The Girl from the Well

The ritual makes use of not one, but eight dolls, carefully selected from the display. “These are the best of the dolls we have,” the obaasan says. The old woman appears to be in a good mood, even as her gnarled but still nimble fingers rip the dolls open, emptying their cotton contents into a small wooden bowl. Another larger bowl bearing fragrant rice grains, blessed earlier that day, sits on her right side, and as in the previous exorcism, they will serve as filling.

“These dolls have been with us the longest, and so they have borne witness to numerous rituals and purifications, have soaked up the holiness of Chinsei. Some have been with the shrine for more than a hundred years. We use these dolls in groups of eight when we purify especially powerful demons, you see.”

“Will they be able to hold someone as powerful as Chiyo?” Callie asks her.

“They should. We had very few reasons to attempt this before Chiyo died.” With that chilling revelation, the old woman stuffs the rice grains, then takes up needle and red thread to expertly stitch the dolls close. “But today is a very auspicious day. I have much hope.” She winds the excess threads around each doll’s body, keeping them firmly in place.

“My sisters and I will all take part in the ritual,” Kagura explains further. “Technically, a miko who is strong enough can carry out the ritual herself, but more will strengthen it. It is better to be safe than to be sorry.”

The mikos also do other things they did not do for the seven-year-old’s exorcism. Kagura and Amaya have been up earlier than the others to make several more necessary purchases in Mutsu. Now Callie watches as Saya smears a liberal amount of sea salt onto the only two mirrors inside the shrine, to the extent that her own reflection is now barely visible. The shrine maiden stops by the doorway leading into the next room.

“Okiku-sama,” she says aloud. “You must step out of the room for now and allow us to complete the ritual successfully.”

She then tosses several handfuls of the salt along the entrance. More is added in a straight and unbroken line around the corners of the room to prevent any malingering spirits from escaping or entering once the ritual begins.

Every conceivable bowl or container found inside the shrine is filled with water, and even more sea salt is added to them: eight serving bowls, two plugged sinks, five wooden buckets, four of the incense burners that would not be used that day. Even the small wooden spoons the miko use for their daily meals (six) are spread across a tatami mat, the hollow curves filled with as much water as they can hold. Finally, Amaya hands Callie four pieces of sage and requests that she put half of these in her mouth, and the other half on the soles of her feet, which she does by slipping them inside her socks.

Finally, all eight dolls are ready. They are brought out to form a large circle in the center of the room, with equal amounts of more sweetgrass in between each doll. The obaasan gestures at Tarquin, who has said nothing all morning, silently watching the preparations.

“Obaasan wants you to take off your hakama,” Kagura translates. “Lie down at the center of these dolls, and remain perfectly still.”

Whatever nervousness and unease Tarquin experienced the night before is now gone. His face is quietly composed, and he shows little fear. Dutifully, he stands in the middle of the dolls’ ring. Dutifully he removes his hakama, revealing the vile seals he has sought to keep hidden for all of his short life. Of the five, three of the seals have faded to be nearly invisible against his skin, while one remains a deep black. Still another seems uncertain, fading from black to transparent and back again.

Dutifully, Tarquin lies on his back, his palms turned toward the ceiling. His breathing is heavy. Around him, the other mikos settle themselves outside of the circle, kneeling and positioned so that each miko is within reach of three of the dolls.

The obaasan takes the best and the most beautiful of these dolls: an ichimatsu in a pure white kimono, with lovely, colorless eyes and soft, silky black hair, and lifts it over Tarquin’s head. Slowly, the old woman begins to chant, and the ritual begins.

An hour passes, and then another. Still the obaasan continues without stopping, and still the other mikos surrounding the circle wait with their heads bowed and their hands folded, never moving.