“Maybe she was there to frighten you because you don’t believe,” Sakura said, lips curling into cruelty now. “Or maybe she just doesn’t like you.”
“That’s not fair,” Miho said, reaching for her hand.
Sakura pushed her away. As they stared at her, she stood and pulled on pants and a sweater, slipped into shoes, and went to the door.
“Wait, Sakura,” Miho pleaded. “Don’t go.”
She didn’t even hesitate, slamming the door as she went out.
Miho turned to Kara, eyes pleading. “What are we going to do?”
Kara gnawed on her lower lip. “She’s having the dreams, too. If the ketsuki comes for her, she’ll go willingly, thinking it’s Akane. We can’t let her be here by herself anymore.”
Miho stared at the closed door. “We’re going to have to stop it, aren’t we?”
“Someone has to.”
“How?” Miho asked.
Kara shrugged, troubled but no longer confused. She felt strangely awake now. “I’m not sure. Nobody else will believe us. You’re leaving in a couple of days. But we have to . . . Wait a second.” Kara turned to Miho, mind racing, forcing herself not to succumb to the powerful temptation to pretend none of it was real. They both knew it was real. Denying it might cost Sakura her life. “You said there was a Noh play about the ketsuki. We should ask Miss Aritomo about it.”
Miho thought about that a moment, then nodded. “She might be busy dealing with parents, like your father, but let’s see if we can find her.”
A ripple of anticipation went through Kara. They might be crazy, but it felt good to be taking some kind of action.
“I should go tell my father I might be a while,” she said.
“Okay. I want to take a shower anyway. I’ll meet you on the school steps in half an hour?” Miho suggested.
Kara stood up. “See you there.”
The new school term had barely started, really, and already it was coming to a close. Boxes and suitcases and trunks were being carried out of the dorm. In a way, that seemed fitting to Kara. It felt like many weeks had passed since school had begun—since she had walked so nervously toward Monju-no-Chie School—instead of a comparative handful of days. She remembered vividly how anxious she had been and how Sakura and Miho had set her at ease.
She left the dorm and strode across the field, going toward the trees that lined the opposite side. Sakura had taken off quickly, and Kara expected to find her in the arch of that recessed door on the east side of the school, smoking a cigarette, hiding out. That first day she’d had her uniform jacket inside out, all of those badges and patches on the inside, and Kara had thought Sakura was so cool, that the girl had it all together.
But even back then, she’d been falling apart.
How did you not notice?
she wondered now.
If not then, when you found out about her sister? How did you not know how broken she was inside?
Kara couldn’t blame herself, though. Miho hadn’t noticed either, and they were roommates. And Sakura hadn’t really begun to fray at the edges until the nightmares came and Jiro died.
If all of this was real—if she and Miho weren’t completely freaking out and seeing things that weren’t there—then they had to be so careful now. The ketsuki had come after Kara, but at least she knew it wanted to hurt her. Sakura felt righteous and invincible. She needed help desperately, and her parents weren’t even returning calls from the school.
When she walked around the side of the building, she peered past the small trees up against the wall, into the deep shadows of that recessed doorway, in the shadow of the overhanging pagoda roof. So certain had she been that, for a moment, she thought she saw a figure there. But the little alcove was empty. Only cigarette butts, stubbed out in the dirt, remained.
With a sigh, Kara continued on. The ancient prayer shrine to her right loomed in the shadows of the trees, damp with rain and unattended. No candles burned there today. Students had been busy this year building shrines of a different sort. The one in memory of Akane still remained down by the bay. A second one had been established for Jiro just a few yards away, with photographs and candles and T-shirts, pins and bits of school uniforms, stuffed animals and toys left as little mementos, offerings from those who missed him. At the back of the school, where Hana had struck the ground after leaping from the roof, a third shrine had been created.
But the students were all leaving now. It appeared Chouku’s spirit would have to wait for her own shrine.
As Kara came around the front of the school, she looked down along the tree line toward the bay and faltered. Coming to a halt, she stared at the lone figure who knelt not far from the water, just at the edge of the shrine of remembrance that students had built for Akane. For just a moment she thought it might be Akane herself, that Sakura was right. But she pushed the thought away. Death had taken Akane. It couldn’t be her.
Narrowing her eyes, Kara realized who it was who knelt there, as though in supplication.
Ume
.
Maybe she’s asking for forgiveness,
Kara thought. If Ume believed what Sakura had said, that Akane had come back for her killers, her going down to the shrine seemed like a foolish thing to do. And if Ume wanted people to believe she had nothing to do with Akane’s death, hanging around the shrine looking guilty wasn’t going to convince anyone of her innocence.
Kara took a step toward Ume, thinking she should try to talk to her. But whatever Ume’s role had been, Kara had come to believe that Sakura was right about her involvement in Akane’s death, and she decided that she didn’t have time to waste on sympathy for a murderer. She hoped no one else would have to die, but if Ume was haunted by guilt or fear, Kara had no interest in alleviating her torment.
Turning away, she went up the steps and into the school. She kept her street shoes on. It felt odd not to stop in the genkan to change into uwabaki. But right now, no one would be paying much attention to the rules.
Kara found her father in his homeroom, talking to two couples who had come to retrieve their children. He came out into the hallway to tell her he thought it would be hours before he could leave and that she should go back without him.
“I’ll be home before dark,” he promised.
She wondered if the words sprang from something he saw in her eyes or his own fear for his daughter.
“I just have a few things to do with Miho, and then I’ll be headed home,” she promised. “Have you seen Miss Aritomo?”
He shook his head, too distracted by the impatient parents waiting in his classroom to wonder why she would ask. “I assume she’s in her room.”
Kara kissed his cheek and thanked him, then went down to the front door to wait for Miho.
“As much as I love Noh theater,” Miss Aritomo said, giving them a curious look, “this is certainly not the time for club discussions.”
In the art teacher’s office was a bookshelf laden with hardcover Noh plays and books on the staging of such productions. Several crude masks hung on the wall above the bookshelf, unobtrusive, as though the display itself was an apology for its own existence.
“I’m not even in the Noh club,” Kara said. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
Miss Aritomo glanced at the clock on her desk, then at Miho, who looked away a bit guiltily. The teacher settled her gaze on Kara.
“I know you must be aware of the crisis the school faces at the moment,” the teacher said. “You girls are really not even supposed to be in the school building right now—”
“Yeah, like it’s so much safer in the dorm,” Kara scoffed.
Miss Aritomo flinched and then her expression went slack, closed off completely. Miho gave a sharp intake of breath.
Kara realized her mistake immediately. She stood stiffly and executed a deep bow, not raising her eyes. “Sensei, please accept my apology for interrupting you, and for the disrespect with which I spoke. It brings dishonor to me and to my father.”
The woman visibly relaxed, brushing the words away with a wave of her hand.
“You are nervous and afraid and frustrated, Kara. Under the circumstances, much can be forgiven.”
Kara gave a second, shorter bow.
Miss Aritomo bowed in return and continued. “A staff member is working with those boarding students who are not leaving today, making certain that we know who will still be in the dormitory tonight. Miho should be there. And Kara, your father must be wondering where you are.”
Miho bowed her head and murmured an apology, ready to leave.
“Wait,” Kara said to her.
Both of them looked at her in surprise.
“Miss Aritomo, Miho and I are going to have a few days before she leaves and wanted to do something to distract ourselves. I’m not a member of the Noh club, but I’m interested. We’ve talked about taking a Noh play and trying to write it as a comic book. Miho’s roommate Sakura loves manga and she would draw it. So if we could just ask you a few, quick questions, I promise we won’t keep you for very long.”
She had come up with the explanation on the spur of the moment, but she warmed to the lie even as it left her lips. Miho blinked, staring at her.
Kara smiled and bowed her head briefly yet again. “Of course, if you’d rather be dealing with terrified and angry parents, I’m sure we can find some other way to occupy ourselves for the next few days.”
Miss Aritomo’s nostrils flared as though annoyed, and Kara worried that she had miscalculated. But then the art teacher smiled.
“All right. Five minutes. What Noh play were you interested in?”
Miho perked up, blinking in surprise. She smiled softly and then, as though remembering the real purpose behind their visit, grew serious once more.
“When I was younger, I remember seeing part of a Noh play about a ketsuki, a cat-demon that drank the blood of its enemies. At least, I think that was what it was about. I saw the mask once, too, at a Noh museum in Tokyo. My parents took me there three years ago.”
Miss Aritomo began to nod even before Miho had finished her first sentence.
“Yes, of course. I know the play you mean,” the teacher said. “And it would make a perfect manga. But I think it’s in incredibly poor taste for you to ask about it now.”
Kara flinched in surprise. “What do you mean?”
Miss Aritomo crossed her arms, studying them with obvious disdain. “You saw Chouku’s body, Kara—I know you did—all those little bite marks on her. And I’m sure you’ve heard that she and Jiro lost a lot of blood. So the two of you start thinking something supernatural—”
“There’s no such thing—,” Miho began.
“Of course there isn’t!” Miss Aritomo snapped, glaring at them. “But suddenly you’re thinking about the ketsuki and now you want to do a manga story. Students are dead, and you want to use that for manga?”
Kara took a deep breath. Miss Aritomo had already made the connection to the ketsuki legend. Of course she had, with her knowledge of Noh theater. For a moment, Kara had thought the art teacher believed the ketsuki had killed Jiro and Chouku, but it was clear she didn’t believe the creatures were real. She considered trying to convince the teacher but suspected that would only lead to Miss Aritomo telling her father and the principal that the girls were losing their grip on reality.
“It isn’t like that, sensei,” Kara said.
Miss Aritomo raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“No,” Miho said. “It’s true that what happened to Jiro and Chouku made me think about the ketsuki, but we mean no disrespect. We’ve been talking about doing a manga of a legend from Noh theater, and once I thought about the ketsuki, I knew it would make a good one. It would be a faithful retelling of the story.”
The teacher seemed to relax a little. “Nothing to do with what’s happening at school?”
Kara shook her head. “We would never disrespect Chouku and the others like that. We knew them, sensei.”
Miss Aritomo hesitated, apparently trying to decide how much she trusted them. In the end she nodded, giving them the benefit of the doubt.
“All right. But I want to see every page as you create it.”
“Of course,” Miho said, giving the teacher a small bow of her head.
“The story
would
be perfect for a manga,” Miss Aritomo said. “But it is somewhat different from what you remember.”
“Could you tell us, please?” Kara asked. “Different how?”
“The story is not about a ketsuki,” Miss Aritomo said, reaching back to pull a book from her shelf. As she continued, she flipped pages, searching for something. “Well, I suppose in a way it is. In the play, a woman named Riko is murdered by her husband, who has taken a new lover. Her children mourn for her, and her parents make a shrine at her grave, and there is so much grief that the demon Kyuketsuki senses their rage and grief and comes to their village.
“Kyuketsuki is only spirit but can work terrible evil on the world through surrogates. Kyuketsuki influenced Riko’s family, luring them to the place where her husband spilled her blood. Her father killed a cat on the spot, offering it up to Kyuketsuki. The demon takes all of the sadness and rage and collects it in a bowl, then pours it into the dead cat, transforming it into a blood-drinking monster, forged in the image of Kyuketsuki herself.”
Miss Aritomo stopped flipping pages, then slowly went back several pages to something she had missed.
“There,” she said, pointing to the page. She turned the book around for them both to see. “That’s the mask of Kyuketsuki.”
Miho leaned over for a better look. Kara felt frozen in place. The pointed ears and sharp little horns, the black lips and bloody red teeth, the bright orange eyes. The feline qualities of the
tengu
were noticeable, from the shape of the nose to the hissing mouth and sharp, tiny fangs. But the face was distorted and gruesome.
Kara closed her eyes so that she would have the strength to look away.
She’d seen it before.
“It’s a rare play, almost never performed anymore,” Miss Aritomo said, not noticing Kara’s reaction. “So many Noh plays are lost to time and become unfashionable. If you really mean to take it seriously, it would be a ser vice to the theater and to Japan for you to create a manga of this story. I’m sure I could give you credit for it in class, as well.”