It’s an old man, and he doesn’t attack. Instead, he stands there and looks at me with a sad, forlorn look on his graying face. He’s dressed in a long, plain robe, and the tate eboshi cap on his forehead tells me he was someone of enough importance in the village to be given the right to wear it. Every textbook I’ve read on Japanese history always portrayed scribes with that tall, black hat.
He’s staring at me—not in a bad way but not in any way I can call good either. He lifts his hand and points at a spot above my head and then vanishes before my eyes.
I turn in the direction he pointed. There are a couple of books on one of the upper shelves, collecting dust and cobwebs. I carefully take them down and slowly open one, trying not to choke on the dust billowing in my face.
It doesn’t look all that different from the others I’ve tried to read, but the handwriting’s a lot more legible and I can pick out maybe one word for every seven or eight. Some words, like hitori-kakurenbo and kekkon, jump out at me, because I’ve researched them enough to familiarize myself with the kanji.
Hitori-kakurenbo means one-man tag. The same game I played with Sondheim and Trish and the seven-armed, unfortunately named Dumbelina.
Kekkon is not a word I would normally find with it, but I know what it means—marriage. Kagura’s father wrote about a ritualized marriage in the village, and Kagura mentioned it in the video.
I don’t like where this is going. I’m not surprised that marriage is mentioned in connection with the village, but what does one-man tag have to do with all this?
I pick out a few more words, but the context is difficult to understand. I see “shrine maiden” and “dolls” and “companion,” but the rest of the passage may as well be caveman drawings for all the good it does me. My frustration mounts. I know there’s something important written in these pages, but I can’t read it!
I turn a few more pages and a sheaf of paper slips out. I pick it up; it looks like a list:
I don’t recognize most of the kanji, but I know the third column is a list of dates based on the Japanese calendar, with the last entry in the same time period as that in the girl’s diary. This could be important.
I turn my attention to the book’s cover. It’s blank, except for a name scrawled along the bottom. Japanese names are even harder for me to understand than words, because one additional stroke of the kanji can completely change its meaning. But the owner of this house was clearly an important person—possibly the man whose ghost directed me to the book.
“Are you still here?” My voice quavers. Helpful or not, he’s still a ghost, and I’m still not sure what his motives are. I’m not actually expecting a reply, but I’m disappointed by the silence.
“Tarquin?” I hear Okiku whisper. I feel her step out, stronger now than she was, another sign that there are no other spirits nearby—malignant ones anyway.
“I need some help.” I show her the book. “Any idea what this is all about?”
Okiku studies the pages and turns them rapidly. She could soak up a library in minutes if she wanted to. “It is a ritual,” she says softly.
“What kind of ritual?”
“A sacrifice. A foul sacrifice.”
I swallow, my sense of foreboding rising. I’m trying to put together all the information I’ve gotten so far. “What does it say?”
“That girls are given to boys in the village for marriage.”
“The ritual marriages, right? I guess one part of Kagura’s father’s research has been verified. Anything else in particular?”
“For three years, she is given only the boy for company. At the end, she is willing. At the end, he will also be willing. She will be chosen.”
“So it’s a nicer way of saying she’ll be killed. I get it. Did Kazuhiko interview some of these boys before they were… No, I don’t think so. It would have been too important not to have been mentioned in his research, and Kagura never said anything about it. Do you know what this list is for?” I show her the page.
“Girls,” Okiku says softly, touching the first column. Her finger moves across the rest. “Ages. Nengō.” I nod. Nengō are Japanese eras—often named in accordance with the emperor in power—that were used in place of dates on the standard Western calendar. The dates in the girl’s diary were marked the same way. Based on how these nengō were written, I estimate that three years have passed in between each name, which makes seven names over twenty years. Okiku nods in confirmation, then explains the final column. “Boys.”
“Do you know what this means? Are these the girls who were sacrificed? Why does the last entry only include the girl’s name?” I pause, staring at the last line. Then I take the book back from Okiku and look at the cover again.
“Say, Ki… This name has some of the same kanji as the one on the cover.”