Recherche: Prologue

Recherché: (French) "something very rare, exotic, or choice, arcane." The tale of an aeon, the undead who feasts on the living, and of an inexperienced demon slayer, determined to end its reign of terror. Fueled by hatred older than time itself, both seek revenge. Inspired in part by Bram Stoker's Dracula. For

Hatake Kakashi and Umino Iruka, the path to passions forbidden is a SLOW one, with an exceptionally high body count. Set in 1880s Konoha. AU.

Let's get the warnings out of the way first as there will be:

descriptions of VIOLENCE

GORE (dismemberment)

FLESH EATING

References to past SEXUAL ASSAULT/ABUSE

NON-CON (in later chapters)

WEREWOLF like creatures/WEREWOLVES

the UCHIHA MASSACRE will be revisited

Minor and MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH(S)

Additional characters: Maito Gai, Kinoe (Yamato/Tenzou), Sai, Senju Tsunade, Morino Ibiki, Dan Shizune, Shiranui Genma, Hagane Kotetsu, Kamizuki Izumo, Uchiha Fugaku, Uchiha Itachi, Shimura Danzou, Orochimaru and Ebisu.

---

There in the northwest, lush emerald pastures sprinkled with lavender and clover, carpet the gently rolling hills where prize sheep and cattle graze; to the dense forests in the northeast, ancient conifers almost touch the sky amidst their teak, pine, mahogany and cedar brethren. Temperate climes and fertile soil bring forth choice grains and produce all year-round; from a complex of hothouses in the east, come the rarest medicinal herbs and horticultural specimens in the entire five nation region.

Long before Japan's ports were forcibly opened to trade with the West, the lumber and textile mills of Konoha were the largest producers and exporters of dry goods, construction and shipbuilding materials in the Orient. After the Meiji Restoration's implementation, however, Konoha would become the first territory in Japan to establish balanced trade protocols with European markets.

Bounded on the east by sparkling aquiline seas, merchant ships daily pull into her ports offloading freight of exotic spices, textile dyes, and raw cotton. These same ships steam homeward, their cargo holds laden with bales of superfine wool, pallets of top grain leathers, dried herbs, lumber and barrels of aromatic oils.

A center of industry, the hub of domestic and foreign commerce and polestar of mechanization, that was Konoha. An unsullied blend of the bucolic and the cosmopolitan, a land steeped in the tradition of its ancestors, yet as current and relevant as tomorrow's newspapers.

The providence of the kami made Konoha and by extension, Fire Country wealthy; the people inhabiting the land made it rich beyond measure. Whether dwelling in stately manor homes in the west, lowly row houses in the northeast, or humble bungalows scattered throughout the territory, there was a sense of community and dignity which bound them together.

Fire Country … a land favored by the gods.

Konoha … the crown jewel in the kami's chest of treasures,

at least it was… until seven months ago.

Years ahead of its time in matters social and political, it was the first territory ever to entrust administration of a powerhouse of industry and commerce to the oversight of a woman;

Senju Tsunade,

her lineage, storied and esteemed, within and beyond the boundaries of the region. She was a descendant of Senju Hotaka, a farmer with radical ideals. In addition to revolutionizing animal husbandry, his experiments led to hybridization of indigenous plants, vegetables and trees. Because of him Fire Country was recognized as a leader in all things agricultural as well as a pioneer in the field of veterinary medicine. With the land's abundant resources and a handful of willing workers, he built storehouses, amassing rot resistant grains, wild honey, dried fruits and herbs; dispatching his children abroad, he built a wider consumer base for Konoha's bounty and ratified trade agreements between the five nations.

Over time, small factories sprung up to keep pace with demand.

Travel between the nations became a tedious and dangerous enterprise in the days of Tsunade's great great great grandfather, Senju Atsushi. Draft horse or ox drawn carts were easy pickings for roving brigands; should they reach their destination with cargo intact, it was still a fortnight's trip. Travel by sea shortened delivery time, yet perils from contrary winds and corsairs brimming with picaroons posed a risk for those aboard the tiny boats. Atsushi began sending trained and armed security with every shipment whether on land or by sea; dressed as humble farmers, the incidences of robbery declined and Konoha's reputation as a people not to be trifled with grew.

To this day, ox drawn carts play an important role in the annual celebration commemorating Konoha's growth.

Her great great grandfather, Senju Katsuro designed and built the ports that provided a safer environment in which to lade cargo. He financed and built the mills which produced revenue for the then tiny village and established schools specializing in medicine, shipbuilding and perfume compounding. Spearheading construction of rail lines and improving lanes from the farms, mills and factories, he ensured rapid turnaround times for incoming and outgoing ships. And with the revenue generated he purchased larger parcels of land, annexed the schools and founded a medical research facility.

He lived to see the day when Konoha became a prosperous and independent territory within Fire Country.

With a steadily growing population, Senju Hisao, her great grandfather strengthened the territory's infrastructure. Upgrading existing sanitation methods, he ensured a reliable source of potable water as well as an underground system of waste disposal. During his time as Governor, he designed and built the Administrative complex, moving the constables closer to the sea and instituted a mounted patrol; they maintained checkpoints along the borders and kept the land safe from intruders.

Lastly, her grandfather Senju Hashirama was instrumental in the reforestation of Konoha's indigenous trees and the introduction of new genera of plants and herbs within the land. He overhauled local government, setting up a separate agency to handle monetary concerns related to foreign trade; this in turn, freed up the Governor's office to focus the social, cultural and economic needs of those who lived in the territory.

Tsunade capitalized on his work, ensuring continued financial stability of the territory. She oversaw construction of new transient housing alongside the port area, segregating wearied crews from the general populace. Annexing the medical facilities, she founded a state of the art research laboratory; there, new medications were developed and tested and cutting edge medical instruments and equipment were manufactured. Lastly, she instituted a training center for artisans and craftsmen, that the traditional work of their ancestors might be preserved.

But if Senju Tsunade was the heart and brains of this realm, Morino Ibiki was its brawn.

Son of an equestrian breeder and brother of Idate, Ibiki dreamt of the day he might escape the predictability of farm life. But as the eldest son, he was expected to take over the family business; a life too sedate and monotonous for such an ambitious young man. By age sixteen, he begged his parents to lie about his age that he might join the ranks of a growing military force.

With heavy hearts, they allowed him to do so.

When he returned home after twelve years' service, mother and father deceased in his absence, he was a highly decorated, honorably discharged man of the world. He walked with a slight limp these days - the muscles in his hip and bones of his left ankle, irreparably damaged when his mount was felled by a samurai's yajiri.

As long as he lived, he'd never forget that day.

Somehow freed from the weight of his horse, he lay in the dust of a foreign land as the iron covered boot of a warrior came into view. One swing of the samurai's katana put the horse out of its misery; another swing almost deprived him of vision, leaving behind a scar that ran from his right eye and extending past his jaw. Writhing in pain, a final slice split the flesh next to his left eye and across his top and bottom lips as the samurai left him to die.

A marked and bitter man, he spent the first six months back in Konoha wasting away his savings at the opposite end of a sake bottle. The time for sorrowing over his fate sluggishly passed and in the harsh cold light of day, he took stock of his life and talents as he stood before a mirror in his lonely boardinghouse room near the port.

When not fogged by alcohol, he had a sharp mind, an eye for detail which saw what others missed. Years in the military taught him to be a leader of men, to communicate his thoughts and ideas concisely and how to motivate others to accomplish defined goals.

These were qualities that could be parlayed into a successful second career, of this he was certain.

However, a scarred face and irregular gait kept most of the 'decent, marriageable' women at bay for they feared interacting with him, convinced somehow that he was cursed by the gods. But he wasn't the sort of man who needed definition by the ties of marriage and children; his heart beat only to serve and protect the land and the people of Konoha and he would allow no impediments to swerve him from the desire of his heart. His imposing physical presence and stern demeanor paved the way to sporadic employment and placed him on the path of service. Hustling drunks from the taverns along the docks or protecting the assets at the bordello/boarding house, put money in his pocket, food on his table, and alcohol in his gullet.

But this was not the life he intended to live forever.

With his brother married, looking to start a family and overseeing the newly streamlined business of horse breeding and veterinary medicine, Ibiki fell back on the only marketable skills he possessed; he sobered up, applied for and was accepted as one of Konoha's constables.

This he believed was his true calling in life.

He quickly moved up the ranks from border patrol to commanding units near the docks, to Supervisor of patrols and finally, sergeant in the newly formed investigations unit. When the Commandant of Constables announced his plan to retire, Ibiki was the first choice for the position, however, the Governor had other plans. She did away with the title of Commandant and appointed him Chief Inspector, granting him authority over every aspect of law enforcement.

Under his guidance was a training center established for civilians; they were deputized upon completion of schooling and called into service during yearly festivals which attracted hordes of tourists and a sophisticated criminal element. These 'ready reserves' also acted as search and recovery teams in times of natural disasters - typhoons, mudslides and such like. He tirelessly lobbied for a dojo specifically for the constable's use and made it mandatory each officer take part in a martial arts program, for gone were the days in which a badge alone was enough to deter lawbreakers. Since interlopers from other nations were becoming bolder and their attacks more brutal as they dared to break through Konoha's rearguard, he tripled the number of uniformed officers patrolling the docks and outlying areas of the territory. For those patrols, Ibiki acquired lightweight, protective under armor to keep them safe as they dealt with untrained hooligans wielding katana or tanto.

Through his efforts, the incidences of crime perpetrated by outsiders dwindled to single digits; his men were united in purpose and mind.

All was well in the land and in his heart . . . for a time.

He'd lived through the horrors of war - seen evisceration, corpses swarming with maggots, bodies drawn and quartered and left in the streets as an example to others.

But the events of these last seven months were the most terrifying things he'd seen in years.

Notes:

The Meiji Restoration (1868-1912), was a chain of events which led to the consolidation of a political system under the Emperor of Japan. During this time, the nation underwent a period of accelerated industrialization leading to its rise as a military power. But before the far-reaching changes made possible by Emperor Meiji took firm root, every region in Japan maintained its independence. Japan is in reality an archipelago, so whenever reference is made to the 'five nations', it refers to those self-governing regions not yet unified by one language or system of education. It's my weird way of melding the world of Naruto with some of the events that shaped the real nation of Japan. Some events of this period serve as backdrop, yet it is not our main focus.

Archipelago: a large group or chain of islands.

Polestar: something that serves as a guiding principle; in the center of attention or attraction.

Hotaka: "step by step."

Katsuro: "victorious son."

Brigand: bandits, especially those of mountain or forest regions.

Corsair: a fast ship used for piracy.

Picaroon: rogue, vagabond, thief.

Hisao: "long-lived man."

Recherche: Then and Now

Recherché Chapter One 

Paper lanterns of orange, tan and yellow shooed away night’s lingering shadows as the ritual convoy wound through the orchards and groves in the west. Long before the morning sun shook off its slumber, the tinkle of tiny brass bells and the thunderous plodding of hooves against old stone pathways rustled the citizenry of Konoha from their comfortable beds.  The rumble of forty-seven ox drawn carts laden with timber would grow louder as they neared the central point of the territory and so too would the indistinct voices of stout workmen marching alongside the carts.

Residents raced to their windows and flung open the shutters - not to shake angry fists against the noisemakers, nor rain down dark curses on the heads of these roisterers as they traveled through dusty streets.  Instead, a tidal wave of cheers, whistles and applause swelled behind this ragtag caravan, nudging them onward, growing in volume as the people lifted their voices in a refrain of joy; this symphony of exuberance reached its crescendo as soon as the last wooden wheel of the forty seventh cart rolled into the town’s square.  With the somber ringing of the temple bells west of the downtown area, a reverent hush would fall; the fragrance of sandalwood and myrrh mingling with the prayers offered by a coterie of monks.

The procession was but one part of a time-honored tradition in Konoha, one heralding three nights of festivity. Once prayers concluded, the monotonous drone of saws and the clangorous rhythm of the carpenter's hammers began; the earthy scent of sanded lumber igniting a sense of expectation and wonder throughout the town.  Over the next fourteen days, the community Konoha swelled and as the inns filled, homeowners extended hospitality for those who’d made the sojourn from other parts of the territory.

Finally, on the fifteenth night of the eighth month, the downtown area was aglow with a sea of paper lanterns; ornate booths lined the lanes, vendors hawked their wares and proud farmers displayed the first fruits of their harvests.  Warm eventide air transported pungent aromas of roasting sweet potatoes, pumpkin, taro and chestnuts; beside every open window stood artful arrangements of pampas grass and bush clover, Tsukimi dango and raw chestnuts adorned family altars. These too were integral parts of the tradition thought to make the wishes and prayers of that household come to fruition.

It was a simpler time; children stayed up past their bedtime, scampering over cobble stoned streets, playing hide and seek among the booths - strolling musicians charmed the adults into forgetting their cares, to sing and dance with abandon. Young lovers jockeyed for space along the rocky shoreline admiring the beauty of the rising harvest moon’s reflection on the water’s tranquil surface; others spread blankets atop grassy knolls and hillocks, waiting for the moon to reach its zenith in the cloudless, indigo sky.

Ah yes, that’s how things used to be.

But on this, the first night of the great festival, there was only a melancholy chorus of lupine howls from the dense forests.  Devoid of adornment, the town square lay lifeless, dark and cold; from the hillocks where fragrant wild grasses sway in the wind, fat black crickets provide the night’s music.

And before the only unshuttered windows in town, a commanding figure stands, awash in the soft yellow moonlight.   A mountain of a man, Chief Inspector Ibiki Morino was hard to miss.  His eyes, black as coal and keener than a night heron’s, he scanned vacated pathways and side alleys hoping to capture movement of any kind ...

there was none.

Tonight, every family huddled together, trembling behind bolted doors. There they would remain until morning light, kneeling before family altars, chanting prayers and whispering petitions to their ancestors for a form of protection, a sense of security Ibiki could no longer provide. He understood their fear … he shared their sense of helplessness, but he alone bore the brunt of their anger.

And as he stood silent vigil, Ibiki prayed as well;

for wisdom,

for favor from the gods who’d forsaken his people

and failing those two . . .

he prayed for luck.

In the days of his youth, the full moon’s monthly appearance signified a time of renewal, rebirth and hope for the future.  But these last seven months, the full moon was but an omen of brutality; a clarion call to the depths of hell to let loose a foul scourge from its darkest recesses.

Times like these call for a stiff shot of brandy

to calm the mind and settle the stomach,

that’s what he told himself over an hour ago, as the liqueur flowed from its decanter.  Just something to keep my hands engaged and mind distracted, he reasoned. Can’t afford overindulgence ... must needs keep my wits.  

In those first few hours, he kept his promise, but as time dragged on, he feared crushing the fragile crystal with every step he took.  Unanswered questions swirl through an overwrought mind ...  the repeated cries for swift resolution to this menace echo in his ears; his thoughts, plunging him deeper into depression’s miry clay.

A final swish of the amber liquid inside the snifter’s balloon released a heady bouquet of peaches, pears and a hint of aged wood, calming rattled nerves.   The mellow heat smoothly burned down his throat as he emptied the glass in one gulp.  

So much for temperance.

Savoring the sweetness, he closed his eyes for a moment, as if to push back against the unrelenting darkness welling up in his soul;

yet the darkness would not yield.

Triumph or tragedy - no in between, nowhere to run ... nowhere to hide should tonight’s carefully laid plans fail.

No, we will succeed, he thought as he refilled the snifter.   We must!

I have thirty mounted constables patrolling the western end of town, thirty more walking beats along the wharf area on the eastern flank and fifty deputized men scattered by the mills and through the forests.   

We cannot … will not fail!

Yet his thoughts wander ever backward, making him acknowledge an unwanted possibility.  Deep down inside, he knew; the bony finger of death would indeed beckon another eternal captive ere the dawn, as it had these past months.

The alcohol roving about in his system was bringing down his defenses and slowly targeting his insecurities.  

He turned away, temporarily abandoning his post.  Soft moonbeams illumine a path through the spacious and sparsely furnished living area which doubled as his bedroom and remote command post; a lightweight wool overcoat, draped over the back of a chair near the couch and his heavy black boots stood in readiness beside the front door. With another gulp of brandy working its way down his gullet, Ibiki carelessly loosened the narrow black tie and itchy starched collar as he wilted into a buttery soft brown leather couch and closed his eyes.  Immediately, images of seven young women splashed over his mind, their throats shredded, their bodies drained of their life force, save for tiny droplets of blood on their clothing.

No need for investigation after the first victim’s discovery - a common prostitute; an unfortunate, not unexpected end - a hazard of her chosen profession. A month later, victim number two - another prostitute, found outside the bordello that masqueraded as a boarding house near the port.  Assuming the perpetrator a seafaring man, he’d doubled the amount of constables assigned to the docks; that proved a waste of time and manpower.  With his own officers convinced these murders were the victim’s due for pursuing an immoral lifestyle, their ‘investigations’ were halfhearted at best and rotting corpses lay unclaimed in the morgue for weeks, ultimately relegated to the potter’s field.  

The only things linking these women were occupation and where their bodies were dumped; the eastern edge of the town where transients found a night’s lodging and men of a coarser nature lived and worked.  His constables again dismissed these acts as the work of a lone, disgruntled customer and at first, Ibiki was inclined to agree.  

But the next two murders ripped holes through that theory.

The third victim, a washerwoman -  her body left in an alley behind the laundry, ten feet from the Administrative complex. The next one, a talented, comely seamstress, propped up at the base of an apple tree, mere steps from Ibiki’s backyard.  With no family to claim their bodies, they too were interred in pauper’s graves.

However, with the next three victims, the murderer changed tactics.

All of them, well-educated and respectable young women from noble families; when news of their deaths were made public month after month, the halcyon town was thrown into an uproar.  Paranoia cut a swath through the tight-knit community like a stiff breeze through fields of white headed dandelions; wariness unknown before, turned even the most mundane social interactions into waltzes of polite unease.

‘This isn’t the work of your average thrill killer,’ he remembered telling his men. ‘Instead, we’re dealing with someone of great intelligence and extreme precision.’

But to what end?  he wondered.

What’s the angle and why was Konoha the target?

He knew there were factions inside the territory, both political and religious that opposed dealings with the Western world.  Had they orchestrated the murders in hopes the Governor and Advisory Council would abort trade negotiations?  Or …  were the gods truly angry ... was this divine retribution because Konoha was about to bow the knee to the god of greed?

There were also those of the opinion that a ravening pack of wolves or other woodland creatures were responsible for the recent avalanche of misfortune.  It’s the influence of the moon’ they said, which allegedly fueled the lust for human blood, driving these beasts into a cyclic feeding frenzy. Still others believed recent renovation and excavation near the old manor house north of the cemetery had somehow angered a powerful spirit being; destroying young lives was its way of ‘exacting revenge on those who dared disrupt its eternal sleep’, or so the rumors went.

Guileless townsfolk, he chuckled to himself, so quick to believe outlandish things.

But with a deranged misogynist on the loose, there was little time to entertain baseless conjecture and silly superstitions. Ibiki trusted his gut which insisted this killer walked on two legs, not four and that this so-called phantom possessed a physical body – one that could be apprehended and eventually executed for his crimes.

All that was left him now were incongruent facts and an eerie pattern of behavior.

First off, it was physically impossible to leave nothing behind or take nothing away from any crime scene. He knew that. Yet, neither footprints or wagon wheel impressions were found near the corpses indicating the path taken to or from them, nor was there evidence the body had been dragged to its final location. No scraps of clothing or strands of hair clutched in the victim's hands either, which signified the women knew and trusted the assailant or the attack was so sudden they didn’t have time to fight.  

The wily mongrel didn’t even leave a scent behind for the bloodhounds to track.

Second, the killer was very particular about when he struck; the murders always occurred once a month during the three-night phase of a full moon. Yet, no one ever reported hearing a scuffle nor panicked screams in the night.  Next, the murderer was particular about who he killed.  All the victims were between the ages of seventeen to twenty-five and though the first two were ‘sex-for-hire’ workers, there was never any evidence of rape or carnal activity of any kind prior to their deaths.  Obviously, the killer derived a perverted form of sexual gratification by overpowering defenseless women. He also took great care to lay the victim's' hands in their laps, intertwining their fingers as if in prayer.  

Lastly, though their throats were ripped asunder, the carotid artery was always cleanly cut, as if by a surgical instrument.  But how this maniac drained the blood from their bodies without splattering it all over the crime scene was still a mystery.  Ibiki allowed himself another chuckle, remembering the fallout after interrogating every physician and surgeon in the territory.  Questioning those upstanding men, treating them like common criminals earned him a good scolding from the Governor, but he had no regrets.

“You sick bastard,” he snarled, raising the snifter to his lips once more, “you will slip up and I’ll be there to catch you.”

Coming face to face with a psychopath of this caliber, probing the depths of a reprobate mind, perchance discovering the motives behind the madness contorted Ibiki’s lips into a crooked grin. He’d admit it to none other, but the sheer bravado this killer possessed garnered his grudging respect. What angered him was the realization that bringing this madman to justice wouldn’t give him the peace of mind he needed. Wrapping his hands around the neck of this cold-blooded fiend, feeling his last breath escape from his body and insufflate against his skin, that had become Ibiki’s obsession.

“Ah well,” he said lifting the nearly empty glass in mock salute to the moon. “I always did enjoy a spirited game of cat and mouse.”

Recherché

The crunch of gravel beneath heavy boots stirred him from a light doze long before the frantic rapping at his front door would have; expecting a report about the killer’s apprehension was why the slight bit of rest he got was fitful. He was alert and on his feet in an instant, his overcoat clutched in his left hand.

“Inspector,” the man’s voice pled from behind the oaken door. “Inspector, please … come quickly!”

Ibiki ground his teeth and took a deep breath.  Judging from the panicked tone of voice, he knew it wasn’t one of his constables.

Damn it!  This wasn’t supposed to happen again!

The ornate brass doorknob slammed against the interior wall when he flung it open revealing a distraught and barely recognizable fisherman; his trademark sunglasses sat crookedly atop the familiar blue bandana, and his sweat soaked blue shirt, flecked with vomitus, heaved with every nervous breath.

“Ebisu,” he snapped as he stooped to pull on his boots, “for god’s sake man … catch hold yourself!”

“But, Inspector . . . the boat . . . my boat … there’s a body!”

Running a calloused palm from the nape of his neck, over the smooth skin of his bald head and down a scarred face as he stood, Ibiki calmed himself; it just wouldn’t do to vent his frustrations on a civilian, especially one who just got the fright of his life. He gingerly pushed the other man away with one hand, closing the door behind him with the other as he took off toward the port with Ebisu at his heels, struggling to describe the sight which greeted him before dawn.

“I think it’s one of the . . . one of the Hyuga girls,” he breathed trying to keep pace with the Inspector’s long strides.

When that name rolled off the other man’s tongue, Ibiki felt his stomach drop to the soles of his boots.   Wasn’t it bad enough the killer slipped past my men again last night? And if Ebisu’s guess is correct, I’ll have to contend with that posturing, elitist family breathing down my neck. They’ll wield their political clout and sure as salt, I’ll have to fight off another attempt to remove me from office.   Damn it!

He shook his head and quickened the pace.

The sun’s rays, not yet strong enough to burn off the cool, wispy fog, through it he saw members of the crew on the dock, their heads bowed in respect for the dead.  To their left, another constable took statements from fishermen aboard the vessel moored beside Ebisu’s.  Suddenly, a figure clad in black from head to foot wriggled free of the fog’s embrace, waving its arms about wildly.

“Oi, Inspector ...over here!”

Dear god, he thought, it’s too early in the morning for this flibbertigibbet!  Shiranui Genma, Coroner and mortician, a thin, pale skinned man in his early thirties with kind light brown eyes and a comforting demeanor.  Always approachable and easy to talk to, Genma was privy to everyone’s heartaches and dark secrets; on the downside, he was a high-spirited man, enthusiastic about his work to the point of discomfort.   As the territory’s foremost expert in thanatology, Genma delighted in explaining the mechanics of death to all who would listen. To be fair, it was during one of his incessant rants about the life cycle of a blowfly, that Ibiki nailed down an approximate time of death in a cold case, which led to the exoneration of an innocent man.

Maybe in the midst of his blustering he might prove helpful again, but I’m in no mood to hear him prattle on about the marvels of rigor mortis right now.

“Looks like we got another tough one,” he called out.  

Ibiki nodded and kept walking, hoping his demeanor would dissuade further inane conversation.   Naturally that didn’t work; soon, Genma was at his right side, peering around him, extending condolences to Ebisu.

“What rotten luck, eh, old man?  Not to worry,” he said, gesturing to himself and Ibiki, “between me and the big guy we’ll make this town safe again -- am I right?”

Ibiki uttered not a word, listening intently as Genma continued his line of questioning about the body’s positioning, if a trail or pool of blood was near or underneath the body and so forth.  Turning greener with each question, a mush mouthed Ebisu stuttered out his responses.

Hang on, Ibiki thought, here’s a man with an uncanny knack to meet or beat my officers to every crime scene; a man who embraces death like a long-lost paramour and one who has access to surgical instruments used for autopsies or embalming cadavers.  Surely, he couldn’t be the one who was ...no, he talks too much …  lacks the finesse our murderer’s shown thus far.  Still, it might not be a bad idea to bring him in for questioning at some point.

“What say ye, Inspector?  It’ll be a proud day when we catch this blackguard.”

Ibiki cut his eyes at the other man though Genma didn’t take the hint; he was still smiling brightly, his brown eyes twinkling as tobacco stained teeth clamped down on a silver tipped kiseru.

Once they stepped on the wooden planks of the docks, they didn’t have to go far to find victim number eight.

There she lay in the bow of the boat, her hands folded on her abdomen, a once beautiful face, frozen in the rictus of surprise.  Like the others, her throat was ripped apart and her clothing intact; an expensive jeweled brooch above her left breast sparkled as the sun rose.  Long jet black hair pinned up behind pale ears and the family crest etched into the delicate pearl earrings were enough to confirm her identity even at this distance.

Damn it!  She is a Hyuga.

“Constable Sakai … disperse this crowd, the scene now belongs to Mr. Shiranui.  And you, Himura, notify the family and accompany them to the Coroner’s office.”

With that, Ibiki turned and headed toward the Administrative center.  He’d have to hurry and submit a preliminary report to the Governor before the Hyuga showed up and lodged a formal complaint against him.  By the time he found a scrap of paper in his coat pocket and scrawled a note, most of the townsfolk were already gathering in the plaza.  He heard their jeers, felt the weight of their angry stares as he slipped the note beneath the door, yet he stood tall, moving briskly through the crowd, his eyes focused on the building one hundred and fifty paces away.

Once inside the constabulary, he breathed a sigh of relief; the station house was quiet this morning, his men wrapped up in their grief and feelings of powerlessness.  Down the hall and to the left was his office, a fortress of silence where he could indulge this bitter disappointment in private.  But the flickering light of an oil lamp’s flame against mud brown walls and the sound of conversation from inside his office raised his hackles.

Must be the Governor and Advisory Council come to curse me to my face.

Entering the large space, conversation between the three young men came to a halt. Their manner of dress, tailored Western suits, like those the European envoys wore, led him to believe they represented the Hyuga in some capacity; lawyers, no doubt.  

"Well that was quick,” he said standing beside the open door. “How may I be of assistance to you gentlemen?"

The young men stood as one turning to face him, each bowing politely. The brown-haired man in the middle, the one with a scar across his nose, spoke first.

“Are you Inspector Morino?”   

He maintained eye contact with the man as he stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him. “I am … and who would you be?”

“Dr. Umino Iruka and these are my companions.  To my left, Mr. Kotetsu Hagane and to my right, Mr. Izumo Kamizuki.”   

Taking care to avoid the sharp corner of his wide, wooden work space, Ibiki reconsidered his impression of the trio.  Fresh faced, bright-eyed, all of them under fifty years of age …  probably aren’t connected to the Hyuga, but it never hurts to err on the side of caution.  “Thought I wouldn’t see you lot until the family was officially notified,” he said taking his seat. “I can’t release any information just now, so, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I have a great deal of--”

“You were expecting us sir?” the one named Izumo asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kotetsu said. “He obviously thinks we’re somebody else.”

“Yes, well … be that as it may,” Dr. Umino countered, “we’ve come to assist you, Inspector.”

“Of course you have.  Just leave your information with the watch commander.  Good day gentlemen.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand sir,” Izumo said.  “We’ve traveled a great distance to--”

“Oh no, I understand completely and as I have no time for foolishness, kindly dismiss yourselves.”

“Now see here, Inspector Morino,” he heard the good doctor say, “I will not leave this place until you’ve heard me out.”

“Under your own power or with the assistance of my constables ... you will depart my presence.”

Suddenly a heavy, brown leather portfolio fell from Umino’s hand, scattering the pile of papers before Ibiki when it landed with a resounding thump.

“This represents years of research and investigation by my father ..."

Ibiki eyed the thing suspiciously; leaning back with his palms against the edge of the desk, he lifted his head, glaring at this Umino chap who was still talking.

“. . .  the same monster.  The identity of the murderer you seek is within the pages of this book.  

 

Are you sure you want to dismiss us now, Inspector?”

 NOTES:

The Japanese night heron typically inhabits dense, coniferous and broad-leaved forests on hills and low mountains close to bodies of water, i.e. rivers and streams.

In this strange little world, the Hyuga family does NOT have the trademark lilac eyes so familiar to us fans of the anime or manga. The Hyuga however are extremely proud of their lineage in Fire Country and most members of this clan wear miniature replications of the family crest on some part of their clothing or jewelry.

Roisterer:  those who revel noisily or without restraint. 

Halcyon: calm, peaceful, or tranquil.

Insufflate:  the act or action of blowing on.

Flibbertigibbet: a chattering or flighty, light-headed person.

Blackguard:  low, contemptible person; scoundrel.

Kiseru: a Japanese smoking pipe.

Thanatology:  the study of death and its surrounding circumstances.

Recherche: Murder Morn

  Recherché Chapter Two

his sort of exchange typically happened in the town square or squad room of the constabulary; never before was anyone bold enough to violate the sanctity of his private office.  

Great … three emotional nutcases; either they’re incredibly gutsy or incredibly stupid… I’ll find out in a minute.

With a sigh, Ibiki steeled himself to take this intrusion in stride, after all, confrontation was the norm on ‘murder morn.’  

Let’s see now … Umino, you’re brash, like all Europeans ...  yet the pattern and rhythm of your speech is unmistakably Japanese.  Interesting.

Umino… the surname didn’t ring a bell, nor did he remotely resemble any of the families Ibiki knew in the territory.   He was of average height and weight for a man in his late twenties, early thirties, with chiseled facial features and a stocky build.  There was a flicker of indomitability in those cocoa colored eyes, one that was in disharmony with the silly grin on his lips.

What a contradictory fellow; your eyes blaze with anger, your cheeks aflush with embarrassment.   What’s this now?  A hostile stance, a straightening of the shoulders; is he bracing to attack me or buttressing himself against further opposition or interruption?

“Pardon me Inspector … hardihood was never my intention,” he said rising from a swift, formal bow.  

Ibiki watched the young man smooth the heels of his hands down the lower part of his jacket.  Nouveau riche … a middle-class upbringing made him mannerable at least. He urged him to continue with a slight incline of his head.  

Well aside from a flash paper temperament, the only other thing that stands out about him is the brown; everything about the man was shades of brown.  His skin, the color of black tea mixed with cream; the sort of fellow who could disappear in a milling crowd and yet command the attention of everyone around him.  The thin, crooked scar bisecting his face was of a sepia tone and his hair, slicked back with pomade and gathered in a low tail had a rusty, auburn tint.

Gracefully standing erect, Iruka looked him squarely in the eye and smiled. “I’ll not mince words sir.  We have four weeks in which to hunt down and exterminate the killer.  Should that window of opportunity pass, the only witness to another slaying will be the next full moon.”

So, a blusterer then.  He knows when the killer prefers to strike, just like everyone else in the territory does.

Another subtle tilt of the head acknowledged the truth spoken, a flick of his wrist granted the three men permission to retake their seats.

It’s all too neat.  Their sudden appearance, the information they’re eager to share … was this a small mercy from the gods ...an answer to the prayers of those who believed the deities were omniscient and benevolent?

His secular nature prevented rejoicing; he’d seen men of their ilk before.  

Mouthpieces ... shills for a killer, posing as learned and reasonable men.  Conservatively dressed marionettes they were, morally and ethically bankrupt men hiding behind a veneer of respectability; mortgaging their humanity for a few pieces of gold.

As to the portfolio lying in the middle of his desk, it was as a bucket of bloody chum, bait to draw him close, to entice him to open wide his mouth in the hope of extracting information.  Then again, if they weren’t puppets of a madman, they were something far more despicable; thrill seekers – perverse, unnaturally fixated on or sexually aroused by accounts of the macabre.  Still, they were nothing like the usual wild-eyed conspiracy theorists, the ultra-religious fear mongers or the moonstruck plain folk which daily paraded through the outer office demanding to be heard. They reeked of salt air, obviously come from afar to gorge themselves on the rancid fat of thrice damned superstitions and old wives’ tales.

The indiscriminate buzz around town, the rumors flittering through the shops, seedy taverns and the docks … suddenly the things Ibiki took for granted these past months, began gnawing at his conscience.

Those tales from the dark side he couldn’t quarantine had finally wormed their way into the ears and out of the mouths of braggadocious sailors, washing up on distant shores like gaudy trinkets of gospel truth. For those with an unslakable thirst and ears itching to hear tales of the mysterious and dangerous Orient, the endless repetition of these embellished fabrications was manna for the masses abroad.

And if this triumvirate of dandies know of Konoha’s misfortune, there’s no telling how far and wide the news has spread.  No stopping the venom poisoning the minds of those who could bring trade aspirations with Europe and the Americas to a screaming halt.

The very idea set Ibiki’s teeth on edge.

Recherché

The measured click of the brass pendulum in the squat grandfather clock, the unvaried tick of its second hand … these were the only sounds in the tense room. But silence and occasional eye contact were the only offensive tools a good investigator needed in the interview process.  If Ibiki said nothing, did nothing for long enough, his subjects would reveal their true intentions via subtle nonverbal cues.  With his elbow propped on the chair’s armrest, his brawny fingers, one curled over his lips, the others pressing into his cheekbone, Ibiki’s eyes darted between the leather bound folder on his desk, the unperturbed Dr. Umino, the engaged Mr. Kamizuki and the sullen Mr. Hagane.

Hagane Kotetsu; he was an easy read.

He stood out from the others because of his facial hair.  For Ibiki it was an indicator of a paradoxical personality.  His goatee, thin, neatly trimmed, perfectly symmetrical and jet black, was in stark contrast to the hair on his head; thick, dark brown and unkempt. From the time he took his seat, Hagane’s heel tapped uneven rhythms against the floorboards; his fingers, when they weren’t brushing at his goatee, drummed at his thigh.  Nervous, unable to sit still for longer than a minute … a man of action then; one given to ‘doing’, rather than thinking overmuch.  There was an earthy shrewdness surrounding him, a feral instinct for survival his two intellectual pals lacked. His eyes, blacker than a starless night and deeper than a pit in the ocean … this one was hiding something.  Of the three, Ibiki could relate to Hagane; a man more at ease in the wide-open grasslands or tramping through the moors.  Plucked from his natural element, handcuffed by social etiquette and friendship, his eyes flitted over everything in the office, as if he were searching for an escape route.

The last young man, Kamizuki Izumo was most interesting.  A gallimaufry of his friends with a unique viewpoint.  He bore a passing physical resemblance to Umino, and possessed a guardedness more pronounced than Kotetsu’s.  A regal bearing; never once averting his eyes from mine, as if determining my worth; this wasn’t haughtiness, but the mark of a self-assured man. Just like Hagane, there was a dangerous edge behind those intelligent, piercing brown eyes; like Umino, he had book smarts, fortified with a healthy dose of common sense.

The sound of heavy hurried footsteps in the hallway disrupted his thoughts and brought the acid in his empty stomach to a boil; someone moving with that kind of urgency always meant bad news.  There was a light rap on the door a second before the smiling man in black entered.  

“Oh!  Excuse me gents.  Didn’t realize you were in a meeting.  Heh ... so quiet in here, felt like I was back in my own shop for a minute.”  Tapping the brim of his hat, he nodded to the young men as he walked toward Ibiki’s desk.  “Keep your seats ... I’ll just be a moment.”

Genma was grinning like a hungry cat in a room full of lame, juicy mice, as he triumphantly waved a slip of paper before the irritated Inspector’s eyes.  “Representatives of the family just left my place … got you a positive identification.  You know, I never could tell those Hyuga girls apart … ‘stair steps’ they were, practically identical if you ask me.”  Turning his back on Ibiki, he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Shiranui Genma, coroner and undertaker. “I know everybody in town … can’t say I’ve ever seen you three before though.”

Ibiki rolled his eyes.  Genma, always flapping his gums or poking that pointed nose into things that don’t concern him; damn fool’s about as subtle as a herd of elephants in a glass factory.

“Umino … Dr. Umino.   My friends, Hagane Kotetsu and Kamizuki Izumo.  We just arrived from England last night.”

As their conversation, rather Genma’s monologue continued, Ibiki made himself concentrate on the form in his hand; the soft leather of the chair back melted around him after he read the first three lines of text:

Hyuga Hitomi, twenty-three years of age.

Cause of death, exsanguination.

Manner of death, homicide.

A beautiful young woman, a lifetime of opportunity and happiness stretching before her, was now a cold, impersonal statistic.  Hers had been a life of privilege, she wanted for nothing, yet she defied her family, striking out on her own, determined to serve the underprivileged, neglected and the forgotten. Quite a ruckus accompanied her decision to intern as a pediatric nurse in the slums of London, or so he’d heard from the mounted patrolmen.

Scarcely a month passed since she returned home.

As he closed his eyes, Ibiki could still see her mother standing on the wharf, weeping bitterly as she bid bon voyage to her eldest daughter.  And on a warm autumn night one year later, the entire family turned out, welcoming her back on that same wharf; he could still see her, running down the gangplank, falling into the embrace of her parents clutching a nursing certificate in one hand and a valise full of memories in the other.  Elegant horse drawn carriages lined up by the wharf that night to fetch the entourage to an extravagant welcome home party. How odd it seemed in retrospect; her parents, anxious about her safety while she wandered about a foreign land, yet, they allowed her to wait unaccompanied for a ride home one fateful moonlit night.  Now, this vivacious young woman lay on a porcelain slab in the morgue, fifty feet from the wharf. . .  brutally slaughtered five miles from her ancestral home.

Casting aside the coroner’s report, Ibiki leaned forward, his eyes lingering on the unopened portfolio lying in the middle of his desk. Expertly tooled, its stitches weathered by time and careful handling, were of a darker brown than the case itself.

And Umino wants me to believe this piece of animal hide holds the key to a murderer’s identity?

In the very center of the case was a familiar kamon, one he’d seen numerous times in the military.  Slowly tracing the raised emblem with his finger, he interrupted Genma’s rambling.   “Umino … that’s your surname correct?”

Iruka tilted his head, his smiling eyes falling on Ibiki’s finger as it hovered over the embossed design. “Yes, that’s right.  Shimizu was the surname of my mother’s family. That portfolio, was a wedding gift my maternal grandfather crafted ... it’s one of the few things I have left to remember my parents by.”

“Dead, are they?” Ibiki said pulling the portfolio closer to himself.   

Every eye in the room latched onto him – Genma, stunned to silence by the crude tone of his voice, Kotetsu angrily fidgeting in his seat.  The combined weight of Izumo and Iruka’s grief almost bowled him over.

“Yes, Inspector … they are deceased.  My mother died years ago ... my father passed away in May of this year.  That’s why it took us so long to arrive, I had to settle his affairs, close up the house and--”

“This isn’t a Fire Country kamon. Where exactly was your mother’s family from, Doctor Umino?”

Iruka’s eyes misted over and he swallowed hard before answering.  “Water Country sir, they were buraku, tanners by trade; the finest saddle makers in the entire five country region--”

“Water Country … well … that explains your name.”

Kotetsu shot forward in his seat, “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Thought we came here to prevent another murder, not--”

“Please,” Iruka hissed as he stretched out his arm to restrain his friend.  “I’m certain our goal and his are one and the same.” His hand fell to his companion’s wrist and he gently shook it.  “The Inspector doesn’t know us from a hole in the ground … we barged into his office without a letter of introduction preceding us or a confirmed appointment--”

“Won’t you ever listen?  I’ve told you time and again, soliciting law enforcement isn’t going to work,” he snapped, jerking his wrist from the gentle grip.  “We need to handle this thing ourselves!”

 “Tetsu, we need to work in conjunction with and through the proper channels,” Izumo said. “Like it or not, the constables will--”

 “Get in our way and waste our time,” he huffed.  “We know what we’re looking for and we know how to deal with it when we find it!   This meeting’s just going to end with him thinking we're crazy before he kicks us out of here!”

A terse conversation in an indistinct dialect ensued as Iruka and Izumo pleaded with a reluctant Kotetsu for patience.

“Gentlemen, you have not, because you ask not,” Ibiki said.   “Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for … who knows?  Maybe I can help.”

Kotetsu folded his arms over his chest while Iruka and Izumo exchanged hesitant glances.

“Genma … isn't there something, or rather, someone that needs your undivided attention?”

“No, but thanks for asking, Inspector,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets and leaning against the desk.  “Miss Hyuga will keep for a few minutes more, besides, I’m curious about what’s inside that solander.  While you were ignoring us Inspector, I found out the elder Dr. Umino was a physician …I reckon you’ll need my help deciphering the medical lingo in there.” Looking over at Iruka, he hastily added, “No offense, but you’re a Doctor of philosophy, not medicine, right?”

“Anthropology.  My doctorates are in anthropology and archaeology, Mr. Shiranui. My father was a physician,” he said reaching for the portfolio, “later in life he became obsessed with the occult and paranormal.”  Opening the leather case, Iruka slowly flipped through wrinkled, tattered pages filled with detailed drawings of wolves, bats and hideously deformed humanoid beings.  Images of grotesque creatures sailed past Ibiki’s eyes until they came to rest on an ink splotched page filled with notes.

 “What we’re looking for Inspector, is a class of demons known as Jiki-Ketsu-Gaki; wailing corpses who thirst for blood.”

Aha!  I knew he had a screw loose somewhere, Ibiki thought.  “Well, I wish you luck in the search for a being that doesn't exist outside of fairy tales.   What I’m looking for Dr. Umino, is a human being, not a phantasm or figment of an overactive imagination --”

“Jiki-Ketsu-Gaki have shape shifting abilities, they can transform into animals or take on the form of a living human being at will.  Some of the oldest and most powerful of these beings can and do stalk their prey invisibly.”

“I’m certain they can, but that’s of no interest to me.  Sounds like you’re in need of an exorcist, not an officer of the law.  The monks at the Fire Temple might be intrigued by your father's research, why don’t you share it with them?”  Slamming the portfolio closed, he pushed it under Iruka’s hand.   “Once again, I bid you good day gentlemen.”

“But, Inspector,” Iruka said as he stood, “I believe--”

“I said good day, sir!”

The noise of the office door opening was covered up by the sound of Ibiki’s booming voice.  Silently, a tall, thin woman with short black hair approached and stood beside his desk.

“Morning Miss Shizune,” they all heard Genma say.  “Not looking for me, are you?”

“Afraid not,” she said, bowing before the four men and then to Ibiki.  “My apologies Inspector … the Governor requests your presence immediately.”

“We’ve just now adjourned,” Ibiki said as he stood.

“If it’s alright with you Inspector, I wouldn’t mind having a look see at Dr. Umino’s research.  Always been curious about the supernatural myself--”

“Perhaps some other time Mr. Shiranui,” was Izumo’s respectful response. “A visit to the Fire Temple wasn’t on our agenda, but as the Inspector pointed out, it might prove beneficial.”

Flummoxed, Kotetsu snapped, “But we’re supposed to go to the--”

“Come along Tetsu,” Iruka said.  “If we hurry, we can catch the monks before mid-morning prayer.”

Kotetsu angrily glanced between his friends as if he'd never seen either of them before.  

“The hell’s the matter with you two?”

NOTES:

Indomitable: that cannot be subdued or overcome as persons, will or courage; unconquerable.

Aflush: fully or generously supplied with something.

Hardihood: audacity or impudence.

Secular:  not spiritual; of or relating to the physical world; controlled by the government rather than the church or temple.

Paradoxical:  having seemingly contradictory qualities or phases.

Moor: a tract of land preserved for game.

Portfolio: a large, thin flat case for loose sheets of paper such as drawings or maps.

Hitomi Hyuga: a conveniently disposable character; rest assured, I would never kill off the shy, yet strong-willed Hinata or her younger sister Hanabi.

Kamon:  a family crest, a Japanese heraldic symbol.

Gallimaufry: hodgepodge, jumble, confused medley.

Shimizu: “Pure or clear water.”

Buraku or burakumin: “hamlet people,” an outcast group at the bottom of the Japanese social order, in the feudal era.  These were people considered ‘impure,’ tainted by death because of the work they did (executioners, undertakers, butchers or tanners).

Solander:  a case that held maps or other large documents.  It was made to resemble a book, having the front cover serve as a lid. Genma incorrectly refers to the portfolio this way.

Jiki-Ketsu-Gaki:  creatures of Japanese myth.   Because of the way they’re depicted as skeletal beings with distended bellies, abnormally small mouths and long thin throats, they are also known as “hungry-ghosts”; these nocturnal creatures or spirits have been cursed with an insatiable hunger or thirst for blood, in particular as a result of their bad deeds or the evil intent they possessed in their lifetime.  Also known as classes of preta, Buddhist monks conduct a special day of observance in mid-August to remember the gaki.

Preta: often depicted in Japanese art (particularly that from the Heian period) as emaciated human beings with bulging stomachs and inhumanly small mouths and throats. They are frequently shown licking up spilled water in temples or accompanied by demons representing their personal agony. Pretas dwell in the waste and desert places of the earth, and vary in situation according to their past karma. Since 657, some Japanese Buddhists have observed a special day in mid-August to remember the gaki. Through such offerings of food and drink and remembrances (segaki), it is believed that the hungry ghosts may be released from their torment.

Gaki: hungry dead or spoiled child.

 

 

Recherche: Routines and Revelations

 

Recherché Chapter Three

A civilian stumbled upon the latest victim - frantic, he beat down the front door of the Chief Inspector’s home.  Routine.  But no ordinary deceased was she; her family’s pedigree predated Konoha’s founding, their social standing, higher than the stars in the welkin.  And then, there was the voluble Coroner; chock full of cheesy grins and fallacious expectations. Routine. Now, a summons to appear before the Governor; with a winsome escort to guarantee prompt attendance, she’d also record what promised to be an ear-blistering, ego-deflating reprimand.  Routine.

Could this morning get any worse?

“Well, the Governor’s mood was … unreadable,” he heard her say.  “At least she wasn’t cursing a blue streak when I left … that’s a good sign, right?”

“Hard to tell.  Lady Tsunade is a woman of mercurial temperament, Shizune.   Starting to think I picked the wrong week to quit smoking.”

A heartening touch to the tip of his shoulder, a wan smile and the intendment of comfort shone in her eyes.  But nothing she could say or do now would make him believe this meeting would end better than his carefully laid, perfectly executed and completely empty trap had last night.  Perhaps, nothing would satisfy the restless feeling, deep inside. Revelation.

As they turn the corner and step over the threshold of the squad room, they were swept into a vortex of sight, sound and smell; splashed down in a sea of dark blue uniforms, the officers navigate crooked paths around them like frothy waves.  Flotsam and jetsam of superfluous conversation, boisterous jesting and spirited laughter sprung up from scratched, dusty floorboards; clambering through the windows, briny breezes scatter the tang of bay rum, unwashed, sweaty men and fragrant pipe tobaccos over them ...

Guess I was wrong, he thought.

It was rare when the noise level in this room rose above a dull roar, paydays being the exception, of course. The duties of a constable kept them outside these brick and mortar confines, attendant upon keeping the peace, they worked and moved with the pace of the people.  Settling the occasional squabble between neighbors, rounding up kids playing hooky or stealing fruit from vendors – that sort of thing, their constant presence used to be a source of security for the people . . . now it was just a reminder of how fragile and uncertain life was.  But this morning, it looked like every uniformed officer on the force had shoehorned themselves in the building.   On the brink of chaos, Ibiki felt himself stand taller. Yes, this was his brand of normalcy and these men . . . his saving grace.  

I see …  leaning on one another, they rebound from malaise, providing the unspoken support which the public cannot.

Hope, feeble at first, stirred in the corner of his heart.   They haven’t given up … why should I?   

To his right, about fifteen feet away from the watch commander’s desk assembled the usual complement of assorted, but harmless nuts.  A concerned citizen’s choir singing a familiar refrain of questions, their voices modulating in harmony as they ridiculed the constable’s mental competency and railed against the inept handling of a homegrown horror.  In between stanzas of this oft heard medley, was the childlike reprise begging for assurance of their continued safety.  Routine.

To his left, at the far end of the squad room, four constables stood between a disgruntled merchant and an offended ship’s captain.   A loud, vulgar dispute centering around delivery of damaged goods and refusal to pay for said items.  Routine.

Exhausted from last night’s excursion into futility, a crooked line of civilian patrol members, propped themselves against the wall nearest the restroom behind the desk sergeant’s area.  Some of them were watching the show put on by the merchant and the seaman, others dozed off right where they stood, all of them waiting to receive a chit for their service.

Lastly, seated at a desk nearest him was a broken hearted elderly woman weeping into her apron; she was another regular.  Her fourteen year old grandson snuck out of the house late last night as was his habit.  The wringing of worried hands would eventually become the shaking of an angry gnarled finger when the boy finally turned up -- unharmed and apologetic. Seems the kid had an appetence to watch longshoremen load and unload cargo by the light of a full moon. Routine.

Wending through the roiling sea of people, having lost Shizune somewhere along the way, Ibiki stopped to snatch a cigar off a desk nearest the front door; this too had become part of his routine.

At first, it seemed the wizened, balding man behind the desk hadn’t noticed the blatant theft, too occupied was he in sorting through a small mound of paperwork.  But without warning, the older man lazily slapped away the hand hovering over a small box of matches before Ibiki could grab them as well.

“You’ll have to be a mite faster than that Ibiki,” he chuckled.  “Besides, I thought you and tobacco parted ways some time ago.”

“Ryota, a fine cigar, that’s been dipped in cognac, is a necessary evil for me,” Ibiki said. “And a successfully pilfered, fine cigar that’s been dipped in cognac, tastes a thousand times sweeter.  You wouldn’t understand old-timer; I have a love/hate relationship with tobacco, almost like the one you have with doing paperwork.”

Takenaka Ryota – this man had been a constable since Ibiki was in knee-britches; he’d trained just about everyone in this squad room, Ibiki included.  Because of his keen, analytical mind, no nonsense disposition and exceptional leadership skills, he was sought after to fill the post of Commandant each time the position was vacated; he chose instead to remain as commander of the watch that he might share his wisdom and experience with each new generation of law enforcement personnel.   

Over the years, he became a confidante, a mentor and an unstoppable fount of encouragement when the pressures of the job became too great and one who wouldn’t hesitate to give him a swift kick in the pants.

“You’ll get the matches, as soon as I get your signature on these,” he said, fanning out several documents before Ibiki. “And if you do it without grumbling, I’ll give you some ginger candy to settle your stomach.”

It felt good to laugh, for Ibiki had little time to do that sort of thing over the last few days.  “How could I resist, especially when you phrase it as a bribe?”  Just as he was about to sign another overtime request, someone bumped into him from behind. Given the amount of people in this place, that wasn’t surprising; but this was no accident. He turned to see Hagane Kotetsu high-tailing it out the front door.  A curious glance to the left and there stood Genma speaking with Umino and Kamizuki near the seating area in the middle of the room.  Probably giving them directions to the Fire Temple, he thought.  “Ryota …  see those men talking with Shiranui over there?”

“Yeah … what about ‘em?”

“Assign a team to keep an eye on them.”  With two pieces of candied ginger and the match box now in his possession, he leaned closer.  “I want to know where they go and what they do from the time they walk out of here until the time they leave the territory.  Understood?”

“Wait a minute, I was the one who took them to your office this morning ... they seemed okay to me.   What do you think they’re up to?”

Ibiki shook his head.  “Not sure … just keep ‘em under surveillance until I say different.  Got a meeting with the Governor--”

“Figured as much. Just so you know, a civilian patrol found skeletal remains scattered in a forest clearing last night.  My guess is they belong to a hunter; poor bastard either dropped dead of natural causes or got mauled by a bear.  I sent Raidou and Aoba to investigate.”

“Hmm . . .” Ibiki murmured rolling the tip of the appropriated cigar over his tongue. “Do me a favor, pull up the--”

“Way ahead of you.   I’ve got every missing person report filed since January of last year right here,” he said pointing to a thick manila folder.

“Good …. but mums the word.  Governor’s gonna be all over me like ugly on a gorilla about the Hyuga girl, I don’t need any more rumors flying around--”

“Got it; in the meantime, I suggest you get over to the Administrative complex on the double.  Our Governor isn’t a patient woman and I’m sure you don’t want her to come looking for you.”  Sorting the signed documents into smaller piles, Ryota inclined his head toward the weeping grandmother.  “Oh, and if you’re looking for your escort, she’s standing over there.”

After catching her attention with a wave of his hand, Shizune gave the old woman a warm hug and hastened toward him. “That poor woman,” she said as Ibiki grabbed her by the elbow and guided her toward the door.  “It’s just so sad.”

“That grandson of hers needs to dance to the tune of a hickory switch a couple of times -- that oughta straighten him out.”  Chucking the matchbox at Ryota’s head, he called, “Thanks again old man."

The smell of sulfur made his nose twitch and the tiny puff of smoke blowing back into his face made his eye water a happy tear. Thick blue grey smoke danced around on his tongue with that first inhalation, delivering a jolt of nicotine, soon he was grinning like a Cheshire cat.  He heard himself give an involuntary sigh of content despite the disapproving look in Shizune’s eyes as he emerged from a columbine haze.

“If you need a few minutes to unwind,” she said gesturing to his cigar and the dissipating brume around him, “I don’t mind waiting.”  She stood apace as he hurriedly puffed away.  “Lady Tsunade understands how busy your morning’s been and I’m certain she won’t fuss too much if we--”

“Tempting, but I’d rather get this over with as soon as possible.”

The people milling about in the plaza parted before them as they walked, many bowing their heads in deference to Shizune; the sad eyed smiles or angry glowers were reserved for and directed at him – again, this was another facet of normalcy.

“By the way, Hitomi’s father and his lawyers have already met with the Governor this morning.”

Ibiki rolled his eyes and took another long drag.

Having arrived at the Administrative complex sooner than he wanted to, he leaned against the building with a weary sigh, stubbing out his cigar against the bottom of his boot and tucking it away in between two widely spaced bricks.

In contrast to the noisy constabulary and the lively plaza, once they stepped inside the interior double doors and into the foyer of the Administrative offices, the place was as quiet as a tomb.  It smelled fresh in here too; the fragrance of frankincense still loitering in the air, weaving a lattice of tranquility long after the monks had given their daily blessing upon this office.

He’d traversed the glossy inlaid floor bearing Konoha’s seal -- a spreading sugi tree, with such frequency these last few months that he could almost feel where each bough of the tree bifurcated under the soles of his boots. To the right was an area, a small museum really, which housed artifacts, relics and brief historical sketches of Konoha’s progress through the years; this was the place where dignitaries were entertained as they waited to meet with the Governor.  Portraits of the men who established and settled the territory hung from mahogany paneled walls, each of them smiling down on the plush leather upholstered chairs and the hand loomed carpets of silken threads that overspread sections of freshly waxed cedar floors.

On the left side of the space was a large seating area for the public; it’s surprisingly comfortable wooden chairs neatly organized in a semicircle, providing room for people to congregate and chew the fat while they waited to file or receive copies of vital records. Large, terracotta pots filled with indigenous plants, wildflowers and dwarf trees were arranged before floor to ceiling windows that opened onto the plaza.

Straight ahead, a massive orbicular reception and hospitality desk separated the accommodation areas from the great hall and the Governor’s private suite of offices.  Of the five clerks assisting the people, all but one of them turned their backs as he approached – only the robust, oily faced woman smiled benevolently when she caught his eye.  This too was something that shaped the routine of these past months.

Deftly steering him away from the sharp clucking tongues of the clerks, Shizune ushered him into a conference room beside the reception area.  This room, with its knotted pine walls was usually where he spent his time, watching Lady Tsunade pace alongside the conference table, listening to her curse up a storm over his inability to collar a killer even as tears streamed down her cheeks.

But when Ibiki moved to take his customary seat, Shizune waved him off. “Oh, no, no Inspector, Lady Tsunade wishes to speak with you in her office.”

Crap, that wasn’t a good sign.

The Governor’s private office was where the rich and powerful met to broker agreements, sign concords of peace or trade agreements between nations and exchange meaningless blandishments over premium sake and rich food. The last time he was in there was the day of his appointment as Chief Inspector; how fitting to end his career in the same place it began.

“That you, Ibiki?  Come on in,” he heard the Governor say in response to Shizune’s rap on the door.

She had her back to them when they walked in and Ibiki was stunned to see her looking like this.  Long blonde hair tumbled in loose waves down the back of a forest green haori; it was usually piled high on her head and held in place by ornately lacquered pins.  The black hakama and the low-heeled slippers she wore meant either there were no official events on her calendar today, or she’d been roused from her bed in much the same way he’d been.  She turned to face him with a cheerful smile, not the scowl he expected, a small book in her hand and a pince-nez resting on her nose.  She almost looked pleased to see him.

That had to be a bad omen.

A light dusting of rouge tinted impossibly high cheekbones, her eyes, bright and saffron yellow twinkled above flawless, smooth skin, ecru in color like raw silk.  Hard to believe the woman he was looking at was rumored to be in her mid-fifties.  Tall and not as willowy as her assistant, still she cut a figure envied by women half her age.

“Morning ma’am.”

“Hope you’re hungry …I ordered a massive breakfast from one of the inns. Shizune, be a dear, and fetch it please.  Have a seat Ibiki.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of this gracious welcome, but did as instructed, warily sitting on the edge of a plump cushioned chair.

Her glasses swung from a sterling silver and ebony brooch as she walked toward him. “Can’t imagine your day started any better than mine did; had to deal with Hyuga Hiashi and his solicitors first thing … you know how much fun that usually is.  They left about half an hour ago, outraged of course,” she said, taking the seat across from him.  “Wanted your resignation or failing that … your head on a pike.  Tea?”

“Yes, please,” he laughed.  “Can’t say I’m surprised, ma’am.”

“Underneath the righteous indignation, Hiashi was disconsolate; blames himself more than you for what happened.”

There was another light rap at the door before Shizune entered with a silver tray weighed down with several small dishes and another pot of tea.  She gave Ibiki one of her encouraging smiles and an extra helping of steamed rice before quietly exiting.

“So, you and your men, how are you holding up?”

“Rather well, thank you, ma’am.”

“Liar ... you look like you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet, Ibiki,” she joshed gathering up a helping of tarako with ivory chopsticks.  “The only criminal activities your men encounter are pickpockets and scam artists during the festivals, and the only violence they see comes from breaking up fights in the watering holes near the docks.”

Cupping a small soup bowl under her nose, she inhaled deeply and sighed. “And then there’s the occasional disturbance at the cathouse . . .  err, pardon me, the boarding house,” she said, lowering the bowl and reaching for a spoon. A sip of creamy miso soup elicited a groan of delight.  “That’s about as politically sticky as anything they’re accustomed to, am I right?”  

Ibiki nodded.

“And we both know why the ‘cathouse catalogs’, aren’t included in official police blotters, don’t we?”

“The boarding house generates substantial revenue,” he said around a mouthful of omelet.  “Most of that income is from the arrangement of liaisons for visiting dignitaries and some of Konoha’s upstanding and very married men.”

The ceramic spoon came to rest atop the empty soup bowl. Rising from the table, she walked back to her desk. “I know you, Ibiki … you’d lay down your life for the people if a situation called for it.”  When she turned to face him again, she held the little book tightly in her hands.  “I know you’ll leave no stone unturned to find the man responsible but--”

“I’m grateful you let me keep my job and my head, but I’m most appreciative of your impeccable timing …  drew me out of three very exasperating situations it did.”

“Is that so?  Keeping you and Hiashi separated was one,” she said draping her napkin over her lap, “and the other two were--?”

“Being talked to death by the Coroner and getting me out of a maddening meeting with three young men.  They just arrived in the territory last night …seemed intent on frittering away my time with tall tales and an ancient picture book.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary for murder morn,” she said flipping pages in her own book beside her plate.   “At least tell me you’ve developed some leads on our murderer.”

“Nothing solid yet ma’am, however, we did find skeletal remains in the forest last night and I--”

“Damn,” she said, slamming the book closed.  “Now we have nine victims?”

“Nah … probably an unfortunate hunter.  Once Genma’s analyzed the remains, I’ll give you a definite answer.”

Recherché

They know how important this meeting is, thought an anxious Iruka as he sat in the waiting area near the reception desk.  Hope they’ll forgive me for abandoning them to Genma.  

"Next,” called the robust clerk.

He flashed a winning smile as he handed over the envelope. “Not sure what the protocol is, but I’d like to see the Governor as soon as possible, please.   I assume this will be sufficient.”

“One moment sir.”  She stepped away from the counter and called over another clerk; Iruka strained to hear their conversation.  After a few exchanged nods and whispers, she returned saying, “Well . . . this is definitely the Governor’s stationery and signature.  Unfortunately, her schedule is rather hectic for the remainder of this week.  Might you be available to take a meeting with her next week, Mr. err, Dr. Umino?"

“No … that simply won’t do,” he insisted. “This is a matter of grave import--”

“Perhaps you’d like to speak with her assistant then?”

 

Notes:

Welkin: the sky; the vault of heaven.

Voluble:  characterized by a ready and continuous flow of words; talkative.

Fallacious:  logically unsound.

Flotsam and jetsam: specific kinds of shipwreck – flotsam, floating wreckage of a ship or its cargo; jetsam – part of a ship, its equipment or cargo, purposely thrown overboard to lighten the load in times of distress and washed ashore.

Wending: (archaic) – to proceed or go.

Chit:  a signed note for money owed to the bearer of the note.

Appetence: intense desire.

Intendment: intention.

Columbine: dove colored; grey.

Brume: fog or mist.

Bifurcate:  to divide or fork into two branches.

Orbicular:  circular, ring like, spherical.

Pince-nez:  a style of glasses supported without earpieces by pinching the bridge of the nose.  Uncomfortable to wear for long periods of time, they were usually suspended by a ribbon or chain around the neck.  Women made use of a brooch-like device pinned to their clothing which would automatically retract the line to which the glasses were attached when not in use.  

Tarako: a salted roe derived from cod, usually enjoyed with breakfast.

 

Recherche: Into the Depths

 

Recherché Chapter Four

Sounds of renovation, the squeal of pry bars yanking rusty nails from large wooden crates, the shush of rip saws biting into dense cedar and the voices of servants directing workmen from room to room; these were muted now as a tall olive-skinned man descended steep slate stairs into the belly of the stately manor.  Yellow candlelight weakly flickers against the heavy darkness; nervous fingers seek out gorges in the stone walls to balance himself as the staircase narrows at its junction with the floor of the subterranean vault.

The news he’d just received ... urgent and extremely unpleasant; it fell to him to inform the Master.

Disturbing a numen at rest carried significant risk; his master, a violent being, derived pleasure by inflicting unspeakable acts of cruelty upon those who dared interrupt his daily routine.  Were he to wake him now, so soon after he’d taken his bed, odds were great he’d be splayed open from neck to navel in the span of a breath.  Were he to wait until the master stirred of his own volition, a severe beating was his due for delaying news of great import.

His hands violently shook with every step bringing him closer to the antechamber, his heart, thrumming against a heaving rib cage and pearls of perspiration turned into rivulets of sweat running alongside his ears.  He set down the lantern, afeared he’d drop it and lose the only light source available.  Flattening down thick, dark brown hair with sweaty palms, he took a breath and pulled together the fleeing oddments of his courage.

Cautious steps move him closer to where his master lay.  Ignoring the pain as the thin wire handle of the lantern cut into his palm, he measured each breath as though it might be his last; a nudge of the shoulder pushed the solid wooden door ajar, its hinges faintly groaning. Soft leather soles glide across limestone slates as Kinoe approached the raised platform in the center of the room.

The resting place of his master, a pyramidal structure of finest Cryptomeria, was widest at its base with three broad steps leading up to the bed itself; leaving the lantern beside the bullnose, Kinoe cautiously stood on the first tread.  By the time he reached the second tread, his body quaked in fear – here he knelt, bowed his head in submission and rapped his knuckles against the riser beneath the bed’s frame.

“My lord,” he said quietly.  “I have exigent news.”

The master shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, but did not awaken.  Kinoe thought to rap once more when out of the blue, cold, powerful fingers wrapped themselves around his throat, lifting him upward until the tips of his toes bumped against the first riser, pulling him closer to the side of the bed and squeezing the breath from him.

A voice, deep and menacing rumbled through the stagnant air:

“It damn well better be, Kinoe.”

Almond shaped eyes widen in fear. “Master,” he choked out.  “Umino and his cohorts arrived . . . last night . . . took a meeting . . . with Inspector Morino.” At once, the hand around his throat was gone and Kinoe was sailing through the air – his back crashing against the stone wall to the right of the master’s bed.

“Have Maito track their every step,” he heard the master say over the pain wracking his battered body.  “I want a thorough account of their movements when I awake.”

Scrabbling to his knees, his vision swimming, and his breathing labored, “Yes master,” he whispered.  “I will see to it at once.”

As he crawled backward, the sound of the master’s laughter rose above him, echoing fetid and noxious throughout the chamber.

“Excellent.   

Let us hope the younger Umino proves a greater challenge than his father was, Kinoe.”

Recherché

Ill tidings fly swifter than the swallows and it seemed to him, everyone in the territory could speak of nothing aside from the plucky heiress who met an untimely and tragic end.  Not surprising then, was the speed at which the summons came. Fully aware the Master’s state of mind grew more volatile as the sun ascended, Maito bounded through the forests; a blur of black and green as he hastened through the groves. 

Almost as soon as he walked through the front door, workaday conversation in the grand hall hung in the air -- suspended in mid syllable; every head turned, and every eye fastened upon him.  When he cocked his head to the left and then to the right, he could hear the bowels of the burly workmen seizing up -- the smell of fear so thick, it flavored the atmosphere like a pungent bouquet of sweat and pheromones. 

Humans, he thought with a smile, so easily frightened . . .

so quickly tantalized by that which they do not understand.

A sly smile from him, so wide and inviting, sent an audible rush of relief through the entrance way where he stood; arms akimbo, he countenanced the furtive glances, drank in equal parts of their attraction and reveled in their repulsion.  Many of the assembled navvies roused themselves from stupor, pretending to carry on with their assigned tasks while some moistened dry lips with a swipe of their turgid tongues.  A jaunty nod of his head meant the show was over and he strutted through the horde of hirelings.     The drawing room at the end of the hall was where he’d been summoned and it was there he focused the whole of his attention.  Making his way down the hall, household servants scurried away like cockroaches, pressing themselves against the walls as he passed them; bowing low and shielding their eyes as they’d been taught.

 “Hey Takumi,” whispered one of the workmen when he thought Maito was out of earshot, “reckon that’s the Master of the manor?”

“Don’t know and don’t care and since neither of us is getting paid to stand around gawking at rich folks . . . here,” he said, pressing a spud bar into his friend’s hand.  “Make yourself useful.”

But the younger man’s eyes remained fastened to Maito’s retreating back.  “The only men I know of that are taller and broader than him are millwrights.”

“So what, Hiroaki?”

“He’s odd lookin,’ don’t you think?  And did you see his teeth? Quite a set of choppers on him; whiter than white they were, and sharp . . . like he could skin you alive with ‘em.   And those eyebrows. . . damn near covered half his forehead!”

The crowbar’s pinch point slipped under a rusty nail with a squeal and above the skin-crawling noise, everyone, including the man under scrutiny heard him say:

“I tell ya, that guy looks like a rabid wolf.”

Suddenly, Maito stopped in his tracks; the sensation of eyes darting between him and the obtuse workman almost tangible.  Taking mental note of the braggart’s name, he stored away the memory of his smell for future recall.  Though everything in him demanded he turn and rip the smaller man asunder, he denied the insistence of his instincts; couldn’t afford another slip up so soon.

“I swear, you haven’t got half the brains of a termite,” hissed the man on the other side of the crate. “You insulted that man and I know damn well he heard what you said, fool!  And if he were to come for you,” he said, slipping the claw hammer in his pants pocket, “you’d piss yourself.”

 “Yeah, he’d be yipping like a little mutt,” said another workman who’d sidled up beside the young man.  “What’s the matter,” he laughed, chuckling the other man’s chin, “have you never seen what years of inbreeding looks like?”

From around the corner, the two jesting men heard the rapid footsteps of the foreman and moved away quickly.   

“Knock it off you lack wits,” snapped the irritated overseer. “That will teach you to keep your big mouth shut Hiroaki,” he said to the young man who was furiously rubbing his head. “The rest of you louts . . . get back to work!”

Ah yes, Maito thought.  If the Master allows,

you’ll make quite the delicious amuse-bouche . . .  Hiroaki.

 

Notes:

 Cryptomeria [japonica]:  a conifer in the cypress family; endemic to Japan where it is known as sugi.  A large evergreen tree, with spirally arranged leaves (needle-like) and globular seed cones; superficially similar to Giant Sequoia.

Oddment: an odd article, bit or remnant.

Exigent:  requiring immediate action or aid; urgent, pressing.

Bullnose:  where steps are open on one or both sides.

Tread:  horizontal part of a stairway that is stepped on.

Riser:  vertical part of a stairway between each tread.

Numen:  a deity, especially one presiding locally.

Navvy: an unskilled, manual laborer.

Hireling: a person who works only for pay, especially in a menial or boring job, with little or no concern for the value of the work.

Spud bar:  crowbar.  

Hiroaki: “Widespread brightness”.

Takumi: “Artisan.”

Amuse-bouche (French):  to ‘amuse the mouth.’ It’s a bite-sized portion of food to stimulate the appetite before a meal or to clear the palate between courses of a large meal.