my parents had thought up was to create an
army of Frankenstien’s monsters. I wonder, have you read a book of
Chinese stories called the ‘Yu Chu Xin Zhi’? In one of them, a baby is kept
constrained inside a box, its growth stunted so that it might be sold to a
freakshow. I myself remember reading a novel by Victor Hugo in which a
French doctor mutilates a young boy for similar reasons. These man-made
freaks can perhaps be found in many countries, though of course Jōgorō
could not have known of such precedents; he’d simply had the same idea as
other black-hearted individuals before him. Except, his principal objective
was not to make money. He was motivated by revenge, which naturally
made him far more persistent and committed than these mere businessmen.
He created dwarfs by keeping infants confined in cages that allowed only
their heads to poke out; he manufactured bear-girls by peeling the skin off
young children and grafting animal skin onto them; he disfigured more
victims by cutting off their fingers and toes. Then, he would sell his
finished products to carnival promoters. The three servants you saw loading
a box onto that boat the other day and sailing off the island, they were
exporting another batch. They always steer clear of busy ports, but land
further up the coast and go across country to a town where they can deal
with scoundrels of the worst sort. Which is why I knew they wouldn’t
return for several days.
“All this began just after I asked to be sent to school in Tokyo. My father
consented on the condition that I study surgery. He took advantage of the
fact that I hadn’t noticed what was going on, and told me, quite reasonably,
to carry out research into treatments for the physically impaired, but in truth
he was guiding me towards his real interests, the production of new freaks. I
received letters fervently encouraging me to create two-headed frogs and
mice with tails grafted to their noses.
“He kept me from coming home because he feared I might be outraged at
discovering his man-made horrors. It was too soon for him to confess.
What’s more, he’d not just been manufacturing freaks, but a bloodthirsty
killer too. It’s not hard to imagine the methods he’d applied to turn the boy
acrobat Tomonosuke into a puppet to do his bidding.
“Then suddenly I returned to Iwayashima, with accusations my father was a
murderer. He told me for the first time of the cripple’s curse he’d placed on
the world and asked me to help him in his life’s work. He wept and begged
me to apply the surgical knowledge I’d gained at university. He fantasised
about purging every healthy-bodied person from Japan and filling the
country with cripples. He wanted to build a nation of freaks, whose
descendants would live under the rule of the Moroto house. His aim was to
enact a grand revenge that would continue for generations to come. An
undertaking like that of the farmer from Kōzuke Province who spent years
chiselling into a sheer cliff face to build a cave-like structure known as the
Gankutsu Hotel (though his motivation was purely artistic) and whose work
was carried on by his son.
“Jōgorō’s vision was a diabolic fantasy. A demonic utopia. Hearing of my
father’s upbringing I pitied him. But no matter how sorry I felt, I couldn’t
possibly assist in his cruel and hellish scheme; boxing up innocent children;
peeling away their skin; then selling them off to freak shows. Though my
head told me otherwise, my heart felt no sympathy for Jōgorō. I couldn’t
see him as my own flesh and blood. The same went for my mother. How
could I when she’d made advances to her own son? They were both rotten
from birth. A beastly couple. Their souls as deformed as their bodies.
“Minoura, these are my parents. I am the product of their marriage. The
child of demons who spend their lives plotting crimes far, far more inhuman
than that of murder. And what should become of me? I’ll tell you honestly,
when we lost sight of the twine that would have guided us out of these
caves, I felt a wave of relief, like a great weight lifted from my shoulders. It
made me happy to think we’d never escape from this abyss.”
Michio spoke as if in a daze, his arms trembled as they embraced me. I
could feel his tears tumbling down his cheeks, pressed so closely against
my own. I hadn’t the strength to judge him, and could do no more than curl
up into a ball and place myself in his hands.
 The Living Hell
There was something I desperately wanted to ask but it seemed selfish of
me so I held back and waited for Michio to regain his composure. We sat,
holding each other in the dark, neither of us uttering a word, until Michi
finally calmed himself and said in a whisper, “How pointless. Why should I
care about my parents and what they did, when we’re cut off in this
subterranean world? There’s no use going over all that now.”
“But what about the twins Yū-chan and Kī-chan?” I asked, seizing my
opportunity, “Were they a creation too?”
“Certainly,” Michio said, sighing deeply, “I guessed that from the moment
we read Yū-chan’s curious diary. It was also then I began to dimly perceive
my father’s intentions; why he was so keen for me to carry out my bizarre
anatomical research. But I couldn’t discuss any of that with you. Even
though I was able to accept Jōgorō as a murderer, somehow the words
didn’t come when it came to his other activities. Just thinking about it made
my hair stand on end. You never caught on because you don’t have the
scientific knowledge, but for me it was obvious. Yū-chan and Kī-chan
could never be real twins. It’s a medical fact that conjoined twins must be
the same sex, since they both come from a single fertilised egg. At any rate,
have you ever seen twins with such differing physiognomy and physique?
When they were newborns they must have had a section of their skin
removed and their flesh pared back, then been fused together. Under the
right conditions it’s not so difficult. Even an amateur could pull it off, with
a bit of luck. Yū-chan and Kī-chan are actually not as fundamentally
connected as they themselves think. Separating them would be a quite
straightforward matter.”
“Were they also intended as a carnival exhibit?”
“Indeed. That’s why they were taught the shamisen. My father was no
doubt waiting for them to fetch the highest price. You must be very happy;
to find that your beloved Yū-chan is not a freak of nature.”
“You’re jealous I suppose?” I shot back, emboldened by our situation. As
Michio had said, here at the edge of nowhere, there was no need to feel
embarrassment or hide behind good manners anymore. We’d both be dead
soon enough anyway. Whatever I said made no difference.
“I am jealous. And I have been for some time. It was jealousy that led me in
part to come between you and Hatsuyo. How heartbreaking to see your
immeasurable grief after her death. You won’t see her again though, or Yū-
chan, or any other woman for that matter. Down here, we might as well be
the last two people left on this planet. And yet, I’m glad. I thank the Lord
that we’re trapped together in this underworld. I never really wanted to
escape in the first place. I’ve made certain efforts to absolve my father’s
sins, out of my own sense of responsibility, but I’m far happier dying in
your arms than dishonouring myself as the son of a murderer. Minoura,
forget the customs of the world above, cast off your inhibitions, grant me
my one wish and consent to my love.”
Michio had grown animated again and I’d no idea how to respond to his
objectionable request. I’m not certain how other men my age feel, but being
the object of desire for someone other than a young woman makes me
shudder with distaste. Platonic physical contact with a man does not bother
me. It can even be quite pleasant. But when this turns romantic, the touch of
another man’s body can be nauseating. This is one aspect of exclusive
attraction to the opposite sex; an abhorrence of one’s own.
I liked and trusted Michio as a friend, which only made his lust for me all
the more unbearable. I was at my wit’s end and staring death in the face, but
could do nothing about the repulsion I felt. As Michio drew nearer I pushed
him away and fled, not able to see where I was going.
“Ah! Even at a moment like this, you still refuse me. Don’t you have it in
your heart to accept my last desperate plea?” Michio wailed wretchedly as
he stumbled after me.
What a shameful, disreputable game of blind man’s buff! What a
pathetically comic performance, there in the bowels of the earth!
In the space we were in, the walls widened to the left and right, and after
staggering away from Michio for a dozen yards or more I crouched down in
a corner of the cavern and held my breath. Michio also became still,
although there was no way of telling this for sure. He could have been
motionless, listening out for any signs of life, or he could have been
creeping along the wall, silently approaching his prey like a burrowing
snake. Not knowing what he was doing was enough to make me sick with
anxiety. Without eyes and ears I shivered alone in the darkness and the
silence, until a voice right next to me made me jump.
“If you’d time for this nonsense, why not put your efforts into escaping
these caves? Maybe your friend’s perverted lust has led you to sacrifice
your life unnecessarily?”
The predator was already upon me. Had Michio somehow been able to
discern my figure in the pitch-black? Did he have powers of perception
beyond the customary five senses? I tried to run but he grabbed hold of my
leg with hands that stuck like glue. I lost my balance and toppled over
sideways. The snake slid over my body. What was this unearthly creature?
Surely not a man but a grotesque serpent.
I moaned in terror, assailed by a dread more abominable than death’s
embrace; a latent horror from the depths of the human heart, something
bloodcurdling and eerie, like that of the umibōzu, the sea-ghoul, a primitive
living hell of chaos and annihilation.
I lost the power to speak, too scared to even open my mouth. There was a
kind of burning heat near me; I felt breath like a dog panting against my
cheeks, already slick with sweat. My nose was filled with an unfamiliar
body odour, then something warm and slippery with a mucous membrane
searched out for my lips, slithering leech-like across my face.
But I will stop there. No more needs to be written of these things. Moroto
Michio has now departed from this world, and I am reluctant to speak ill of
the dead.
Instead I will move onto the truly astonishing development that allowed me
to escape this waking nightmare. A bizarre occurrence to which I remain
extremely grateful. From the other side of the cavern there came a strange
sound. We’d grown used to the squeak of fruit bats and the scuttling of
crabs, but this noise had not been made by any such small animal. It
suggested something much larger. Michio relaxed his grip and we both
listened intently.
An Unexpected Return
We could hear something breathing. Michio released me and we
instinctively braced ourselves against an unseen enemy.
“Scat!” Michio cried out, as though shooing away a cat.
“Just as I thought, there are people down here. I’m right, aren't I?”
To our amazement the creature spoke. It was the voice of an elderly man.
“Who are you? What are you doing in this place?” Michio asked.
“Who are you? And what are you doing in this place?” the man repeated.
Maybe it was the way his voice echoed around the cavern, but it sounded
familiar. I racked my brains trying to recall where I’d heard it before. For a
while no one said anything; we both waited to see what the other would do.
The man’s breathing gradually became more distinct. He seemed to be
inching his way towards us.
“You’re guests at the Moroto house, are you not?”
He was now only a few yards away and spoke perfectly clearly. All of a
sudden I knew who he was. But that person should not have been living.
He’d surely been killed by Jōgorō. It was the voice of a dead man. For a
moment I was struck by a fantastical thought, that our souls had already
passed and we really were in hell after all.
“I know you. You’re…” I started to say, but the man interrupted me.
“Of course!” he said joyfully, “Minoura! And the gentleman with you must
be Michio. It’s me, Toku. Another of Jōgorō’s victims.”
“Toku-san! You’re alive!” I exclaimed. We reached out for each other, using
our voices to guide us.
Toku-san’s boat had been capsized near to the ‘devil’s chasm’ by the
boulder Jōgorō had levered off the cliff. But Toku-san had not perished.
Due to the high-tide, he’d been sucked into the same cavern I and Michio
had nearly drowned in. Then when the waters had receded, he’d been left
alone in the pitch-black labyrinth. Somehow he’d managed to survive all
this time.
“And your son? My double?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps eaten by a shark,” Toku-san muttered without a
trace of hope.
“You must hate me for selfishly bringing all this upon you,” I apologised,
but my words rang hollow in that ghastly cavern. Toku-san did not respond.
“You’re both exhausted I bet,” he said at last, “And starving too. Here, you
can have what’s left of my food. There’s no need to worry about getting
more. These caves are crawling with giant crabs.”
I’d wondered how Toku-san had kept alive for so long, and now I knew,
he’d staved off starvation by feeding on raw crab meat. We devoured what
he offered us. The salty, jelly-like flesh was cold and gritty, but delicious
nevertheless. In fact, I’ve never tasted anything as good before or since.
We implored Toku-san to catch more crabs, and we smashed these against
the rocks, broke open their shells, and gobbled down their insides. It seems
revolting when I think back now, but at the time, taking those fat spiny legs
- which still moved pathetically - crushing them in my hands then sucking
out the pulpy mash, it was heavenly!
Once our hunger had been stayed, our spirits rose a little and we compared
notes.
“So there’s no chance then, we’re stuck down here,” Toku-san said after
hearing of our adventures and sighing despondently. “I made a terrible
mistake. I should’ve tried swimming back out to sea from where I came in.
But I thought I’d be drowned in the swirling waters and instead went deeper
into the caves. I didn’t know I was entering a labyrinth more terrifying than
any whirlpool. Once I’d realised this, I tried retracing my steps but got lost
in the tunnels and couldn’t find that first cavern. In a way I was fortunate
though. Thanks to my wandering I was at least able to meet you two.”
“Since we have food to eat, we needn’t throw in the towel just yet. Even if
the odds are a hundred to one against us getting out of here, it’s still worth a
try. No matter how many days or months it takes,” I said, somewhat
energised by the crab meat and the addition of Toku-san to our party.
“So you still dream of tasting freedom again? How I envy you,” Michio
murmured sadly.
“Sir? Don’t you value your own life?” Toku-san asked doubtfully.
“Jōgorō’s blood runs through my veins. I’m the child of a demon who
murders and experiments with man-made freaks. I should shrink from the
sunlight. I should shy away from the gaze of righteous people. As the
progeny of evil, I’m more at home in this dark underworld.”
Poor Michio. He was no doubt bitterly regretting his vile behaviour towards
me from just earlier.
“You might well think that young sir, since you don’t know the truth of it. I
was going to tell you the day you both came to the island. Do you
remember, I was squatting by the cliff edge that evening, looking your way?
But I feared Jōgorō’s retribution. If I angered him, my own life on
Iwayashima would’ve been worth less than nothing,” Toku-san said
mysteriously. He’d once been in service at the Moroto house so he must
have known a number of Jōgorō’s secrets.
“You were going to tell me what?” Michio asked, shifting his body slightly.
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now. You see, Jōgorō is not your real father.
You’re someone else’s child. He took you from the mainland many years
ago. It’s not hard to believe, is it? How could that pair of hideous cripples
produce such a perfect baby as you? Their actual son also suffers from
rickets and is the spitting image of his father. He runs a carnival freak show
and tours the country with it.”
Now, you may well remember the chapter involving Detective Kitagawa.
The police officer had followed the Ozaki Circus to a town in Shizuoka
Prefecture and had ingratiated himself with a dwarf who worked there.
Kitagawa had asked about the dwarf’s “pa”, and if this was his boss, to
which the dwarf had replied, “The boss ain’t a wrinkly. And the boss
doesn't have a crooked back. You’ve never seen him I bet. He doesn’t come
to the tent much, but he’s young like me; a bad case of rickets is all he’s
got.” That was in fact Jōgorō’s real son.
Toku-san continued, “Jōgorō most likely intended to turn you into a freak
too, but his wife took a shine to you and they raised you as a normal child.
Your intellect was obvious though, which even Jōgorō had to concede, and
in the end he got the idea of educating you as his own offspring.”
Why maintain the deceit? It was clear that to accomplish his wicked aims,
Jōgorō had needed to form a bond with Michio that was unbreakable, like
that of father and son. But now the true relationship between Moroto
Michio and the demonic Jōgorō had been revealed: A kidnapper and his
victim.
My Guiding Spirit
“Tell me more, tell me everything,” Michio urged in a voice that was hoarse
and close to breaking.
“You know, I followed my own father into service at the Higuchi house;
and yet I couldn’t bear to watch that mean old cripple’s methods any longer;
so seven years ago I left for good. I’m almost 60 now, for half a century
I’ve witnessed the troubles of that wretched family. Listen, I’ll go through
them all, from beginning to end.”
Toku-san then related the sorry history of the Higuchi (now Moroto)
household going back 50 years. To save time and space I’ve summarised his
recollections thus:
Keiō era (1865-1868)
Head of the Higuchi family, Higuchi Manbei, has an affair with a crippled
maid in his employ. She gives birth to a boy named Kaiji, even more
disfigured by rickets than herself. Manbei cannot stand the sight of him, so
banishes mother and child from the island. They hide away in the
mountains and live like wild animals. She dies there, consumed by
bitterness.
Tenth year of the Meiji era (1877)
Manbei’s legitimate son, Haruo, marries a girl from the mainland called
Kotohira Umeno.
Twelfth year of the Meiji era (1879)
Haruo and Umeno have a daughter, Haruyo. Soon after, Haruo dies of an
illness.
Twentieth year of the Meiji era (1887)
Kaiji returns to the island, now calling himself Moroto Jōgorō. He moves
into the Higuchi house and behaves as he pleases, taking advantage of
Umeno’s weak character. After he makes advances towards her, she flees
the island with her daughter and goes back to her hometown.
Twenty-third year of the Meiji era (1890)
Heartbroken and cursing the world, Jōgorō seeks out and marries a hideous
cripple.
Twenty-fifth year of the Meiji era (1892)
Jōgorō and his wife have a child. As luck would have it, the newborn is also
afflicted by rickets. Jōgorō is delighted. That same year he kidnaps a one-
year-old boy, Michio, from a town on the mainland.
Thirty-third year of the Meiji era (1900)
Umeno’s daughter, Haruyo (heir to the Higuchi family) marries a young
man from her own town.
Thirty-eighth year of the Meiji era (1905)
Haruyo has a child and calls her Hatsuyo. She will later take the name
Kigiki Hatsuyo. My very own Kigiki Hatsuyo, who Jōgorō dispatches so
cruelly.
Fortieth year of the Meiji era (1907)
Haruyo has a second daughter, Midori. That same year her husband dies.
With no other relatives left to rely on, as a last resort Haruyo returns to
Iwayashima, her mother’s birthplace, and ends up in Jōgorō’s care, falling
prey to his flattery.
At the beginning of my story, Hatsuyo recalled how she’d played nursemaid
to a baby on a desolate coastline. That memory relates to this period, and
that child was her younger sister Midori.
Forty-first year of the Meiji era (1908)
Jōgorō makes his intentions plain. He tries to consummate the unrequited
love he held for Umeno through her daughter Haruyo. She cannot stay any
longer. One evening she takes Hatsuyo and flees the island, forced to leave
Midori behind. Haruyo drifts from town to town, finally reaching Osaka.
Without any way to make ends meet, she abandons her daughter, who is
taken in by a woman named Kigiki.
This then is the story of the Higuchi family, as told by Toku-san, with some
additions of my own. It was finally beyond doubt, Hatsuyo was the true heir
to the Higuchi estate, while Jōgorō was no more than the illegitimate son of
a housemaid. And Hatsuyo would have been the rightful owner of any
fortune hidden in these caves, if one existed.
The identity and whereabouts of Michio’s biological mother and father,
however, remained a mystery. Only Jōgorō knew that.
Michio appeared to be encouraged, “Thank you Toku-san. You’ve given me
reason to live. Come what may, I’ll return to the surface, confront Jōgorō,
and make him confess who my real parents are.”
But I was left with an uneasy feeling. There was something I still had to
ask, “Haruyo had two daughters. Hatsuyo and Midori. You said she was
forced to leave her younger daughter behind when she fled Jōgorō’s
clutches. Midori would now be 17 years old. Whatever happened to her? Is
she still alive?”
“Of course, I never told you, “ Toku-san answered, “She lives. But hers is a
wretched existence. She was turned into a freak, a twin conjoined after
birth.”
“Yū-chan.”
“That’s right, Yū-chan. She is what remains of poor Midori.”
Was it merely a coincidence, I wondered, that the woman I’d lost my heart
to was in fact the younger sister of my first love? Perhaps Hatsuyo was
raging at me from her grave, or maybe her spirit had been guiding my
destiny from the very beginning, drawing me to this lonely isle and the
storehouse window where I’d first spotted Yū-chan and been instantly
captivated. Somehow I felt this had to be the case. And if Hatsuyo’s spirit
was capable of such power, there was a chance she’d help us discover the
treasure without suffering any further catastrophe, and I’d escape this
underground hellhole and see Yū-chan again.
In my mind I pictured my long lost love and prayed, Hatsuyo, Hatsuyo,
keep us from danger, save us!
The Mad Fiend
Our miserable tour of that bleak underworld began anew. We kept our
hunger in check with raw crab meat and assuaged our thirst with the fresh
water that dripped from the ceiling. Hour after hour we continued on, but
for the sake of brevity I’ll omit further details of that interminable journey,
all the anguish and horror we endured would be too tiresome to repeat here.
Down in those caves there was no day or night. When our fatigue became
too much we simply laid down on the rocks and slept. I was woken from
one of these slumbers by Toku-san, who’d begun to yell wildly, “The string!
The string! This must be your fisherman’s twine!”
We rejoiced at his news and crawled over to where the old man had been
standing and groped around in the darkness. Just as he’d said, the twine was
there; the exit had to be close at hand.
“It’s not the same as the one we used. Our twine was not so thick. What do
you think, Minoura?” Michio said disappointedly.
He was right. It did seem to be different. “Could it be possible someone else
came into these caves and also used a piece of twine to guide their way
out?” I wondered.
“There can be no other explanation,” Michio replied, “Furthermore, they
must have entered after us. Otherwise we would have seen their own
lifeline tied to the cave’s entrance.”
But who on earth had succeeded us into this black dungeon? Were they
friend or foe? Jōgorō and his wife were shut inside the storehouse. That
only left the company of freaks. Or perhaps the three servants from the
Moroto house had returned early and noticed something was wrong?
“At any rate, we must follow this string and see where it leads,” Michio
said, and we set off in the direction he suggested.
Sure enough, it soon became clear we weren’t alone in that underground
maze. After an hour of walking the darkness ahead seemed to lighten
somewhat. It was the reflection of candlelight on the walls of the twisting
passageway. I gripped my pocket knife and we proceeded slowly, wary of
the sound our footsteps made. Each time we came round another jutting
slab of rock, the light grew. Then at last we reached the final bend in the
passage. Around the next corner burned the naked flame of a candle. I felt
my knees weaken and could not take another step.
Suddenly a strange hollering came from just opposite; though it wasn’t the
sound of someone in distress; it was a song. A beastly song I’d never heard
before with unintelligible lyrics and an outrageous melody. It sounded like
the echoing howl of some weird creature. I shuddered at the unearthly
noise, never expecting to hear singing in such a place.
“It’s Jōgorō,” Michio whispered, after peeking around the corner then
quickly recoiling in surprise.
I couldn’t fathom how this was possible. Jōgorō should have been safely
locked away in his prison far above us. And why was he in such high
spirits?
The noise became louder and more frantic. Then a crisp metallic clinking
began to accompany it. Michio cautiously took another peek then declared,
“He’s lost his mind. Take a look for yourselves,” and he strode forwards.
Myself and Toku-san hurriedly followed.
The bizarre spectacle that opened out before us is one I’ll never forget. That
hideous old cripple, half illuminated by the red flickering of a candle, was
dancing a mad jig, growling and moaning in an expression of either torment
or jubilation. The ground at his feet was golden, as though covered by the
fallen leaves of a ginkgo tree.
From a number of earthenware pots in the corner of the cavern Jōgorō
picked out handfuls of gold which fell from his grasp like sparkling rain,
jingling strangely as he lurched about in a crazed fashion.
Jōgorō had hit the jackpot, beating us to the punch. He’d unearthed the
hidden treasure; and remarkably quickly it seemed. Whereas we’d been
blindly wandering around in circles, he’d never let go of his guiding length
of twine. But his good fortune had backfired on him. The shock of finding
this mountain of gold had tipped his sanity over the edge. We rushed over
and shook him by the shoulders in an attempt to get some sense into him,
but he just looked at us blankly, not even recognising us as his enemies, and
carried on with his absurd singing.
“He was the one who cut our lifeline. Then abandoning us to our fate, he
used his own twine to good advantage,” Michio muttered.
“Since he escaped and reached this far, maybe he’s already done something
terrible to our friends in the Moroto house?” I said, in truth, thinking only
of Yū-chan’s well-being.
“We must return and see how things stand. Now we have Jōgorō’s twine to
guide us, making our way back to the well should be easy.”
It was decided that Toku-san should remain and keep guard over the mad
fiend while Michio and myself headed for the exit as fast as we could.
 The Authorities Arrive
We made it back out of the well without any further mishap. Holding hands,
and blinking in the dazzling sunshine, we stumbled towards the Moroto
house, when we ran into an unfamiliar looking gentleman dressed in a smart
suit coming the other way.
“Hey, you two, stop there,” he called in an authoritative tone when he saw
us.
“You’re not from the island by the looks of it, who are you? ” Michio shot
back.
“I’m an officer of the law. I’ve come to search this property. What, if I may
I ask, is your connection to it?”
The man was a detective. Finally luck was on our side. We each gave our
names.
“Pull the other one. Certainly, I’ve information that a pair of individuals
calling themselves Michio and Minoura came to this island, but they’re
both young men, not as advanced in age as you two,” the detective said
mysteriously. But what on earth could he be talking about? Why would he
describe us as “advanced in age”?
Bewildered by his remark, Michio and myself automatically turned to face
each other. We then got the shock of our lives. Standing before me was not
the Moroto Michio of just a few days ago. The figure I now saw was
dressed in a beggar’s rags; his grey skin coated by a layer of dirt; his hair
dishevelled; his eyes shrunken; and his cheekbones protruding alarmingly
from a skull-like face. It was only natural the detective had mistaken him
for a much older man.
“Your hair. It’s completely white,” Michio said, laughing strangely, though
it sounded more like crying.
The changes that had come over me were even more startling. Although we
both appeared equally emancipated, my hair had indeed lost all its colour
during our time in those caves and was now like that of an octogenarian. I’d
heard of such strange phenomena, brought on by extreme mental anguish,
I’d even read two or three real-life accounts, but had never imagined
something so bizarre would ever happen to myself. Then again, over the
course of several days I’d faced death many times, and been assailed by
horrors even worse than death. It was a wonder I’d not lost my grip on
reality. But instead of madness, I’d turned grey-haired. I suppose I should
consider myself fortunate. Michio’s hair on the other hand showed no such
peculiarity, even though we’d experienced the same nightmarish
underworld, perhaps because he possessed a stronger spirit than my own.
We turned back to the detective and gave an abridged version of the events
leading up to our visit to Iwayashima, and all that had happened since we’d
arrived.
“Why didn’t you go to the police? Seems like you’re the agents of your own
misfortune,” the detective said after listening to our tale, smiling slightly.
“I was convinced the villain of the piece, Jōgorō, was my own father,”
Michio said by way of an excuse.
The detective had not come alone. He had several colleagues with him. He
ordered two of these to go down the well and bring back Jōgorō and Toku-
san.
“Leave the length of twine where it is. We’ll have to return later and collect
the gold coins,” Michio told them.
I mentioned before about Detective Kitagawa from the Ikebukuro precinct,
who’d travelled all the way to Shizuoka prefecture to investigate the Ozaki
Circus (Tomonosuke the boy acrobat’s troupe) and had extracted certain
secrets from a dwarf who worked there as a clown. As a result of
Kitagawa’s labours, via a completely different route to the one we’d taken,
Iwayashima was finally identified as the location of criminal activity and a
search party had been dispatched to the Moroto house.
When the detectives arrived they found a two-headed monster violently
grappling with itself. This was of course the twins Yū-chan and Kī-chan.
Once they’d been quietened, and the officers had taken stock of the
situation, Yū-chan spoke fluently and in detail about the events of the past
few days.
Following myself and Michio’s descent into the well, Kī-chan, jealous of
my relationship with his sister, had freed Jōgorō, in order to get back at me.
Yū-chan of course had resisted with all her might, but had been no match
for her much stronger brother. Now at liberty, Jōgorō and his wife,
brandishing a horse whip, had rounded up the company of freaks and
locked them in the storehouse in their place. Since Kī-chan had performed
such meritorious service, the twins alone avoided this punishment. Then
Jōgorō, presumably guessing our whereabouts from the information
supplied to him by Kī-chan, had climbed into the well (despite his physical
affliction), cut our twine, and using his own, had braved the labyrinth
himself. Something surely out of the question without the help of his rickety
old wife and the mute Otoshi.
After this, Yū-chan and Kī-chan were constantly at each other’s throats. Kī-
chan tried to freely take advantage of his sister, while Yū-chan cursed her
brother’s betrayal. Their arguing intensified and turned into a physical
battle. It was then that the detectives happened to arrive.
Once the officers had heard Yū-chan’s story they immediately restrained
Jōgorō’s wife and the mute Otoshi, released the company of freaks, and
were making preparations to go underground and arrest Jōgorō when myself
and Michio appeared.
The whole affair was now laid bare. There was nothing more to say.
Epilogue
So, even before I’d had the chance to take my revenge, the man responsible
for the murder of Kigiki Hatsuyo (in truth, Higuchi Hatsuyo), as well as
that of Miyamagi Kōkichi and the boy acrobat Tomonosuke, was now a
lunatic and beyond censure. Moreover, the hiding place of the Higuchi
fortune, the original motive for these murders, had been revealed.
I suppose it is at this point I should bring the curtain down on my long
narrative. Or is there something I’ve left out? There is one small detail.
How had the amateur detective Miyamagi Kōkichi identified the island of
Iwayashima as Jōgorō’s hideaway, solely from reading Hatsuyo’s
genealogical record? No matter how remarkable his powers of deduction,
this was a supernatural insight.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was still a mystery here, so once all
the legal proceedings had been concluded, I asked for permission to look
into Miyamagi’s papers, from an old friend of his who’d safeguarded the
detective’s possessions following his death. After a meticulous examination
I finally found what I was looking for. In his diary for the year 1913 was the
name Higuchi Hatsuyo. My very own Hatsuyo.
As you know, Miyamagi was rather an odd fish, and though he never
married, he did have a number of affairs, cohabiting with his lovers as man
and wife. One of these mistresses was none other than Hatsuyo’s mother,
Haruyo. He’d met the destitute woman on his travels and had brought her
back to Tokyo with him (this was long after she’d abandoned her daughter).
After two years of living together, she’d died at his home of an illness.
Before passing, Haruyo must have told Miyamagi all about the child she’d
left in Osaka, her family background, and the island of Iwayashima. This
was why, years later, Miyamagi had hurried off to that island as soon as
he’d recognised the genealogical record I’d shown him. That document
must have passed from Haruo (Jōgorō’s half-brother) to Umeno, then from
Umeno to her daughter Haruyo, then from Haruyo to Hatsuyo. None of
them of course knowing its true value. They were simply adhering to the
wishes of their ancestors and ensuring the record remained in the family
line.
So how had Jōgorō known about the hidden cryptic message? According to
his wife’s testimony, Jōgorō had been looking through some ancient papers
one day when he’d come across a certain passage. This had indicated that
sealed within a copy of the family history was the secret to a great fortune.
But this was after Haruyo had fled the house, so Jōgorō’s discovery was all
in vain. Later, under orders from his father, Jōgorō’s rickets-afflicted son
had searched high and low for the woman; but without any clue as to her
location he’d failed in his mission. Over a decade passed before it came to
their attention that Hatsuyo was in possession of the document. Jōgorō then
did everything he could to get his hands on it, as you know.
The Higuchi ancestors had belonged to an order of pirates known as the
Wakō. They amassed a vast fortune through raids along the coastlines of
China and Korea. Fearing their loot would be confiscated by the authorities
they stashed it away deep underground. Knowledge of this secret location
was then passed down through the generations. Haruo’s grandfather came
up with the idea of the cryptic message, which he concealed within an old
archive; but he died before he could pass this information onto his own son.
According to the story Toku-san heard, the father had dropped dead
suddenly of a stroke.
From that point onwards, until Jōgorō’s discovery, no one in the Higuchi
line had known about the treasure. But there is reason to believe someone
outside the family had unearthed the secret. That mysterious figure who ten
years earlier had crossed to Iwayashima from K-seaport and visited the
Moroto house, before drowning in the ‘devil’s chasm’. It was clear he’d
gone down the old well and into the underground caves. We’d seen
evidence of this with our own eyes. Jōgorō’s wife also remembered the
man. He was the descendant of a servant who’d worked in the Higuchi
household long ago. His ancestor had perhaps written about a hidden
fortune on the island and where it could be found.
But so much for ancient history. I’ll end here by giving a short summary of
what happened to the main players of my story after our adventures were
over.
First I must tell you about my beloved Yū-chan. It was now understood that
she was Hatsuyo’s biological sister and sole heir to the Higuchi estate, so all
the gold from those underground caves was placed in her hands. This was
estimated at the time to be worth close to one million yen. Yū-chan was a
very rich woman. She was also no longer one half of a hideous set of
Siamese twins. Michio’s surgical knife had cut her free of the brutish Kī-
chan. Because they’d never been conjoined in the first place, they could be
separated quite easily without any harm to either.
When Yū-chan came to see me after her wound had healed, speaking
perfect Japanese with a Tokyo accent, with her hair now beautifully
arranged, wearing make-up and dressed in a stunning silk kimono, my joy
was unconfined. We soon married, and became joint custodians of her
inheritance.
After some discussion we built a splendid facility for the physically
impaired on the Shōnan coast near Katase. In an attempt to make up for the
terrible sins committed by the demon Jōgorō, this establishment would
accommodate those unable to fend for themselves, so they could live out
the rest of their days in comfort. The first guests to arrive were the man-
made freaks from the Moroto house. Jōgorō’s wife and the mute Otoshi
were also housed there. A surgical hospital was built next door, with the
aim of applying the latest medical techniques to give those crippled by
some deformity as normal a life as possible.
Jōgorō, his son, and his three henchmen, including Sukehachi, were all
sentenced to death. Hatsuyo’s adoptive mother came to live with us. Yū-
chan took great care of the woman, treating her as one of the family.
Through Jōgorō’s wife, Michio found out where his real parents lived. They
were prosperous farmers from a village near Shingū on the Kii peninsula.
His father, mother, and siblings were all in good health. He visited them,
going back to his birthplace after an absence of thirty years to meet the
family he’d never known. I waited in Tokyo for his return. I wanted to make
him the head of my new hospital and was excited about the future. But
within a month of Michio leaving, he fell ill, and sadly departed from this
world. Out of all that had turned out so well for me, this was the one black
cloud. I received a correspondence from Michio’s father, informing me of
his death. It contained the following passage:
My son, Michio, never called out for me or his mother. Until his very last
breath he clasped one of your letters to his breast. It was you, and you
alone, he kept asking for.

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