Spirits of the Noh (14 page)

In the dormitory foyer, Mai leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, staring at Sakura’s back. The other girl stood in front of the door, staring outside at the moonlit field that separated the dorm from the school building. The silence between them crackled with their need to be doing something, anything, with barely controlled fear, and with anticipation. Any second, Sakura’s phone would ring. Kara would call. They would learn what her father had said, and what they were to do next.

“Why do you keep staring out there?” Mai asked, hearing how snippy she sounded but not caring. “The school isn’t going anywhere.”

Sakura didn’t bother to turn around. “If the Hannya’s out there, I want to see it coming. And if Kara and the others come back without calling first, I want to see them, too.”

The moonlight made the red streak in Sakura’s hair a deep crimson that reminded Mai of blood. Sakura had put some kind of henna tattoos on her upper arms and they almost look carved into her skin. The sight was unnerving, and Mai wished Sakura would put something over the tank top she was wearing now. The weirder things became, the stranger Sakura behaved. She made Mai’s skin crawl. But maybe that was just the girl’s way of dealing with her sister’s murder. Whatever. Mai didn’t know, and really didn’t want to.

“This is crazy,” she said. “We need to go to Yamato-sensei. He’ll call the police. He had no proof before, because Kara lied to him. But if you come with me now, and back up what I’ve told him, he’ll have to believe us, just a little.”

That got Sakura’s attention: she turned and glared at Mai with open hostility, and Mai knew Sakura had understood the part of her argument that she had not said aloud. Mr. Yamato knew that Mai was among the group of girls Sakura had blamed for her sister’s murder. If
she
said Mai was telling the truth, how could Mr. Yamato argue?

“Just wait until we hear from Kara,” Sakura said.

Mai sighed. “Why? Why are we waiting? Just call her and tell her we’re going over to see Yamato-sensei.”

Sakura’s upper lip curled in distaste. Any possibility that Mai might have one day become friends with her had evaporated, but Mai didn’t care.

“I understand. You don’t like me,” she told Sakura. “I’m not going to cry about it. I’ve never liked you or any of your friends very much, either. Except Hachiro, and that’s only because he’s cute and can play baseball.”

“This is you being persuasive?” Sakura sniffed.

Mai pushed away from the wall, throwing up her hands. “This is me wanting to do something before someone else dies! Or have you forgotten the Hannya took your roommate?”

Sakura strode over, shaking her head as though ready to argue, and then slapped Mai across the face so hard that she staggered back to the steps, stumbled, and sat down.

“You bitch!” Mai snarled, one hand clapped to her cheek.

Sakura ignored her, turning away as she pulled out her cell phone. Mai’s cheek stung, but her pride had been hurt even worse. Still, all she cared about right now was Wakana and Daisuke, and Sakura was making the phone call. Nothing else mattered. If she hadn’t been afraid to go out after dark alone, she would have gone to Mr. Yamato’s by herself. But this was better. These girls knew something, at least, about what they were facing, and something was better than nothing.

“Kara, what’s going on?” Sakura asked.

Mai wished she could hear Kara’s side of the conversation. After a moment, Sakura went on.

“Listen, we’ve got to go to Yamato-sensei. It’s the only choice now. You said before you thought he believed Mai a little bit—”

Mai raised her eyebrows. That was the first she’d heard of it.

“—and we need him to believe us now, and to call the police.”

Sakura paused, and it was obvious that on the other end of the line Kara was arguing with her.

“No, stop. Quiet, Kara. Listen. Mai and I are going over there, and if we have any hope of him believing us, you three have to come as well. He has to see Ren. He has to hear it from all of us. Two of us, he might think it’s some kind of prank. But not all five, and not if Ren is hurt and Miho is gone … I know, I know, but we can’t do this alone! We need help! Just meet us there!”

Sakura snapped her phone shut and put it away. She took a deep breath and started for the door without waiting for Mai.

“What did she say?” Mai said, following her out the door. “What’s going on? Why was she fighting with you?”

“Kara didn’t want to leave her house because Aritomo-sensei is there. The Hannya is there with her father.”

A chill ran up Mai’s spine and all her anger vanished. “But she’s going to meet us at Yamato-sensei’s?”

“She’ll be there.”

Mai nodded once, turned, and headed across the field with Sakura matching her stride for stride.

Miho woke to the copper scent of blood and the awful, rotting stench of death. As she grew conscious of her surroundings, eyes flickering open in the dark, the smells overwhelmed her, filling her nostrils and her throat. Her stomach convulsed and she rolled to one side, a thin stream of vomit erupting from her mouth.

Panic and revulsion brought her fully awake. She forced herself to breathe through her mouth, the stink of the room too much to take. Disoriented, she looked around, trying to make sense of what she saw.

The low ceiling above her head had a peak in the middle, and there were boxes and two old traveling chests stacked to one side. In the gloom—slices of moonlight gleaming between shutters or boards that blocked two small windows—she could make out a metal rack hung with what appeared to be old Noh or Kabuki theatrical costumes. A bare dressmaker’s dummy stood beside the costume rack like some headless, limbless spectator.

The smell. Where did the smell come from?

Miho sat up and her stomach convulsed again. Bile burned in the back of her throat, but this time she managed to suppress the urge to vomit. It wasn’t just the smell, she realized. The nausea and disorientation were symptoms of something else. Flashes of the conflict on the train platform came back to her. Fear flooded through her as she remembered the Hannya, its intimate hiss, and what it had done to Ren.

Oh, Ren
. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, terrible sadness gnawing at her.
Please don’t be dead.

A fresh wave of nausea hit her gut and she thought again of the Hannya. One hand fluttered up to her neck and she gave a tiny yelp at the pain as she touched the bruised, punctured skin there. Some of the blood she smelled might be her own.

It had bitten her, and the bite had poisoned her or something. It had made her sleep as if she’d been drugged, and now the effects were starting to wear off. But the Hannya would be back.

Miho took a breath, still through her mouth, but now she could taste the stink of dead flesh on her tongue. Chills shuddered through her and she looked around, eyes at last beginning to adjust to the gloom.

In a dark corner to the right of the window she saw an antique dollhouse. In the black shadows behind it lay what was left of a human body. Torn and broken, bones showing, from what she could see in the dark it looked as though wild animals had gotten to it. Hungry animals. The darker stains on the wall and on the roof of the dollhouse must have been blood.

Miho began to shake. Her eyes swam with tears.

“No,” she whispered. “No, please. I haven’t done anything.”

Lurching to her feet, she banged her head on the low ceiling and then staggered toward the boarded window. Her fingers found purchase but she could not tear the wood away.

Miho dropped to her knees, threw back her head, and began to scream for help. She cried and she beat her fists on the boards and screamed until her throat hurt. Minutes passed before she paused to breathe, and to think.

And then a voice, little more than a dry rasp, came from behind the costume rack.

“You shouldn’t bother,” said the voice. “No one will hear. I’ve been trying for days.”

13

M
r. Yamato sat in a rigid wooden chair, his back straight. As he listened to Kara and Sakura tell the story from the beginning, with Mai reinforcing their tale by relating again what Ume had told her and Ren showing his injuries and detailing the attack at the train station, the principal’s expression did not waver. So often stern, Kara thought his face must have settled comfortably into those grim lines over the years.

“And then we came here,” Kara told him. “Please, Yamato-sensei. You must believe us. I’m afraid for Miho, and for my father. More people will die if we don’t do something.”

The principal took a deep breath, but still his expression did not change. He shifted his gaze from student to student, studying each of them as though searching for a weak link in the story. Kara could not blame him if he thought they were all liars or lunatics, but she did not think that was the case at all. If he had, wouldn’t he have thrown them out of his house minutes after they’d begun their tale? Instead, he had listened to every word, asking only clarifications.

“Please, Yamato-sensei,” Mai said.

The principal’s eyes narrowed further as he focused on her. What had he expected when he had opened his door to find them there? Surely not this. He had invited them inside and they had removed their shoes and sat on mats and cushions on the floor of the living room. Mr. Yamato’s wife had offered them tea, but he had seen the urgency in their faces and politely asked her to let him speak to his students alone. He had apologized to them for sitting in the chair, explaining that he had trouble with his back. And then he had asked them to begin, turning to Kara as though sensing that the others also wished for her to speak first.

Now the principal shifted his gaze to Kara again.

“You lied to me that day, in my office.”

She flushed but did not avert her eyes. “Yes, sensei. I’m very sorry. At that point I still hoped Wakana and Daisuke really had run away together. And I was afraid if I told you that Mai was telling the truth, you wouldn’t believe any of us.”

Mr. Yamato nodded, glancing at Mai. “I see. And Mai told me only part of the truth, that day.”

“It was the truth as I knew it, sensei,” Mai said quickly. “As told to me by Ume.”

The man’s eyes darkened. “Ume, who may have been a murderer.”

Mai dropped her gaze.

“Tell me now, girl,” the principal commanded. “Were you one of those with Ume on the night Akane Murakami was killed?”

Kara glanced at Hachiro, Ren, and Sakura. All of them were staring at Mai, waiting for the answer. Sakura’s fists were clenched, but Kara couldn’t tell if the look on her face showed fury or a fresh wave of grief over the loss of her older sister.

Mai lifted her chin. “No, sensei. I swear I was not with them. Hana and Chouku were, but I know that only because Ume told me.”

“How convenient that they’re dead,” Sakura said bitterly. “You know who else was there.”

“I’d only be guessing,” Mai insisted.

“Enough!” Mr. Yamato said, slicing the air with his hand. He looked at Sakura, then turned back to Mai. “We will speak about this more tomorrow. First, we must contend with the story you have told me tonight.”

“Do you believe us?” Ren asked.

Mr. Yamato took a deep breath. It didn’t seem possible to Kara, but he actually sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

“As a younger man, I would have dismissed such stories without a moment’s thought. My grandmother loved to tell us tales of gods and demons, of spirits wearing the faces of men, and especially of tricksters who could appear to be animals. Kitsune was her favorite. I remember so many of those stories. I never believed them, but I knew my grandmother did. My father used to say the woman was crazy, and though I loved her stories, I agreed.

“As I have grown older, I have thought of my grandmother often. In my memories, she does not seem at all insane. In all other ways, she conducted her life normally—a sweet, doting woman who made fish soup better than any I’ve ever had, and always kept a bit of candy hidden for me in a drawer in her kitchen. The light of faith in her eyes was ordinary belief, not madness. Many old women still tell such stories as though they really happened. Who am I to say they did not?

“Even so, I would not believe you if not for the murders in April. Jiro and Chouku had their blood taken from their bodies. The police could not explain it. No one could explain it. They came up with their ridiculous stories, lies to tell the public, and I went along with them to protect our school. We could not afford to have people thinking the students were still in danger … and I truly thought the danger had passed. But I knew the police were mystified, and that made me wonder. And then Mai came to me with the tale of the ketsuki, and Kyuketsuki, and a curse.

“I tried to tell myself it was impossible. But every time I did, I remembered the spark of belief in my grandmother’s eyes. And now here you are, telling me a Hannya has come to Monju-no-Chie school, and I remember the story my grandmother told me of a girl named Kiyohime and the monk Anchin.”

Kara felt relief washing over her. Mr. Yamato believed her. He would help! But this was all taking too long. Where was Miss Aritomo now? With her father still? And where was Miho?

“Anchin is the name of the monk in
Dojoji
,” Sakura said. “Yasu was supposed to play that part.”

“But who was Kiyohime?” Hachiro asked, glancing at Kara. “Is that from the play, too?”

Mr. Yamato leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and Kara could not help but lean in a bit herself. She saw the others doing the same. It had the feeling of a secret about to be shared, or a story told around the fireplace.

“The story has been told in many ways. The Noh play,
Dojoji
, is only one of them. It has been performed in Kabuki theater, written as folklore, and told in songs. But my grandmother told the story of Kiyohime as something true and real, as a warning to the young boy I was that I must never mislead a girl or take advantage of affection I did not feel in return.”

Hachiro and Ren shifted uncomfortably, while Mai looked confused. Sakura glanced at Kara, seeming to share her impatience, but Kara wanted to hear the rest.

“Please go on, sensei,” Kara said. “Anything you can tell us about the story might help.”

“Anchin lived in a temple on the banks of the Hidaka river. Once a year he visited a small village far away—I don’t remember the names now—and always stayed at the same inn during his travels. The innkeeper’s young daughter, Kiyohime, fussed over Anchin and during each visit he would bring her small gifts. He thought of her as a child, and never imagined that her fondness for him would turn to love. When, after several years, she confessed her passion to him, Anchin was shocked. He explained that he had taken vows of chastity and could never love her, and he returned to the temple.”

Kara thought back on the play she’d read and some of the reading she’d done. “That isn’t how the play goes.”

Mr. Yamato shook his head. “No. It’s not. Some versions of the tale claim that Anchin took advantage of the girl and then spurned her. But my grandmother’s story was always that Anchin was simply blind to her growing obsession, or enjoyed it but thought it innocent enough. Kiyohime pursued the monk, and her desire for him led her to make obscene propositions. Finally, resentment turned her love to hate. By then she had begun to seek to summon spirits to help force Anchin to be her lover. Demons. She became a Hannya—a blood-drinking, flesh-eating serpent woman—and snuck into the temple.”

The principal waved a hand. “The rest is much like what you’ve no doubt read.”

Hachiro, Ren, Mai, and Sakura all looked to Kara. She nodded.

“The monks hid Anchin inside a huge bronze bell in the temple. When she discovered him, the bell came loose and fell, trapping Anchin inside. The Hannya couldn’t move the bell to get to him, but it breathed fire, like a dragon, and wrapped itself around the bell, burning it with such heat that it melted the bell and Anchin inside, and incinerating itself in the process.”

“No,” Mr. Yamato said.

Kara looked up at him. “What?”

They were all staring at him now. The principal sat up again in his chair, fidgeting, his back obviously paining him.

“I was mistaken. If that is how the play ends, it isn’t the way my grandmother told the story. In her version, there was no fire from the Hannya. It wasn’t a dragon, after all. Fire makes no sense. Kiyohime tried to get to Anchin, who had hidden inside the bell. He began to beat on the iron—iron, not bronze—from within and the other monks brought out small bells hidden in their robes and began to ring them. Japanese legends are full of tales of evil being warded off by bells. The sound paralyzed Kiyohime long enough for them to burn her.”

“Do you think this Hannya is actually Kiyohime?” Mai asked. “Or a different one?”

Ren glanced at her. “Does it matter?”

Sakura rose up on her knees, staring at Kara. “Aritomo-sensei’s version of
Dojoji
has no bells. The monks chant …”

Kara’s mind raced. “That can’t be coincidence. The Hannya’s hiding inside her, we know that, but it’s obviously controlling her actions, too. At least some of the time.”

“Yes, but is it just influencing her,” Ren asked, “or does it take over in there? When we’re talking to Aritomo-sensei, is she answering, or is the Hannya?”

“That’s crazy,” Mai said.

“Also the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard,” Hachiro said. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

“But how did it possess her in the first place, and why her?” Sakura asked.

“The story is about jealousy,” Mai said. “Who is Aritomo-sensei jealous of?”

Hachiro and Sakura looked at Kara, who immediately understood their suspicion. It made sense, in a bizarre sort of way. Miss Aritomo had taken an interest in her father, maybe wanted to get closer to him, but his first love and loyalty belonged to his daughter. It would be natural for the woman to be a little jealous of their closeness. Envious.

Would it have been enough to give the Hannya a way in? An invitation? Maybe. And they would probably never know.

Kara threw up her hands. “Look, there’s no point in debating this. How it got inside her isn’t nearly as important as finding a way to get it out.”

“Agreed,” Ren said.

Hachiro reached out and touched Kara’s shoulder. She turned to see a gleam of epiphany in his eyes.

“Bells,” he said.

Kara got it instantly. There were bells everywhere in the school and the dorm. Japanese culture was full of them. Students hung them on backpacks and key chains and doorknobs, though most were tiny, what they called pocket bells.

“I don’t know if little ones would be enough,” Sakura said.

But Kara had begun to nod. She felt the smile before it touched her lips. “Kaneda-sensei looks after the old Shinto shrine beside the school. In June she did that re-creation of an old prayer ritual, remember?”

“She does it every year,” Ren said.

“And the bells she uses … they’re on a shelf in her classroom,” Kara went on. “Aren’t they, Hachiro?”

Hachiro clapped his hands together. “Yes. I’ve dusted them a dozen times in o-soji.”

“Wait!” Mai said. “If you’re right about the bells … and maybe you are, since she didn’t include them in the play … We can’t just burn our art teacher!”

They’d almost forgotten Mr. Yamato was there. Now he slapped a hand on the arm of his chair, the sound snapping them all to attention.

“You will do nothing,” he said, frowning deeply.

Kara stared at him. “But you said—”

“Yes, I believe you,” he interrupted. “But if all you surmise is correct, Kara, your father is in no danger. He is not one of the cursed, nor is he a part of the play Aritomo-sensei wanted to stage. No, you will all stay here with me. I will phone the police. When they arrive, you will relate everything to them, just as you have to me, and I will support you.”

“What?” Hachiro said, standing. “Sensei, they won’t believe a word of it.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Yamato said. “But the men I have dealt with know that they have not been able to unravel the mysteries that have plagued us this year. This explanation is only slightly less plausible than the wild bear story they told the newspapers in the spring. If they don’t want me to make my own calls to the newspapers, they will listen to you, and then they will go to Aritomo-sensei and question her, and search her home. It may be that the missing students are there, if they are still alive—”

“Miho,” Sakura said softly.

“But the police must be the ones to deal with this. I cannot allow any of you to put yourselves in further danger.”

For several seconds, no one spoke. Hachiro shifted awkwardly on his feet. Sakura whispered Kara’s name, a question, and then all of them were looking at her.

Kara stood, shaking her head. “No. I’m sorry, Yamato-sensei. That will take too long. We’ll go to her house ourselves. If the others are there, we’ll rescue them. And if Aritomo-sensei is there … we’ll have the answers we’re looking for. I only hope you’re right about my father.”

She and Hachiro turned to leave and the others started to rise to follow them. Kara’s thoughts were already running ahead, wondering how quickly they could gather the bells they would need, and thinking also about the story of
Dojoji,
about the monks, and the role that masks played in Noh theater.

“Stop!” Mr. Yamato barked. “I forbid you to leave. You will wait for the police.”

Kara held the door open for the others. As they filed out, she turned to the principal. “I’m sorry, sensei. This is ancient evil. We don’t have time to wait for the modern world to believe in it.”

Miss Aritomo lived a mile or so from the Harpers, in a house that had been built long before World War II. Once upon a time it had been one of a handful of larger homes beyond the outskirts of the city, but Miyazu had grown over the years and sprawled outward around it. There were offices nearby, as well as a handful of shops, a sushi bar, and a laundry, but the neighborhood had gone downhill of late. The doctor’s office next door had been abandoned, a realtor’s sign in the window.