gratefully down, his mind racing over the events of the past day. Omura sipped his tea, bristling faint mustache moving with a muscle in his jaw.
“I recalled something over the last few days...a half-finished manuscript a friend of mine from college had left in my care upon his sudden death. He had an interest in the genealogic records of old families in Kyushu and had extensive research left over from his father’s time going back before the bomb erased most of the Nagasaki records. In particular he had found out some interesting facts about the year tenancy of a taiko by the name of Takada Isao-shi.”
...a Governor of the area, the student’s attention sharpened. “What about this man...Takada?”
“It was written of him that he was a staunch supporter of the cleansing of the Kirishitan impurities. A Kirishitan by birth, he was said to be an illegitimate son of a Portuguese trader and a Japanese lady in waiting to the Arima clan. In his youth, he willingly turned apostate and begun a brief reign of terror to the surrounding villages. It is said that he was among the judges of a massive martyrdom of Christian men and women in the dry riverbeds, when his eye glimpsed a beautiful young woman standing among the gathered infidels. In the next moment, it was also said that the faggots of dying fire burst anew startling those watching. It was believed to be a sign of the Christian God that the prayers of the martyrs for a glorious death had been heard.”
The old man finished his tea and settled back in his chair, peering through spectacles at the young man drained of color seated across from him. “It isn’t known how successful his attempts at courtship were yet through threats and false words, the male protector of the Kohiyoye was soon imprisoned on false charges. The family as a whole were secretive of their religion and forcibly practiced the righteous paths of Buddhism to the eyes of the world.”
“Then, who betrayed them?” The answer was as important as it was then, he needed to know. Rationality had a way of sugar-coating memory, bleeding terror from a few moments of memory. Omura studied the painting on his cup, “a servant girl of the princess’s, became afraid of Marta, sister of the girl’s father, of leading her charge astray. In secret, she met and bargained with Takada-shi’s men and admitted to the practice of mass being held in private and of secret baptism among the poor village folk. Marta was arrested not long after and tortured in the boiling springs of Unzen where her faith was never renounced.”
A saddened light came into the old man’s tired eyes. “What of the girl, you may ask? Marina...ah, Marina christened with the name Sen, remained under house arrest with a painter talented in the arts of European portraiture. He was commissioned under pain of death to paint the princess’s likeness as a symbol of the betrothal of Takada-shi to the house of Kohiyoye. With her world disintegrating before her eyes, the princess supposedly made a request of the artist...to paint her as a bride of Christ.”
The student’s gaze fell, as a nun clad in white.
“Naturally, Takada’s ire was terrible yet even then with the defiance of a Kirishitan’s beliefs etched in simple paints, he could not bring himself to destroy her image, and that is where the painting that hangs in this museum originated from.” Omura finished heavily.
“You said...Takada’s tenure as taiko was brief, why?”
“He died...in a locked room, found by his servants, with a blackened face and with hair turned as white as snow. Naturally a man with many enemies such as Takada, poison was suspected, but no one was ever truly brought to trial. As for Marina...or Osen, her story has never truly come to an end.”
The student thanked Omura, filled with a newer understanding of the tragedy that had consumed the lives of the Kohiyoye. Steps slower, he went to say goodbye to Marina’s portrait as the lights of the museum were being switched off around him.
“I’m sorry for the injustices you suffered. With Takada’s eventual end, I hope you’ve rested in peace all these long years.” He bowed to her painting and walking away was no easy feat. The student planned on using the house phone to call his parents, have them fly down to help him move out of the cabin. The following day, he’d call up his professor and see if there were any late dorm openings. He’d had enough of the lakeside town and longed only for the brightness and vibe of a college town to chase away the dark memories from four centuries ago.
With his thoughts on the future, the sound had quite escaped his notice for a time. As he passed by the open gallery of the Ryukyu Islands exhibit, the sound increased as if commanding attention - rustling like the stiffened fabric of a lady’s gown. A chill crept into the air and from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed miasmic blackness pooling on the white tile floor, gathering itself together with a singular pair of eyes burning brightly within. The student choked on his scream, staggering away from the horror that dwelt there. He ran on sluggish legs through the remaining corridors until he was out in the lobby, bumping past the security guard who called after him.
“Hey, hey, what’s all this --!”
But, he didn’t stop, stopping would mean staying in that place where the spirit held sway, where Kohiyoye Marta kept watch over Marina’s portrait. The student ran all the way back to the cabin, barely finding the keys among the junk in his pockets. He knew what he ran from - memory - ghost - call it whatever the believers did, he was alone - but didn’t plan on staying there any longer.
As he hurried from room to room hastily throwing clothes into an overnight bag, he passed by the antiquated answering machine and telephone. The red message beeped and with his heart finally ceasing its frantic beating, slowed and pressed play, glancing also at the reams of printed paper that the scanner had in its tray. Curious, he went over and gathered them up as the message played.
“It’s your father, Toshi. I just wanted to check in with you and send you some interesting facts I’d learned about our family tree.” His father laughed - his father always laughed when he was nervous. “By the way, I got a call from one of my old buddies from school. Jordan said you’d gone to see him - ” His father broke off awkwardly, “you be careful now, don’t want to go disturbing old things that should remain buried.”
Jordan...? Then, he remembered the art collector’s fancy card. Buried struck a strange chord within the student and he nearly missed his father’s next words, quietly murmured so his mother couldn’t hear if she’d been listening in on the bedroom line.
“Don’t continue down the path I nearly did, please, Toshiro. Your mother...she’s the one who saved me.” A brief pause and then his father’s tone changed, brightening willfully. “Did you know that our family was descended from a clan in that area?”
And with those words, the student looked down at the faded family tree his father had faxed over and traced the line back to the beginning - he dropped those papers with a cry of horror as all the puzzle pieces fell into place.
“--your mother and I are flying over there within the next few days. Sayounara, son.”
The phone rang within seconds of the message ending. On numbed legs, the student walked over to the ringing phone and raised it to his ear. “Moshi...moshi?” He whispered finding little strength to lend to his voice. Dead silence - and then, the sound of a woman weeping. His eyes dropped to the number displayed and knew it as his own.
Coldness pervaded the air; darkness encroached from the wide windows across from him, their sashes thrown open to the black lake where the waters were never still. The student let go of the receiver, an icy dread gripped his heart as the temperature plummeted and a soft voice sang Te Deum.
His screams were never heard.
***
It was Director Omura who found him the next day. The young man’s hair had turned as white as snow and he raved like a lunatic. A psychologist assigned to the case could only say the young man had suffered a break of sanity. The parents flight was rushed and they flew in the following day to find their only son kept in a padded room. They demanded answers to the many questions surrounding the strange case; the police could offer none excepting the
scrap of a family tree found burnt in the stone fireplace. Where the family line ended for Takada, the line rejoined with the beginning of the Kisshoan family.
Only, Kisshoan Toshiro knew where the male line ended.
- Owari
AN: originally fanfiction rewritten now for my seventh anniversary of becoming a writer! xD
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