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Recherche: Mending Fences, Building Bridges Pt1

2017-07-16T05:59:57Z

Recherché Chapter Eleven

Bout time they got that sign fixed, he thought bringing his mount to halt at the front gate. Expanded the stables and the paddock looks full too. “Lot of changes since we were here last, eh Mayonaka?” As they slowly head up the gravel path, several farm hands shoot incredulous looks their way, while others stopped him to chat.

“Hold it right there! The hell are you doing here?”

The wild-haired, snarling woman blocking his path was Inuzuka Tsume, proprietor of Konoha’s veterinary hospital, matriarch of a powerful clan and his acid-tongued in law. He mustered a fake grin saying, “Thank god everything around here hasn’t changed. How’s it going Tsume?”

“We’re busier than one-legged men in a butt kicking contest or haven't you noticed? Kiba!” she yelled over her shoulder, “Come get this horse! Well, Biki? Unless you’re here to arrest somebody ... we could use another set of hands. Kiba! Damn it, where is that boy?”

“For heaven’s sake Mother … what’s all the shouting about?”

Running from the doorway of the house, a leather apron draped over her arm was his sister-in-law. Inuzuka Hana, the fresh faced, peace maker of the family; hard to believe she was related to the woman with her hands entangled in his mount’s reins. Ever the optimist, she saw only the good in people, even me, he thought. “Hana,” he said. “How’ve you been?”

“Talk about perfect timing Ibiki! Afraid I’ll have to catch you up on all the news over dinner. Mind taking these to the stable? Hang on … you’ll need a pair too.”

“No, you don't understand ... wasn’t going to stay that long... just came to--”

“Don’t be silly," she turned and said, "we haven’t seen you in ages, of course you’ll stay for dinner--”

“Hana ... no, I can’t. Quick question for Idate is all,” he called after her as she ducked inside the house.

“Well, he aint got no time for chitchat neither,” Tsume growled, “we got two mares in foal--”

“In foal?” He spared the tall, sturdily built woman an awkward glance. “A bit late in the season and too early in the day--”

“Yeah? Tell the mares that why don’t you? Now dismount and get your ass over to the stables! Damn it Kiba! Where are you?”

“Behind you Mom," the young man said with a smile. "Hey uncle Biki! It’s been a while.”

“Sure has and what a strapping young man you’ve turned into,” he said, alighting the saddle. “Looking like your old man every day.”

“Damn you Biki! Don’t insult the boy,” snarled Tsume. “Now look, there’s work needs doing ... no time for gum flapping the two of ya!”

“Yes, and I do apologize," Hana said as she bounded out the front door. Shoving a pair of obstetric sleeves toward him, she apologized, "Sorry we have to press you into service. It’s been nuts around here of late.”

“I can come back some other time ... don't wanna be in the way. 'Sides, it’s not that important and if he’s busy--”

“Nonsense,” she smiled. “He’ll appreciate someone experienced beside him.”

“Yes, but we haven't spoken since, you know ...the incident--”

“Goodness that was a hundred years ago, Ibiki. Let's go ... get a move on before Mother starts yelling again." She flashed him a winning smile as his eyes searched hers for reprieve. "You two are brothers and we're family. Families fall out, they fall in and they mend bridges, it's what we do." She gave him a pat on the shoulder and a slight shove toward the stable. "You’ll have a few hours to talk things over and you’ll see, he’s changed Ibiki; not the hothead he used to be--”

"Still, it’s been a long time since I did the foaling thing. Hope I remember how--”

“Shove your excuses! Idate knows what's what; do as he says and you’ll be fine,” snapped an irritated Tsume. “Hana, damn it girl! Aren't those vaccines ready yet?”

“Not yet, ma’am.”

“Well hurry it up! Do I hafta do everything around here myself? Oh and Biki,” she called over her shoulder as she headed toward the main house, “try not to get yourself trampled.”

Recherché

A glimmer of recognition and a glut of insincere smiles; these highlight the minuet of saving face as Tsunade and Iruka dance around the issue of:

‘Why can’t I remember how I know you or where I know you from?’

He, hesitant to speak first for fear of making another blunder, humbly averted his eyes; she, reluctant to concede another memory lost to time’s onward march, boldly searched the young man’s face. Her eyes swept down over his suit, settling on the arm which he held close to his belly.

“Your hand,” she said. “What happened to your hand?”

So much for remaining inconspicuous, he thought glowering at his traitorous upturned palm. The speed in which a plausible falsehood sprang to mind surprised him. "This is what bad timing and poor judgment looks like,” he said, stretching his hand toward her. The tone of his voice in his own ears was steady and filled with enough self-deprecation to squelch further questioning. When she didn’t recoil in shock at the sight of the blood, Iruka huffed out a humorless laugh. “Reckon it wasn’t a good idea to slice through an apple using my palm as a cutting board, was it?”

Unfazed both by the handkerchief and his scrawny wit, Tsunade spared him a disbelieving glance as she took his hand into her own.

He wanted to protest the intrusion when she pulled loose the sloppily tied kerchief, but he couldn’t; he wished with all his might he were brazen enough to snatch away his hand when she roughly bent backward his fingers, but he didn’t. Good manners allowed only a wince and a swallowed down grunt as concessions to his discomfort.

The stern look on her face and the soft hand holding his, made him uncomfortable as time plodded along - soon the brittle sound of his nervous chatter flooded the gulch of reticence dividing them.

“Sprinkled some alum from my shaving kit on it earlier,” he said when she squeezed the underside of his hand. “Stung like a nest of angry bees … guess it wasn’t adequate, huh?”

“Course it wasn’t. This wound is too deep ... probably damaged the tissues." A fresh line of crimson welled up, pooling along the crease of his palm when she bent his hand toward his body. "If this is your dominant hand, it won’t stop bleeding until properly treated.” From the squinting of his eyes, the tense set of his shoulders and the tight smile on his lips, it was clear she’d embarrassed him. All right, she thought. Go easy on the kid . . . yes he’s a klutz, but don’t scare him to death. “See here young man, get yourself to the apothecary; have them prepare a mixture of powdered Mitragyna Parvifolia and Calendula Officinalis--”

“Wouldn’t yarrow root do just as well ma’am?”

The moderately peeved look she gave him was on par with the ones his mother affected, right before she tugged on his ear and served up a scalding tongue-lashing. Without conscious thought, his left hand flew up to shield a vulnerable earlobe.

“As I was saying ... when you get home, mix a pinch of the powder with warm water until it becomes a smooth paste, apply it liberally. Then, wrap your hand,” she continued with her eyebrow raised, brokering no backtalk, “with a clean bandage . . . you can get those from the apothecary too. Leave the paste and the bandage on overnight and come morning, the swelling and bleeding will have stopped.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said gratefully bowing his head. “I feel somewhat silly but appreciate the advice.”

They stood silent for a time, his hand in hers . . . her eyes still searching his face. “You’ll pardon me but, you look so familiar.”

“I have that kind of face,” he joked. “People say I remind them of--”

“Related to the Mitarashi family, aren’t you?”

Mentally scrolling down a list of names from the old country, Iruka sadly shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell, ma’am but my parents were from a small village, so … I guess it’s possible.”

“Lovely little family, the Mitarashi's,” she said, never looking up from the task of rewrapping his hand. “Had two children, a daughter named Anko and a son whose name escapes me presently – you look just like him though.”

“Pretty sure I was an only child, ma'am. Sorry ... must've left my manners in my back pocket today--" .

"What are you mumbling about?"

"I mean to say ... should have introduced myself earlier," he said straightening to his full height. "My name is--”

“Oi . . . that scrap of paper there,” she gestured to her left with their joined hands, “not yours, is it?”

He’d seen the slip of white skittering above the ground earlier but ignored it, convinced he’d slipped the map in a pocket as he reached out to keep her from falling. Shouldn’t be, he thought, clumsily thumbing through a fob pocket with his other hand. A brief, one-handed search of his jacket and pants pockets rendered nothing. Excusing himself, he gave chase as balmy breezes rolling off the sea gaily lifted the paper, skipping it along the ground, bumping it over and through clumps of wild grass.

Tsunade stifled a giggle behind her hand watching the intrepid hunter take off on a stumbling, twisting chivy, always lagging three steps behind in the wake of his quarry. She had to pinch her arm to prevent an outburst of laughter when a wayward gust banged the paper against a nearby tree trunk.

Surely, he’ll capture it now, she thought.

Alas, was the young man was left standing at the base of the tree, his fists at his hips, looking up helplessly as the paper ascended on the back of a playful wind. Just outside his reach, it slapped smack in the middle of a bough, seven feet from the ground.

Poor little biscuit, she found herself thinking when his shoulders drooped in defeat. “I take it that was something sentimental.”

“Not really,” he sighed, “just a map.”

After a third attempt at jumping up and grabbing the paper failed, Iruka made another half circuit around the overgrown acorn factory. “It took her so long to finish,” he said more so to the oak than Tsunade. “She even added notes of interest . . . landmarks and such. Now I’ll have to go back and tell her I’ve lost the darn thing.”

The outbreath of resignation and the hollow sound of his back colliding with the scaly ridges of the tree’s bark when he sagged against it, tapped into Tsunade’s maternal side against her will. “Looks like I’m not the only one who had a rough start to the morning. You almost sliced your hand open for breakfast, pert near knocked an old woman to the ground and now you’ve lost your little map.”

He cut his eyes at her, looking all the world like a little child who’d broken his favorite toy.

“If it weren’t so early in the day, I’d invite you back to my office for a stiff drink; looks like you could use one.”

“I'll have to pass,” he said turning to face her with his arms huffily folded across his chest. “Not going to let this drive me to drink just yet. I’m sure if I keep heading in this direction, I’ll find what I was looking for--”

“So, you aren’t from here . . . no wonder I had trouble placing your face.”

“Not exactly a tourist either ma’am,” he said, pushing away from his sad post. “I was born here … been away for ages though and the territory has changed so much --”

“Well I’m overdue for a good deed this month, so maybe I can help. What is it you’re looking for young man?”

“The fire brigade,” came the almost inaudible response when he cast a final glance over his shoulder.

Taking into account his slight build, natty attire and overall carriage, this time Tsunade didn’t hold back her laughter. “Don’t tell me,” she snickered, “you’re looking to sign on as a volunteer?”

Recherché

Beneath them a duvet of emerald grasses; above them, azure skies and slow moving puffy white clouds. Kotetsu lazily sprawled while Izumo rested at the base of an ancient elm, both men savoring the quiet made possible by Genma’s departure.

Rolling onto his side he smiled and said, “Well, am I a genius or what Zumo?”

“More like ‘or what,’ as in what were you thinking?” Izumo bumped his head against the smooth bark behind him, “I thought we agreed the ‘coconut layer cake’ bit was only for use in emergency situations.”

“Hey! I was on the verge of garroting Genma just to keep him quiet. Doesn’t that count as an emergency?”

“You’re too much, ’Tetsu," he laughed shaking his head. "For goodness sakes, Genma is an undertaker! And with you making out like a scoop of lard in a hot skillet, it was all I could do to keep him from running over and measuring you for a coffin.”

“With a dolt like him, I had to lay it on thick, 'Zumo," he said flexing his fingers beneath his head and flopping onto his back. "In the end, it came down to results; you needed ‘em …I got ‘em.”

“Overly dramatic if you ask me--”

“Says the man who makes up nonsense words like ‘narcolepsy’ and ‘cataplexy’ on the fly – what the heck was that about?”

Without even looking, Izumo sent a badly aimed punch that connected with his friend’s elbow. “They weren’t made up words you goof, they’re real medical terms for real physiological conditions which you faked rather poorly.”

Blah, blah, blah,” Kotetsu teased shaking off the prickly sensations running along his arm. “Whatever you say Doctor Killjoy.”

“Never mind your sass, we'll need to get a move on eventually.”

“Now you’re talking sense. After a short nap, I say we grab a bite to eat and then head back to the inn.”

“Nap time comes later,” Izumo laughed. Right now, we’re going to the Fire Temple.”

Kotetsu sprang up like a trip wire. “You loopy from the altitude or something? Genma’s long gone and the man he was talking about obviously isn’t the one Iruka is looking for. What possible reason have we to go to the Temple now?”

Maneuvering himself into a standing position, Izumo stretched out his back. “The Inspector and the Coroner believe that’s where we’re headed, that’s why. It’s not gonna hurt our cause to be seen talking with the monks for a few minutes--”

“Come on man! We climbed up the side of a mountain and listened to Genma natter on for what felt like seventeen hours. You’re the goof if you think I’m gonna tramp all the way over there to--”

“Have you forgotten we’re being tailed by a pair of constables? You know they’re going to inform the Inspector if we don’t follow through. So, quit your whining and get up.”

“You know, you’re a gigantic pain in the butt ‘Zumo. Don't know why I let you talk me into these crazy things.”

“Yes, yes, results my friend,” he said extending his hand to the scowling Kotetsu, “that’s all that matters, right?”

Recherché

Notes:

Mitragyna Parvifolia: a deciduous tree found in Asia and Malaysia; the bruised leaves of the tree promote healing of wounds and alleviate pain. Extracts of the tree’s fruit can be used as an anti-inflammatory agent.

Calendula Officinalis: marigolds, the flowers are considered a beneficial antiseptic and help to reduce inflammation.

Yarrow root: fresh leaves of this flowering plant were applied to wounds to stop bleeding and fight fever; it also has antimicrobial properties.

Chivy (British): to run about.

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Recherche: Getting to Know You

2017-07-16T05:46:10Z

Recherché Chapter Ten

There on the crest of the hill stood Genma, his chest puffed with pride. "Brought you up this way on purpose, behold …the Fire Temple,” he said flinging wide his arms. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Five steps behind him, a wearied Kotetsu huffed, "There was an easier way to get here, wasn’t there?"

“Maybe,” he laughed, “but you have to admit it’s majesty was worth the trip.”

Ignoring the murderous gleam in his friend’s eye, Izumo positioned himself between the men. “It’s not every day we see something like this Genma," he said. "I don’t know how to thank you.”

Rubbing at the stitch in his side, Kotetsu grumped, “Well I do ‘Zumo. Soon as I catch my breath... I'm gonna strangle him ... and then …you.”

“Remember, we’re doing this for Iruka,” came the snipped reply from the side of his mouth. “You’re right, Tetsu, they did a remarkable job of incorporating the additions.”

“Naturally,” Genma said as his yellow toothed grin stretched wider. “The finest artisans and construction workers in the five nations make their home right here in Konoha. You see that building over there? That’s where the first group of monks used to spend their days meditating, studying bugei and practicing bujutsu; they were the Daimyo’s original guards and protectors of the cargo ships back in the early days. Bout thirty years ago, Hashirama Senju gifted the monks with another five acres of land and they … wait a minute Izumo, how’d you know about the additions?”

“Told you I was born in Konoha ... lived here for almost ten years. Before we moved they were almost finished with the newer buildings --”

“Oh, right,” Genma sheepishly said, “it’s coming back to me now.”

"Amazing, I can still remember the fragrance of incense they used on special occasions; the winds used to carry the aroma through the town on a summer's day--"

“Damn shame, that's what it was .. couldna happened at a worse time.”

“For cryin' out loud, 'Zumo! All this stoppin’ and startin’ is getting on my nerves. Damn fool can’t’ stay on one subject for--”

“Shhh! Sorry Genma … you were saying?”

“Hyuga girl's death ...what a hell of a way to kick off mating season.”

“Pardon? A death relates to the temple's buildings and the ‘mating season', how?”

“Sorry … didn’t realize I said bit out loud.”

“There's a big surprise,” Kotetsu mumbled.

“Half the territory is gonna come out to see her on a sad occasion – her tsuya is tonight, you know Had she lived, a select few would’ve seen her at her brightest and best at this same temple … on her wedding day, I mean.”

“Alright … we’re with you so far,” Izumo said, “but what about--?”

“The 'mating season'? We’re in it right now. The time of year when rich folk get together with their lawyers and matchmakers and plan next spring’s nuptials, a combining of fortunes, if you will. Konoha is near to ratifying trade agreements with Europe and that means new money’s gonna pour into the territory. Well, enough of that romance and finance stuff. That building over there is the lecture hall; you’ll find most of the monks this time of morning. I’m gonna head off to the gardens on your left and hopefully catch the chief priest before he starts meditating. You know, I kinda feel sorry for the new kid,” he said as they began their descent.

“Let me guess, he’s not talking about the head priest, is he?”

“Oh, excuse me, terrible habit … people tell me I’m a 'stream of consciousness' man; that’s a nice way of saying I blurt out what I’m thinking.”

“Psycho … is a more accurate term. Don’t know how much more I can take of this guy, Zumo--”

“About a year ago, yeah, that's right ...that young man came here to bury his father’s ashes,” Genma said. “Heard he used to live in Europe too.”

Izumo and Kotetsu held their tongues, having agreed silence would squeeze more from their ‘fat little duck’.

“Comes from old money he does, they probably talked him into hosting one of their shindigs by now. Makes sense … he’s filthy rich and a bachelor to boot,” he said tapping his pipe against the palm of his hand. “Father left him that huge mansion near the cemetery, owns about fifty acres of land further to the west and he’s got a house full of servants too. Businessmen been flocking around him like vultures ever since he got back; picking his brain, seeing if he’s got contacts over there they can exploit. Yep, I feel sorry for the new kid.”

“Well, I can tell you’re a world traveler,” Kotetsu mocked. “Europe’s vast, think you could be more specific?”

“Hmm," he said tamping the tobacco down in the bowl, "somebody said he used to live in London.”

“Really? That’s exciting news! There only about fifty Japanese people where we lived, so it’s possible we know him,” Izumo explained. “What's his name, Genma?”

“Names of folks I don't see on the regular get away from me, but I never forget a face. Saw him the night he arrived, he said, patting down his pockets for a matchbox. "Handsome lanky fella, I remember thinking how strange it was to see a head full of gray hair on such a young man; must be a family trait, that or somebody gave him a good fright. Something’s wrong with his left eye too, eyepatch barely covered a wicked lookin’ scar.” The biting smell of phosphorous and tobacco brought tears to their eyes as Genma puffed away. “Surname is Hajame or Hataji … something like that.”

Kotetsu and Izumo turned to one another smiling broadly.

“Hatake,” they whispered.

Recherché

One uninterrupted hour, that’s all she wanted; sixty minutes of serenity, that’s all she needed to clear her mind, reorganize her priorities and loosen that annoying crick in her neck. With an eye to evading recognition, she’d left her hair unbound, exchanged the familiar green haori for a sapphire outer cloak and forsook her usual spot under a spreading tree. Unfortunately, even holding a tabloid newspaper before her face didn't keep the steady stream of townsfolk from stopping by to express support and share their concerns.

Should have followed my first mind and took myself home for a nap when I had the chance, she thought when the last of the well-wishers dispersed. Might as well go back to the office … sure Ibiki’s there by now. As she stood, most of the newspaper slipped free of her lap, scattering itself over the bench. With a mumbled curse and a quick pivot, she turned to retrieve it. Suddenly, something sturdy collided with her hip and the ground rose to meet her. What the hell?

“Gosh, I’m sorry ma’am ... wasn’t watching where I was going.” A brown arm shot across her chest, shielding her from impact with the sharp gravel surrounding the bench; a warm hand caught her by the elbow, and the concerned face of a panicked young man abruptly appeared in her line of sight.

“I’ll thank you to unhand me,” she gruffly said glancing down at the arm smashed against her bosom.

“Oh … pardon me. Didn’t hurt you, did I? Again, I'm so sorry.”

Set to give him a piece of her mind once she could stand unaided, the moment she saw those kind brown eyes brimming with fretfulness, she lost the will to chew him out. “I’m fine … question is,” she said pointing to his bloodied bandaged hand, “are you alright?”

Recherché

“Damn… more stairs Zumo?”

“What did you think those long white stone things leading up to the temple gates were ... flocks of seagulls?”

He stroked at his goatee as he stared off into the distance. “You’re a regular riot, but if you look at 'em sideways, like this,” he said tilting his head, “kinda look like slices of coconut layer cake.”

“Coconut layer cake? Oh no, it’s happening again!”

Genma nervously looked back and forth between them. “What? What’s happening?” Watching Kotetsu stagger off the steps toward an open area ringed with fruit trees to their right, he grabbed at Izumo’s wrist, “What’s wrong with him?”

Izumo waited quietly as Kotetsu tottered onto a patch of grass and unceremoniously dropped to his knees. He’s playing this to the hilt. Guess I'll have to step up my game too, he thought, turning to the mortified mortician. “Having one of his spells,” he whispered. “Before we left London, Kotetsu was diagnosed with a serious illness … narcolepsy, that's what the doctor said. Ever heard of it?”

Genma shook his head. “Never, and I pride myself on keeping abreast of the latest illnesses. Death certificates are legal documents don't you know; hafta provide an accurate cause of demise. Narcolepsy,” he sounded out the word carefully, “that’s a new one on me. He’s so young." He paused, looking around Izumo to the shallow breathing man on his knees. "Seemed healthy he did. “This illness ... it’s not fatal, is it?”

Excusing the hopeful note in the undertaker’s voice, Izumo kept a straight face saying, “Afraid not. More than anything it's embarrassing. He’s awful sensitive about it Genma, please … don’t tease him when he comes around.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it!”

Just then, Kotetsu keeled over, crumpling onto his side as Genma’s eyebrows disappeared under the hat’s headband. “What’s happening to him now?”

“That my friend, is cataplexy . . . a sudden, uncontrollable loss of muscle tone triggered by intense emotion; usually happens before the narcolepsy takes firm hold of him. These episodes come on stronger when he’s overtired or famished,” he calmly said as they walked to the place Kotetsu lay.

“Had I but known he was in poor health ...would’ve taken the shortcut.”

“Relax, it’s not entirely your fault. I should have made him eat something before we left his morning. Come on, help me get him to that tree over there and onto his back.”

Dragged a short distance and shifted into a supine position between them, Genma leaned over Kotetsu’s body. “How long you think he’ll be out of it?”

“Oh ... I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he cautioned when Genma moved to check his friend’s pulse. “Might attack you … learned that the hard way. Just leave him be – in a few minutes or a half an hour, he’ll wake refreshed, completely unaware of how he got here,” he said leaning against the tree. “Let's make the best of this situation, shall we?”

Glancing down on the stricken man, up to Izumo and finally toward the temple, Genma said, “Feel kinda responsible for his state, I’m real sorry about that. But since the priest isn’t going anywhere, reckon we can take a short break.” Flipping off his hat, he dabbed at the sweatband with his handkerchief. “You two been friends a long time have you?”

“Yeah, the three of us practically grew up together.”

“Hmm ... explains why you look alike.”

“Me and Kotetsu?”

“No, I mean in profile, you and that Dr. Umino fella bear a striking resemblance. I’d bet my last dollar you're related.”

“Good eye, Genma … our fathers were brothers, half brothers actually and--”

“Consanguinity,” he said, slapping his thigh. “I knew it! Hey, he’s coming to.”

He gave Kotetsu the once over and a subtle kick to the shin. “I think not, Genma. He’ll rest for another ten minutes or so. As I was saying, those were fun times growing up in London, we got up to such mischief,” he laughed. “What else can you tell me about the other young man … this Hajame person?”

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Genma turned the hat crown side down on his lap. "Practically a recluse, I hear. Those creative types usually are; they sleep all day, work all night--”

“So, he’s an artist or musician, I take it.”

“Nah, he's the brainy type, used to be a doctor or surgeon - now he's a writer. Translates textbooks, fluent in four languages, used to travel extensively, so says the rumor mill.”

"I’m sure we know him then. My father and uncle worked with anatomists and illustrators to translate English medical texts into Japanese. Well what do know about that? We travel halfway round the globe just to meet someone who probably lived across the street from us." He closed his eyes for a moment. “A chance to renew an acquaintance with someone that knew my father; may his soul rest in peace.” His eyes popped open and he turned to Genma saying, “Sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I? You have no idea how thrilling the prospect of reconnecting with someone from our old stomping grounds--”

“No, no, I got it ... but as I said, this guy’s a hermit. Wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for an invitation to tea--"

"I'm sure you're right, Genma."

"While I'm at it, allow me to correct myself. This guy isn't from London ... I remember hearing he came from a place called Cornwall . . . that’s a suburb of London, isn't it?”

“A town 250 miles southwest of London is hardly a suburb--”

“Right then ... maybe this guy isn’t who you think he is.”

“Yeah,” Izumo blew out a long breath, “maybe he isn’t.”

Suddenly, Kotetsu’s legs start twitching and his entire upper body shakes violently.

“Oh, my god Izumo! Is he having a seizure? Should I fetch a doctor?”

“No, he’ll be fine,” was Izumo’s distracted response. “It’s probably an anger stroke--”

“What?”

“Look, you’ve already done us a huge favor, Genma; the temple’s in sight. I know how much lies before you today, so why don’t you just go on without us?”

Genma was on his feet in an instant. "If you insist,” he said, considering the grimacing face of Kotetsu and the vacant eyes of Izumo, “you sure he’s gonna be okay?”

Note:

Consanguinity: relationship by descent from a common ancestor; kinship.

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Recherche: Stitches in Time

2017-04-24T02:15:14Z

Recherché Chapter Nine

Alas and alack, poor Ibiki.

No matter how fast or how far he ran,

from this dilemma there was no escape.

The sun beat against his back even as the chilly fingers of anxiety stutter step along his spine. The reins fell slack in his hands, his eyes and ears deceived by the tricks of his mind. The leaves in the trees are as the accusing eyes of the people he was sworn to protect; the babbling brooks in the distance are as the murmurs of a government whose laws he was sworn to uphold. And the bushes stretch forth their brambles, piercing his heart like the skepticism and contempt of the men he was charged to lead.

Finally at the place where flat landscape reached its terminus and jagged outlines of the forests begin, Ibiki guided his mount off the well-trodden path. They stand reverently before a sentry of ancient conifers guarding the passage into the wilds; this place was always his refuge, a bastion of tranquility where the weight of the world slipped from his shoulders.

Alas and alack, poor Ibiki,

it would not be so this day.

Though the soft breezes impregnated with intoxicating attars of wildflowers tug at his lingering bitterness, the sense of melancholy never falters; the weight of betrayal clings to him as a mouldy shroud. He shook his head, closing his eyes and shutting his ears to the conjured images and sounds as his mount adopts an ambling gait. “Unbelievable,” he said, as he sharply pulled back on the reins. “A woman that intelligent and perceptive insists on kowtowing to the fairy stories of her ancestors. Ridiculous!”

Without warning was he pitched forward, his forehead colliding with Mayonaka’s poll when the horse came to a standstill. “What a horrid master I am,” he whispered into a flickering ear. “It’s been years since I worked you this hard … sorry about that old friend.” Smoothing his hand down the muscular neck, he said, “You’ve earned your rest and here’s a good a place as any to take it.”

Gingerly alighting the saddle, a flick of the wrist brought the reins over the horse’s head. “If memory serves, there’s a little creek beyond that clump of trees … let’s go.”

Mayonaka took a few timid steps and paused; a slight tug on the reins and the horse took a few steps more and pulled back against the lead.

“Okay … what’s your problem?”

The horse responded with a snort and a jerk of his massive head in the opposite direction. Digging his hooves into the soft grasses, he refused to budge.

“You realize this conduct is unbecoming a patrol officer, don’t you? Come along now, I’ve had my fill of contrariness for one morning.”

This time, Mayonaka almost jerked his arm from its socket.

“Fine! I’ve no time for your nonsense either!” He stalked off toward the creek, rifling through his pockets as he went. Eyeing a smooth wide tree stump, he skirted around it, too angry to sit just now. Under the resplendent shade of towering trees, humid winds tote the call and response of the komadori and cool waters splash over smooth stones in the belly of the creek as he paced alongside the mossy bank. He stops short near a clump of waist high spindly foliage veiling his view of the town.

“I know the answer is staring me in the face … why the hell can’t I see it?”

In the distance, faint strains of a steam whistle issuing from the lumber mill called workers back to their posts and as it does, Ibiki finds himself wishing he could trade places with them; to daily expend his strength producing something of value. He allows himself to think how pleasant it would be - returning to his abode by evening, an honest day’s work having leached his energy that he might rest in the bosom of dreamless sleep by night.

But it was never to be so; that he knew right well.

The stillness of the forest takes him captive once more - the crunch of his teeth tearing away the tip of the cigar he’d fished from his pocket is almost deafening. Sweet cognac and bitter tobacco dowse his taste buds as he turns his back on the town and stands transfixed, watching the end piece of his cigar gracefully arc as it shoots from his mouth; an embittered laugh rises from his chest as his eyes follow the ragged wad as it bobs and floats in the dark cool creek water.

Well if that doesn’t sum up my life these past months, nothing else can.

Months pass and the center of his desk filled with paperwork about these murders; day by day, malicious whispers and the distrustful eyes of the masses adhere to his back everywhere he went. These things ripped out a chunk of his confidence and spewed it forth like tainted meat. Now, he floundered in the slow moving currents of failure with little time before the waters of bureaucracy would engulf and drag him down.

Back to the tree stump he wandered, taking a seat and striking a match against the sole of his boot.

“Here I thought you were the only one who understood me. You know, I’ve never faced anything like this before, Mayonaka; it scares the hell out of me. And you, a friend … a fellow officer no less, refusing to assuage my concerns, well .. well.”

Mayonaka quietly approached, his pasterns brushing over tender ground cover with a swish and crisp leaf litter crunches beneath his hooves. He stands to Ibiki’s right, fixing him with the equine equivalent of empathy.

“I hate the fact that you know me so well,” he said with a chuckle. “So here’s the situation in a nutshell … if I go along with this piffle about undead creatures on a rampage, there’s no way I can justify that nor encourage my men to continue their investigation. Calling in a demon hunter would take the constables out of the equation and make us an even bigger laughingstock.”

Mayonaka snorted.

“My sentiments exactly. But, if I follow my gut that’s telling me this is the work of one or more deranged human beings … how the hell do I prove it to the Advisory Council and the people of the territory?”

Mayonaka shook his head as he drew closer to his troubled master.

“The way I see it, Umino is an agent from another nation jealous of our prosperity; by sending him, they hope to scare us away from opening our borders to foreigners. Or, he’s working with some religious nutcases inside the territory. Either way, I figure Umino is an accomplice or an accessory to murder.

Wait a minute,” he said as he stood. “There’s another powerful and extremely vocal faction of men who oppose trade with foreign lands though their worries have nothing to do with the loss of culture or heritage. On the contrary, trade with foreign nations would increase their wealth. What they fear is losing control over the minds of the people.”

Once more he took to pacing as Mayonaka positioned himself by the creek for a drink.

“Shimura Danzou and Kokucho Orochimaru … two of the oldest and most influential members of the Advisory Council; they spend their days exerting pressure on the Governor and me by extension to get a handle on these killings, so it looks like they have the interests of the people at heart. And with the murder of Hyuga Hitomi, each of them gains leverage to unseat the sole heir of the Senju legacy. They know I’d never consider them suspects and they’ve tolerated me this long, because I’ve been discrete . . . kept my mouth shut about their … unnatural relations.”

With his mount quenching his thirst, Ibiki rummaged through the saddlebags. The water in his canteen surprisingly cool, fresh and sweet; a backward swipe of his forearm sopped up the moisture clinging to his lips.

And with the other hand, he absently cards through Mayonaka’s silken mane. A cloud of smoke enfolds him as he leans against the sinewy shoulder of his mount. “I’m damned either way I turn … aren’t I? No idea how to proceed … not sure if I want to anymore.

Whether intended to bat away a biting insect or to knock some sense into the dejected officer beside him, Ibiki laughed at himself when the tips of the horse’s heavy tail thumped against his back.

“Okay … message received,” he said with a sigh, “if you’ll just go with me to the crime scene, I promise to stop feeling sorry for myself . . . agreed?”

Recherché

It was quarter past the hour when she left the office; across the street she saw a fresh troop of horses and their handlers lining up for inspection outside the constabulary and immediately considered doing an about face. No, she thought squaring her shoulders and scurrying across the plaza, Lady Tsunade is depending on me.

Over the last four months, the mounted patrol saw an increase in their workload as more of the concerned rich demanded greater protection around their estates. Cocksure and enterprising, several of these men earned money under the table working as private security forces; for this she did not begrudge them. Yet it was the selfsame reason she didn’t fancy being in their presence. In her mind, some of them were no better than thugs, wearing uniforms to cover their cowardice, willing to fleece the rich as long as they could and ready to flee at the slightest hint of a bugbear.

Shizune realized that with the changing of shifts the Inspector might be unavailable for an indeterminable time and leaving the Governor’s note with anyone other than him was out of the question.

She’ll know if I didn’t follow her instructions exactly so, I can’t turn back now.

Taking a deep breath, she squeezed through the clutch of officers as they entered and exited the building, nodding her head in acknowledgement and smiling politely as they passed her by. Once inside the squad room, she ducked into a corner; out of the officer's way yet with an excellent vantage point to catch sight of the Inspector.

To the left of the watch commander’s desk stood an orderly line of constables, laughing and talking as they waited their turns to sign in. Over the din, she heard someone call out to her. she turned to Ryota, beckoning her to come alongside his desk.

“Shift change” he said. What can I do for you, Miss Shizune?”

“The Inspector … I need to see him. Is he in his office?”

Ryota shook his head sadly.

“Lady Tsunade told me to put this note directly in his hand; have you any idea where I can find him?”

“Nope and I can’t promise he’ll see it today either,” he said, holding out his hand to receive the small envelope clutched against her obi. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Looking around the room once more, she held the note tighter. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Are you sure he didn’t sneak past you? I mean with all this commotion . . . perhaps he’s in the restroom?”

He gave her a big grin as another officer dropped off his report. “Nothing or nobody comes through here without my notice. Trust me, if the Inspector were in the building, we wouldn’t have all this hubbub.”

She glanced around the room a final time, “I don’t mind waiting--”

“And I don’t expect him back anytime soon.” Turning to straighten the pile of papers at the corner of the desk he said, “Ibiki was a wee bit ‘preoccupied’ this morning; whatever happened during that meeting with the Governor, well … it brought out the worst in him.”

“Don’t forget, we had an interesting morning on my side of the street too . . . that meeting did nothing to improve Lady Tsunade’s state of mind either.”

Ryota bowed his head. “Now, now, I’m just stating fact; no need to get yourself upset.”

Just then, the clock in the station room chimed the half hour and the noise level in the room dropped down to hushed whispers as the men clustered together in the center of the room.

“Ibiki went out to a crime scene,” he whispered. “Got a feeling he’s not coming back.”

“I see. Lady Tsunade was ticked off when she excused herself from the office as well. Claimed she was going for a long walk but I know she didn’t get far. Probably sitting under her favorite tree in the park people watching or else she’s holed up near the sea, watching the waves roll in.”

Quickly looking his left and right as a few of the constables milled about, he leaned over and whispered, “Who do those two think they’re fooling …not us, right? The Inspector and the Governor, stubborn as two swaybacked pack mules under heavy loads. With everything going on lately, is it any wonder they’re frazzled?”

Shizune bent down and propped her elbow on the desk. “They’re cut from the same cloth” she whispered. “Completely unyielding when they think they’re in the right … quick to apologize when they find out they aren’t.”

Jotting down a few notes from the thin manila folder before him, Ryota mumbled, “With that swarm of solicitors descending on her like fussed up hornets and the tragedy striking one of the richest and most powerful families in the territory weighing on Ibiki’s mind, both of ‘em were pushed to their limits --”

“And when they bumped heads” said Shizune, “I’m sure there was an explosion--”

“Exactly,” he said, closing the folder. “Those two just need a little time and a lot of space to cool down . . . that’s all.”

Tucking the note inside a ruck of her obi, she said, “You’re right, it’s not like this was the first time they didn’t see eye to eye about something.”

“Yep, they’ll meet up at the tsuya tonight, dance around each other as if nothing happened and by tomorrow, all will be forgiven and forgotten.”

Standing taller now, Shizune smiled at the sage watch commander, “Thanks, Ryota. I’ve got some things to finalize before the wake … best tend to them before the Governor gets back.”

“See you tonight, Miss Shizune.”

Recherché

The closer they came to the appointed place, once more Mayonaka exhibited a growing reluctance to follow his lead; that was unusual, yet forgivable, for there was an intangible eerie sense in the atmosphere. A few gentle strokes of his hand along the velvety soft nose and a couple of calmly spoken words made it possible to tether the reins around a tree trunk. But before going deeper into the gloaming, Ibiki extracted one of the daggers holstered inside his boot.

He no longer needed the map; the forest floor was swept clean in this space and not by the winds whistling through the trees. Sawdust and straw meticulously raked in a circular pattern, made it hard to miss the footprints of Raidou and Aoba.

All of the trees in this area were hewn to the same exact height -- that wasn’t unusual. Lumberjacks often tied ropes around a clump of trees at a preselected height – he’d long since forgotten the reasons why. However, at the base of each tree stump lay a garland of dead, dried flowers; that wasn’t something lumberjacks did as a rule. One thing more; the bark of the trees had diagonal lines gouged in the wood. Again, he shrugged it off. These gouges were deep, and randomly spaced, as if torn off by a animal’s claws.

Well, that reinforces the notion our hunter met his fate at the paws of a hungry bear or a famished mountain lion. But wild animals don’t leave behind memorial garlands.

He ascended a ridge above the trees and from this vantage point two things were clear. These might have been randomly cut down and there was evidence that several other trees had been culled out from this cluster. From the craters left behind, he knew they’d been ripped up by their roots.

But why?

At least six feet of space separated the trees on each side. “Together,” he mumbled to himself, “they resemble . . . an arrowhead with its tip pointing due north.

Why is it pointing toward the cemetery?

Notes:

Komadori: robin(s).

Poll: name for a part of an animal's head, referring to a point immediately behind or right between the ears. This area has a slight depression and is very sensitive. Since the crownpiece of a bridle passes over the poll joint, a rider indirectly exerts pressure on the horse's poll by means of the reins, bit and bridle.

Pastern: parts of a horse’s leg between its fetlocks and hooves.

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Recherche: Path to Perdition

2017-04-24T02:09:34Z

Recherché Chapter Eight

For the workmen … this was an experience.

Sure, they’d seen rich folk up close before and they knew the rules; bow politely, never initiate conversation and avoid direct eye contact if addressed. But this man made forgetting the rules easy. Tall, dark, powerfully built, he was nothing like the local landowners they were accustomed to. His carriage regal, and yet his stride, like that of a rouster employed down at the docks. Most of the monied would pinch their noses as they passed by them, but this man’s smile was so warm and friendly, it was as if he didn’t mind breathing in the same air they did. He was kindly affectioned to them, though it was clear to everyone present, the household servants greatly feared him.

It was a puzzlement.

Ah, but what stories they’d whisper round humble hearths or shout across roughhewn tables inside the taverns tonight

For Maito … this was torture.

These men of simple minds and strong backs, the sweat stained clothing which adhered to their chunky physiques; their easy, unrefined laughter and grunts of exertion ... these awakened in him an appentence forbidden. Commingled musky scents trapped inside the foyer and funneled down the corridor, made him sick to his stomach; bitter reminders were they of what soon would be denied him. The smile he wore hid the ravening beast within and concealed the panic ripping at his innards. He walked among them as a peckish man in a well-stocked market; mightily anhungered, without the means to purchase or the craftiness to steal that which he craved. But the yearnings of his belly must needs wait, for something more terrifying than cupidity lay ahead.

For the first time in years … he was afeard.

You see, when summoned to the manor in times past, ere the full moon rose, he’d stride through the maze of underground tunnels leading to the master's chambers; there would he give his report and there would his collar of subjugation clatter to the ground. It was his reward for a job well done. Acting as the eyes, ears and strong arm of his master, his recompense was more precious than refined gold.

Liberty.

A reprieve from this clunky suit of flesh, freedom to revel and indulge in his nature most primal. For three wondrous nights each month, he’d choreograph a hellish band of minions through the sacred hunting and mating rituals of his people. Imbued with a portion of the Master’s authority, he orchestrated the voices of a lupine choir, leading them in songs of worship and praise to the Lord of the Lycanthropes.

Seventy-two hours of surfeit,

feasting on the flesh and the fat, drinking deeply from the fountains of blood spurting from his prey; their terrified screams ringing down in his ears. With the coming of the dawn, he’d stand majestic - glistening dew, fragments of bone and splatters of blood clinging to his fur, he’d make his bed in the soft moss of a forest cave as the sun rose; his belly full ... his body satisfied.

Alas, it would not be so this time.

Called inside the manor proper, while the sun ruled the heavens, recompense would surely come; punishment - swift and severe, that was his due

for now, was the Master at his vengeful best ... ‘twas true.

For his error, a hue and cry for justice now sounded throughout the town; the citizenry in an uproar, the constables in stymied readiness,

for a mad dog killer they must needs bring down.

Alas and alack, poor Maito … from his fate was no escape.

Recherché

As he turned the corner, he couldn’t help wondering,

Where did I go wrong?

When his eyes fell upon her as the ship pulled into port weeks earlier, he knew she was the one. Though scores of people thronged around her, their eyes searching the assembled crowd for a familiar face, their arms raised, waving as they caught sight of friends or family members, his target stood alone. Enveloped in a bubble of melancholy, her eyes were downcast. Her manner of dress, simple and proper for a young lady her age; her long flowing ebony hair, free of ostentatious adornment, billowed in the breezes.

These, he assumed were signs she’d left behind any and all familial attachments.

Of course he’d seen the rows of elegant carriages lined up at the port’s entrance – it was impossible to miss them, yet he presumed they waited for someone other than her. He left the port long before his target disembarked, confident that he’d found a prize for the Master to claim. In the following days, he hounded her steps, taking careful note of where she lived and the company she kept.

Her residence - the nurses’ dormitory; her daily frocks bespoke her status as they were the standard issue of medics working to receive certification. She had no close friends to speak of and rarely socialized with her peers outside the hospital. At ease among the downtrodden, the aged and the ill . . . no hint of haughtiness or high bred mannerisms had she. Nothing about her life indicated she had a family, especially an influential and politically connected one – one which had an adversarial relationship with the ruling family of the territory as well as their peers.

And now, he thought, what defense have I, the basest of creatures against an omnipotent being? What words can I draw from a limited human vocabulary to express my regret and buffets me about the head and shoulders with an overwhelming sense of shame?

Standing in a wedge of yellow sunshine stretching under the drawing room doors, Maito leaned forward, breathing in the fused scents springing from the enormous salon. There was a hint of fresh ink from a newly filled pot . . . the fragrance of warm spiced tea and the crisply pungent aroma of pine sap from the logs stacked by the fireplace that would crackle and pop inside the hearth later this evening. And then … of course, there was the distinctively masculine and unappetizing scent of that house servant - Kinoe.

That blasted cockalorum, he groused as the inviting light warmed the tips of his shoes. Like the other puny humans before him, Kinoe was overcome by the Master’s odylic force; spellbound by his mystique and unearthly power. He lapped up the abuse like a sponge even as he hungered for scraps of the Master’s power. But unlike those others, this one was shrewd ... possessed of great intellect, with a head for business and a tongue sharpened by deceit and flattery; it was to him their lord turned over control of the estate’s everyday affairs. His latest project - oversight of renovations to the manor, that would serve as their base of operation. Later, it would become the home where Master and his bride would spend eternity.

Like it did with the others, the morsel of authority granted Kinoe pushed him into fostering a desire and chasing a dream that one day, he alone would stand at the Master’s right hand ... the heel of his boot crushing Maito’s head into the dust.

But Kinoe was an arrogant fool, much like the others before him -

the Master knew his heart.

In exchange for his soul, was he cursed to an eternity of brutal servitude; his sustenance, vermin, arthropods, reptiles and amphibians.

For all his intelligence and savvy, Maito thought, he never understood the bond betwixt myself and the Master; a sacred covenant, a claim against and a seal engraved on my soul which forever secures my position. But the loss of esteem in the eyes of his lord was too heavy a burden to carry. Master never forgot a wrong committed and never forgave those who disappointed him.

The thought of banishment left a taste in his mouth bitter as wormwood and as potent as gall.

The cold fingers of fear clawed at his mind; snippets life outside the reach of the Master’s beck and call ...

Separated from the one who gave him liberty and life,

a shriveled, tangled mass he’d be inside,

always hungering and never satisfied.

As he leaned closer to the door, he couldn't sense an iota of his lord’s powerful aura nor was there any trace of the Master’s uniquely enchanting scent inside the room. A disappointment, for his lord smelled as one who bathed in the moon’s glow . . . as one who wrapped himself in the night mist like a regal robe. His scent, refreshing like the forest loam on a humid night and underneath it all, faint traces of copper, iron and phosphorous … the blood of his prey

But my lord is a powerful being, able to conceal his presence and even his scent if he wishes. Come now, quit yourself and prepare for his wrath. But wait, the windows have been flung open, he absently thought as mild breezes licked at the hems of his pant legs. And the drapes, they’ve been pushed back, giving access to the heat of the day. Master would never put himself in jeopardy just to punish me.

So, it is Kinoe alone I must face.

Nervous fingers comb through his hair and sweaty palms brush along the front of his jacket. I cannot kill him, though I long for his demise. Another deep breath and he closed his eyes.

Silver door handles, cool under his palms, were to him a lifeline as he stood there, mustering his courage and dampening his temper. He felt himself cringe at the sounds of rustling paper and the scratch of a pen’s nib moving briskly across the lines of a ledger book; swallowing down a curse, he grit his teeth when the strident voice beyond the closed doors sang out;

“Do come in, Maito.”

No sooner than he’d pushed open the doors, intense light lunged at him from behind heavy burgundy brocade drapes; dust motes and dog hair pirouette in the sunbeams.

“I’ll thank you to close those doors quickly, the noise of the workmen has been driving me to distraction all morning,” said the pompous man seated at the desk to his right.

Maito did as instructed out of respect for the home of his lord, completely ignoring the other man as he stood stock still near the entryway of the salon. Pointedly turning his body away, his eyes wistfully take in his favorite part of the room. Far to his left, stood a marble front fireplace and slightly away from its hearth sat two high backed leather chairs; their brass brads no longer shone, having spent years being discolored by the soot from the fireplace. A round table of mahogany topped with the finest slate stood between the chairs; a crystal decanter and two snifters, rest on its surface. On either side of the fireplace, floor to ceiling shelves housed a portion of the elder Hatake’s most beloved books.

Long forgotten memories spark a tiny, sad smile.

Of all the rooms in the manor, this was one of the few that remained just as Hatake Sakumo left it.

Having spent the majority of his life living abroad, it reflected a European sensibility that resonated with Lord Sakumo’s soul. And if he closed his eyes . . . just for a moment, he could still smell the special blend of pipe tobaccos Sakumo-dono favored … he could still hear his voice, could feel his power, pressed down and encapsulated within these four walls.

He and his father before him frequently shared this space with the heads of the household; Maito sitting at the feet of the Master’s son, while his father sat on the floor beside the late, great Hatake Sakumo. Since their return from England, it was here on cool nights he and the current Master sat side by side in those old chairs, sipping cognac . . . watching the fire crackle in silence.

What a lumbering, bumptious oaf, Kinoe thought as he watched the other man stride off in the opposite direction.

“Now pay attention, you hairy goon… I’ll try to make this simple enough for even you to understand,” he said. “Umino and his companions have arrived in the territory; I’ve already informed the Master.”

Maito turned and was standing in front of the other man before he could take in another breath; his fangs bared and his paw full of the soft material of Kinoe’s shirt as he lifted him up and away from his seat.

“What else did you tell him?”

Kinoe stared the partially transformed beast in his glowing yellow eyes, his voice never once giving any indication of the fear his shaking limbs were only too happy to show.

“Release me, unwashed philistine! Our lord is already aware of your ineptitude.”

As Maito’s grip tightened and his claws dug into the yielding flesh of his chest, Kinoe wrapped his hands around the massive paw holding him aloft. “Hatake-dono wants you to keep an eye on Umino,” he gasped. “He expects a report on where he’s staying and to whom he’s spoken with as soon as we return from the wake tonight.”

At the mention of the Master’s name, his natural form retreated under the surface of the human skin. Cautiously, he released the other man with a slight backward push. “So, he’s tracked us here at last . . . persistent little shit, isn’t he?”

When he rounded the corner of the desk, he saw Kinoe struggling to regain his balance and it cheered him. Now standing halfway between the desk and the salon doors, he said, “I’d rather snap Umino's neck and be done with it--”

“Ah, but then, our lord will surely banish you from his presence for tampering with another one of his prey. Much as I’d like to see you permanently removed, Maito, I’m sure even you aren’t that stupid.”

His mind, still fogged with rage urged him forward as the other man’s words harnessed the wrath rising within him; when he turned about, Kinoe had retaken his seat with a smirk on his face and a silver dagger lying beside his hand.

“What of the others?” he growled.

“Master’s interest is only with Umino, so I’m at liberty to kill and eat the rest . . . right?”

Note:

Cockalorum: a self important little man.

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Recherche: What If?

2017-04-24T02:05:02Z

Recherché Chapter Seven

Jarred from a trance like state by the noise of metal striking against stone, Iruka shot up, scanning the room for intruders; his hand frantically skidding across the mattress top as he caught his breath.

Damn! They've found me out already?

The envelope and valise … where are they?

Bits and bobs of free-floating memories jumble together as the twilled cotton under his fingers gave way to the smooth surface of heavyweight paper. His heart jumped in his chest - of course, he remembered now - meticulously returning the weapons to their places and tucking the valise under the bed before propping his head against sinfully soft pillows and stretching out.

My imagination is getting the better of me, even so, why the devil is there a handkerchief tied around my … oh, right … Father's knife.

Leaning back against the headboard he comforted himself with the thought that this injury was another minor annoyance, a slight twist on the winding path he’d chosen.

Father used to say, ‘if ever a man desires to make the gods laugh, all he need do is strictly adhere to the plans his limited mind conceives’. Still, the hours behind me hadn’t been a complete waste. The meeting with the Chief Inspector went exactly as expected; quiet opposition, sprinkled with skeptical looks and a curt rebuff culminating in a terse dismissal. Their planned survey of the cemetery deferred out of respect; even if preparations weren’t underway for a burial, a curious sexton would surely take notice of three strangers wandering about the graveyard. And then of course, there was the intrusion of a fast talking, overly accommodating Coroner. He rolled his eyes as an image of Genma surfaced in his mind. Definitely a fly in the ointment.

But the gods did humor him, sending an angel in the form of a sympathetic clerk at the Administrative building. Masuyo, the cheerful, rotund woman left her station at the reception desk and led him into the private office of the Governor’s assistant - there she interceded on his behalf, vouching for the authenticity of the letter he’d presented as proof of and the reason for his visit.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his forearms at rest atop his thighs. “The Chief Inspector is a hard nut to crack, unlikely to give up any information, but I’m counting on Izumo’s charm. I trust he’ll make inroads with one of the higher ups in the constabulary; that way we can stay abreast of their investigation and keep them from interfering with our prime objective. Now,” he sighed as he stood, “what to do about Kotetsu? Lord love him, he’s quicker with his fists than his wits.” He wandered over to the open window, peering through lace curtains at the forests just west of the inn. “Yes, that will do nicely. We need a proper base of operations anyway … somewhere far from the town center. I’ll have him secure a small hunting lodge; he’ll be in his element and we can come and go without attracting undue attention. Perfect.”

His hand was throbbing like mad when he flopped down on the edge of the mattress. As for me, he thought pushing at the makeshift compress, since the Governor requested my father’s assistance, it shouldn’t be hard to make her understand the reasons behind these murders and why I’m the only one who can stop them. Speaking of stopping things, better attend to this first.

He tried not to gag while carefully unwrapping his hand. Bright red blood slowly pooled in the creases of his palm every time he flexed his fingers. Damn, that’s deep. Shaking his head as he sucked in a breath, he had to laugh at himself. “Imagine that. The one person in our group made woozy at the sight of blood is the same one determined to reach inside a chest and remove a heart.” Pocketing the cloth, he staggered to the bathroom. But before I can do any of that, I’ll have to destroy his resting place and that means finding a way inside his lair. What am I saying? That part will be easy enough.

The cold water splashing over his hand slowed the bleeding and he bit back a groan when the powdered alum burned into his lacerated flesh. “Not sure how things work here,” he said with a wince, “but the law in England required architects to register copies of their blueprints with the offices of land management. Assuming the old estate still stands, the information I need is over a hundred years old and won't be available in the Administrative offices… probably housed in an archive somewhere.”

Searing pain made him squeeze shut his eyes and when he opened them, the first thing he saw was the floor.      Wood … that’s it!  They’ll have information about every domicile in the territory close to hand. And I’m willing to bet they’ll be less likely to question the validity of an official looking document! 

Running from the bathroom, he reached for his jacket on the side nearest the bed; tucking the envelope in an inner pocket, he cast a final glance about the room.  All right then, all I need do now is figure out where the fire brigade is, he thought as he slipped on his shoes in the hallway. Maybe I can find a map at the front desk.

Recherché

Against the backdrop of variegated greens and stationary taupes, how wondrous was the synchronization of their rapid breaths - Ibiki’s tawny flesh, swathed in dark blue, his partner beneath him, ebony, formidable and sinewy.  Supple cowhide slid through his fingers, wrapped about an experienced hand, it slapped against his wrists each time the one between his legs rocketed forward.  Sitting astride a partner so powerful, responsive to his mood and eager to please, how good it felt to have control freely restored. Shards of exasperation pierce through the leather beneath him, translating into stentorian hoof beats against flagstone streets.

How sweet the adrenaline singing in his veins as they bolted from the plaza – how satisfying it was, catching glimpses of respect in the eyes of the people and hearing their collective gasps as he and his mount zipped through the marketplace.  Over hard packed red clay, clods of earth erupt in dusty explosions as they breeze past tracts of tidy wooden bungalows; divots of soft grasses flew up in their wake as they gamboled through parkland adorned with aesthetically pleasing flowerbeds and lined with trees. 

By the time they reached the outskirts of town, a chunk of his harbored anger broke free from its moorings - but the sting of the Governor’s words, the pain inflicted by her lack of confidence still clung to and twisted around his emotions.   The winds, wildly whipping past his ears taunted him, whispering the same question over and over:

What if Lady Tsunade was right?

Ever onward he rode, refusing to entertain such notions, fleeing like an escaped felon to the only place in the territory where succorance lay. The bosom of the forest, his sanctuary, his island of objectivity, far removed from the maddening cries of civility.  There, in the dense woods, every major decision of his life was made; here he’d be endowed with strength and anointed with the fresh oil of perseverance. Today, he’d walk into the vast weald, not knowing whether he’d walk away from his post in infamy or if he’d stumble across inspiration amidst the majesty and serenity of the timberlands.

Recherché

How softly fell the filtered light through overhead windows, splattering across tense shoulders as Tsunade hunched over her desk. How gently it warmed delicate fingers splayed over papers filled with row upon row of blurred lines of text.  The need to stay busy occupied a mind and heart brimming with regret; it was at once urgent and impossible; twinges of compunction which began the second her office door clicked behind him, transmogrified into a burning lump looking for a means to escape the pit of her stomach.  With a shake of her head, she chided herself to stay focused on the matter at hand -- this new revision of the trade agreement had to be reviewed and passed along to the Advisory Council members by close of business today.  But as they’d done before, the static rows of black lettered legalese tap danced across their off-white parchment platform, melting together and spiraling downward into a blob of grandiose nothingness.

The image of Ibiki’s face ghosted over the papers under her hand; she saw the corner of his lip twitching as her words, like a scorpion’s tail, lashed out and stung him.  That disillusioned look in his unblinking eyes, rimmed with sadness as her words became daggers plunged into his soul, mortally wounding him.  And then there was the bitter refrain incessantly screeching through her brain:

What if Ibiki was right?

Pushing the molehill of papers out of sight, her pince-nez silently retracted to its rightful place when her elbows crashed against the desk’s surface; shaky hands swept over and kept covered tired eyes that no longer wish to see.

“I’ve lost his allegiance,” she breathed.  “Alienated the only man in Konoha I could and did rely on lo these many years.  What possessed me to shove away the one man who understands how weighty is the obligation and how vehement the opposition that comes with protecting the public?”

Delicate, jasmine scented heels of her hands ground against her eyes . . . acupressure to stave off a blossoming headache, that’s what she told herself as this was no time for frustrated tears. I could’ve walked across the street, looked him in the eye and talked this thing over with him.  But no, I chose to reach across an ocean, to beg assistance from a relative stranger, a man considered lunatic by his peers. What the hell was I thinking?

Nearing the end of a swiftly unraveling emotional tether, she flung herself against the chair’s back, unsure whether to scream, cry or break something; the sudden movement sent the small notebook in her lap tumbling to the floor with a thump. Eyeing it with a measure of disdain, she leaned down and salvaged the artifact penned by a long forgotten ancestor.   Reverently now, she laid it in her lap once more, smoothing down several pages bent after its indecorous plunge.

“I worried myself to sleep each night when trade between Europe and Konoha was but a pipe dream,” she whispered to the little bound tome. “And then, I turned to you, the wisdom of my ancestors and found peace.” A solitary, salty tear skidded down her cheek and splashed against the book.  “I almost pulled my hair out each morning after a full moon these last months, as a madman skulked through the land.  Once more, I turned to you and you supplied me with fables.  What am I supposed to do now?”

From across the room, there came a tiny voice.  “About what ma’am?”

Loose pages flung themselves into the air from the tourbillon created as her palms slammed onto the desk. “How many times have I warned you about sneaking up on me, Shizune?”

“Milady … I’m sorry,” she said over the noise of the silver serving tray clattering to the ground. “I knocked . . . twice. When you didn’t answer, I just walked in, but you were so deep in thought . . . I figured if I were quiet, I wouldn’t disrupt--”

“Calm yourself,” she said rising from her seat, the book in her hand and a tight smile on her lips.   “Been cooped up in this office too long today ... the walls are closing in on me … didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Understood,” she said stooping down to clear away the mess. “My fault entirely … I should have waited till you called for me.”

“I’ve got to step out for a breath of fresh air or I’ll go mad.” Coming alongside her wide-eyed assistant, she patted her on the shoulder.  “Be a dear ... reschedule my afternoon appointments --”

“Already taken care of ma’am. I figured you might need a lay down before tonight, which reminds me … should I put out your clothes now or did you wish me to wait until later?”

“Clothes . . . for what?”

Shizune cocked her head and carefully studied her mistress’ face where irritation was striving for dominance over confusion.  “Hitomi’s tsuya is tonight.  The Hyuga and the Advisory Council members expect you to make an appearance at the Temple.”

Tsunade’s back bumped against the office door and for a moment, it looked as if she’d slide right down to the floor. “How could I have forgotten? I trust you’ll find something appropriate for the occasion … call my hairdresser too, tell her I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“One more thing before you leave, Lady Tsunade.  A young man came to see you . . . claimed to have very important information for your eyes only. I couldn’t get him to divulge the nature of--”

“Shizune, I can’t deal with another lawyer right now --” 

“But ma'am, this young man’s a doctor, just arrived from England and--”

“I don’t give a damn if he’s the Daimyo descending from the heavens on a cloud! I’m not in the right frame of mind to discuss anything with anybody,” she barked over her shoulder while fumbling with the doorknob.  “Shoo him out of the building with a smile and a shove.”  Once the door finally swung open, she said, “On second thought, give the little pissant an appointment for next week sometime.”

“Yes, ma’am but --” 

SLAM!

And . . .  she’s gone.  Oh dear, I shouldn’t have pressed her.

Seconds later, fine china slipped from the tray and onto the rug again when the door swung open.

“This young man, Shizune . . . you said he was a doctor . . . from England?”

“Yes ma'am. A Doctor Imono . . . I think that’s what he said.”

“It wasn’t Umino, was it?”

“Yes,” she said brightly.  “I’m sure that's the name!  He wanted to talk with you while the Inspector was here, but I couldn’t let that happen.  I spoke with him for a few minutes and as I tried to say earlier, he refused to tell me why he needed to see you so urgently.  Rather pushy he was, insisting he’d traveled to Konoha at your behest, even had a letter signed by you to back up his story.   I gave him an appointment for tomorrow afternoon--”

“Tomorrow’s too late!  I need to see him immediately,” she roared as she stooped down to still Shizune’s wrists.  “Where is he now . . . in the waiting area?”

“That was some time ago. . . I doubt he's still out there.  Lady Tsunade, please, you’re hurting me.”

“Sorry … did he happen to mention where he's staying?”

“No, but I have to imagine he's in one of the inns down the street.  What's wrong . . . what’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later,” she said running back to her desk. A note, hurriedly scratched across the back of a fallen piece of paper was thrust into Shizune’s hands. “Leave that mess where it is . . . deliver this to Ibiki and tell him to meet me here in an hour, understand?”

Recherché

Notes: 

Stentorian: very loud or powerful in sound.

Weald: wooded or uncultivated country.

Tourbillon: a whirlwind, or something resembling a whirlwind.

Tsuya (Japanese): a wake, the night before the funeral.

Sexton: a church officer or employee who takes care of the church property and performs minor duties such as ringing the church bell or digging graves.

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Recherche: Wheels in Motion

2017-04-24T01:59:17Z

Recherché Chapter Six

“When was the last time we shared a quiet breakfast Ibiki?”

“Never,” he said without thinking. “And since I know you didn’t ask me to come here so you could watch me chew … let’s have it.”

“You have to promise to hear me out,” she said laying aside her chopsticks. “No back answers, alright?”

“Fine.”

Tsunade leaned back in her seat, her arms draped over the plump bolsters. “After the third murder, I took a meeting with some of our elderly residents … calm their fears, that sort of thing.”

“Yes ...and?”

“The way they told it, about seventy years ago, Fire Country was demonized by a killer exhibiting the same characteristics as the one we’re looking for now. The victims, young women under the age of twenty-five, their bodies drained of blood, abandoned out in the open and no clues left behind. This pattern continued with the rise of every full moon for about a year, and then suddenly it stopped.”

“I don’t remember reading accounts of anything like that--”

“You wouldn’t have; the Great Tsunami of 1771 destroyed most of the town and it’s records. Back then, most people lived in the countryside and those who inhabited the town proper were transients, here to learn a trade … it was a horrendous loss. What’s known of that time came from the retelling of tales from those who survived.”

Ibiki pushed away his plate, his eyes riveted to hers. “Would you have me believe we’re dealing with a copycat killer or are you suggesting our murderer is some decrepit old man?”

“Don’t be ridiculous … oh, you’ve finished already? I’ll take that last onigiri if you don’t mind.”

He watched her eyes light up when she plunked a large triangular chunk of rice from the communal plate onto hers. “Lady Tsunade, it’s a waste of time getting riled up over the ravings of the senile or otherwise mentally deficient--”

“That’s what I thought too, at first.” Giving the onigiri captured between her chopsticks a delicate sniff, she popped it into her mouth and immediately, the tiny space between her eyebrows wrinkled with disgust. Frantically seeking a discreet way to dispose of the offending food, she inelegantly spat it into a napkin of ivory linen. “Umeboshi,” she spluttered reaching for a glass of water. “Yes, well … after that meeting, I tried not to think about what they told me." As she was speaking, her left hand slowly moved upward, her fingers absentmindedly caressing the Manju-netsuke that hung from an exquisite jade necklace. “However, after the fourth murder I felt compelled to do my own research. You know, I remember when my grandfather used to tell me stories of bizarre happenings in this land; used to think they were fanciful retellings of folklore to frighten impressionable children.”

Ibiki heard those same stories as he sat on his grandmother’s lap. They were tales of imps and hobgoblins that played tricks on unsuspecting humans, these angry spirits often destroyed crops or made away with livestock. “Retribution for those who dared defile this land by building factories on sacred ground,” his grandmother used to say. “All we need do is increase the number of patrols during the full moon, Lady Tsunade. I know we can apprehend this fiend--”

“If our killer were a deranged human, then yes, I believe you would have apprehended him before now.” Still stroking at the pendant, her eyes took on a hazy appearance. “I found several scrolls chronicling life during my great great grandfather’s time ... they all bore witness to the truth of the elder’s stories.” When she spoke again, her voice sounded as if she were far away. “By the light of a full moon, Senju Hisao and a group of men were hunting in the forest when they happened upon a ‘creature’ in the clearing. This being and seven other ghostly apparitions were engaged in a ritual sacrifice or so it seemed to them.” She bowed her head suddenly, as if whispering a prayer; her hand covered her mouth as if holding back a curse.

He’d never seen her like this before; pale and trembling as if her words had the power to make manifest these beings of antiquity.

“Before they could get closer to the scene, a pack of wolves appeared out of the mist and chased them from the forest. Those wolves,” she whispered, “were taller and broader than full grown men.” Finally breaking free of discomposure, she added, “Strange days are these Ibiki. Konoha stands at a crossroads. Though we strive for modernity, we’re chained to the past by something older than the land itself.” Her palms crashed against the table suddenly, catching Ibiki off guard. “We have to take extraordinary measures to purge the land of this evil.”

“So, are you suggesting we have the priest and monks ‘exorcise’ the territory?”

“Not exactly. I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve sent for an expert ... a 'demon hunter' if you will; practically begged him to come help us..”

The palm of his hand met his forehead with a resounding smack. “Why would you do that, ma’am? Have you no confidence in me or my constables?”

“Ibiki, I trust you implicitly--”

“Poppycock! If you trusted me at all you wouldn’t have--”

“Mind your tone, Inspector, besides … I can’t undo what’s been done. Dr. Umino Tadashi will be arriving in Konoha any day now and I want you to be present when I meet with him. You’ll need to keep an open mind--”

“Umino, you say? He’s dead Lady Tsunade.”

She lurched forward in the chair, “What? Who told you that?”

“He did, well … I mean, his son did. Such an odd surname around these parts ... I had to assume they’re related--”

“Son?”

“Yes, ma’am. Umino Iruka was one of the three young men I met with this morning; said his father died in May of this year.”

“Hmm... I received Tadashi’s response to my letter in April. Of all the rotten luck,” she said, sinking back into her seat with a sigh, “here I was, pinning my hopes on his advice and guidance--”

“As I’ve said, we don’t need a ‘demon hunter--”

“Well if he’s dead now . . . that’s a problem.” Once again, her fingers found and rubbed at the netsuke.

“How do you know of these people ma’am?”

“Don’t you remember? Hmm … maybe not, you might have been in the military, no ... you were too young back then. Dr. Umino worked at our hospital for years; his wife was a clerk in the old Admin center.”

“Based on what I heard, Lady Tsunade, I just assumed they were Water Country folk.”

“A small family, the Umino’s ...two of the brothers married into the Shimizu clan; Tadashi and his brother studied medicine in Water Country and moved here for advanced training … both their sons were born in Konoha.”

No wonder I couldn’t pinpoint that dialect, he thought. It was a mishmash of language from Water and Fire countries.

“In those days, Japanese medical students flocked to England to learn new techniques, unfortunately, they didn’t have enough translators for their textbooks or teachers for the classroom, so Koichi the elder brother, accepted a position in London, or was it Cornwall? I can’t remember now,” she said. “Anyway, Tadashi and his family went to live with Koichi a few years later. My aunt and Tadashi’s wife Amaya, were good friends ... maintained correspondence for years.”

And that explains why his accent was so strong; he received the bulk of his education abroad.

“Last time I saw Iruka, he was about five or six years old. Cute little boy, very mannerable ... chubby cheeks, a big smile and painfully shy,” she wistfully said. “Shame he couldn’t follow in his father’s footsteps as a doctor; didn’t have an interest in biology nor the stomach for the blood and guts of anatomical dissection, I’m told. At some point, Tadashi developed a close friendship with a man named Yamada Kenichi, a teacher of philosophy and a student of ancient religions and the supernatural. He was also something of a detective, an authority on things that go bump in the night.”

Ibiki rolled his eyes and huffed, “Lady Tsunade, I fail to see how any of this information pertains to our current situation.”

“Part of my research led me to a box filled with my aunt’s old letters, that’s what prompted me to contact Tadashi in the first place.”

Shifting about in his seat, Ibiki tried to keep his expression bland, and his eyes open; the combination of a big breakfast and the Governor’s historical ruminations were easing him into a cozy kef.

“After Mr. Yamada died, Tadashi took up his research and became obsessed with it; some, including his wife, said he’d gone quite mad. He spent the last fifteen years of her life tracking down a ruthless killer like the one roaming about Konoha now.”

Ibiki straightened in his seat at that. How could the same murderer be in two places, an ocean apart at the same time?

“The last letter I found informed my aunt of his wife’s passing; I have to assume Iruka wrote it.”

“I hope you’ll pardon me but, this talk of ghosts, monsters or whatever the hell they are, is something I can’t stomach.”

“What? Mr. ‘I’ve seen everything and nothing rattles me,’ is jelly-legged about the supernatural? That’s rich.” Toying with the lump of rice hidden inside her napkin, she said, “I understand something like this is hard for a logical mind like yours to take in and process, but I have a feeling Iruka and the book he has will be quite informative. If nothing else, we can get a good laugh from it. Now, what I need you to do is find out where he’s staying... we’ll set up a meeting and talk things over--”

“There’s nothing to discuss, ma’am. Be it known right now, I want nothing to do with this foolishness!”

Suddenly, her face flushed and her eyes angrily narrowed when she stood. “It doesn’t matter what you want or what you’re comfortable with. We’ve eight murders and no suspect in custody; face it, traditional methods of investigation have failed us. You will do as I’ve asked Ibiki and that ends our discussion.” Stiffly nodding her head toward him, she added: “Good day, Inspector.”

Rising deliberately, he curtly bowed, his eyes icily locked on hers. “Thank you for breakfast . . . ma’am,” he said, before turning on his heel.

Once outside the complex, he retrieved his cigar and bit down hard on its tip.

Has everyone except me, lost their damn mind?

Demon hunters . . . exorcists . . . the writings of two crazy old men taking precedence over reason and sound police work!

What the hell’s this world coming to?

When he strode toward his office, the people parted before him again, this time in fear; he looked as if he’d snap the neck of the next person who dared speak or even look his way. Veering toward the stables behind the constabulary, angry, confused and stung by what he perceived as betrayal, he snapped in the direction of the hapless stable master who’d come to greet him.

“Saddle up my mount,” he said gruffly, flinging a chit toward the man. “I want him outside the front door of the constabulary and ready to go in five minutes. Got it?”

Thankfully, the squad room was somewhat empty, save for a few patrols handing in their reports; they had the good sense to lower their voices and step away from him as he approached the watch commander’s desk.

“Ryota,” he said, snatching up the matchbox. “Where were those bones found this morning?”

Guess I don’t need to ask how his meeting with the Governor went. A side drawer squeaked open and before Ibiki could draw in the first puff of a fresh cigar, Ryota was spreading a map of the town across his desk. “Here,” he said pointing to an area of the forest west of the lumber mill. “The bones were collected and delivered to Genma’s office about ten minutes ago.”

“Those three young men … find out where they’re staying; Governor wants to meet with them as soon as possible,” he ground out.

“Shouldn’t be difficult, the inns are empty since the Tsukimi Festival was a bust. I’ll get that information to Miss Shizune personally,” he said refolding the map.

When next he looked up, Ibiki was gone; the sound of horseshoes clattering over cobblestones in the town square, was all he could hear.

Recherché

After a brief meeting with the Governor’s assistant, Iruka returned to the inn. Bolting the door, he covered the room in less than ten paces. Retrieving the valise from underneath the bed, he knelt in silence letting the disappointment subside as the familiar aroma of pipe tobacco rose from deep inside the case. He found himself rubbing his hand across the smooth cool leather, fortifying the connection to his father’s spirit.

When he was able, he plopped down on the bed, separating the upper compartment of the valise from its lower half, revealing a small cache of weapons. Knives and ancient talismans lay beside vials of water and holy oils blessed by the priests in England; they believed as he did, that demons walked among the living and they’d offered prayers on his behalf. Next to them were notebooks written in his father’s cramped handwriting; the old man’s eyes, dimmed by sickness and his mind, inflamed with fever when he penned these notes. At the center of the valise was a scroll bound with leather straps – it contained Umino Tadashi’s final instructions and precautions for using the weaponry and the other tools of the trade.

By now was his vision distorted by tears which refused to fall; his hands trembling with rage as he unsheathed one of the knives.

“Father, I swore to avenge you and today, I reaffirm that promise. As I come one step closer to fulfilling my purpose in this life, may your spirit guide me.”

His left hand swept over the talismans. “I vowed on your grave to carve out his heart … a tribute to you for the suffering experienced at his hands.”

The weight of the blade, unfamiliar yet comforting in his right hand; this was the very knife his father used when he struck down two members of the same family line Iruka now determined to bring to its end.

“Across foreign soil and one continent, I’ve tracked him down. As you predicted, he’s returned to the land of his origin. Here in Konoha will he take a bride and spawn a legion of demons more powerful than he ... but I’ll not allow that Father.”

At this point, his breathing was labored and he feared the same madness which brought his father to ruin, was staking its claim on him as well. His tight grip on the knife’s blade dug into his palm, the pain serving to strengthen his determination.

“Father, grant me wisdom and cunning, for the life of your only son depends on it.”

A twist of the wrist and his reflection in the shining blade stunned him; his eyes were wide and wild as he brought the cutting edge to his lips. The kiss of cold steel and a trickle of warm blood filled his mouth as he spoke these words against the two-edged blade:

“I will not fail you Father, for this is my vow.”

NOTES:

Manju-netsuke: Netsuke, miniature sculptures invented in 17^th century Japan to serve a practical purpose; it was a carved button-like toggle used to prevent the contents of a pouch from spilling out. A Manju-netsuke was thick and flat, with the carvings usually done in relief; they were sometimes composed of two ivory halves.

Tadashi: correct, loyal, righteous.

Kenichi: strong, healthy, first son.

Yamada: mountain rice field.

Kef: a state of drowsy contentment.

April 12, 1771, the Great Yaeyama Tsunami was triggered by an earthquake.

Koichi: “light/shining first child.”

Amaya: “night rain.”

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Recherche: Gather Round

2017-04-24T01:56:40Z

Recherché Chapter Five

Miles from a bustling town plaza and worlds apart from the malodorous constable’s den, this scenic shortcut was everything Genma promised. Shielded by a canopy of dragon’s blood red maple trees, dappled sunlight played leapfrog at their feet over the hardened red clay path leading to the temple. Creeping groundcover swayed under the weight of pollen laden bees. The steeper the incline, the headier the perfume of shrubbery blooming out of their seasons – jasmine, heliotrope, sweet alyssum and loquat trees. A pity . . . for this place, a balm for the weary soul and a delight for the senses, was going to waste; the one man best able to appreciate its ambiance, was probably sitting in a meeting with the Governor. Sandwiched between the multiloquent mortician pointing out the cultural significance of every pebble, plant and paving stone along the way, and the choleric Kotetsu, who’d taken to mumbling humorously creative curse words under his breath, Izumo was hard pressed to keep a smile on his lips and his own temper in check.

And at the rate things were going, the urge to turn back after throttling both of them was becoming harder to resist.

“Mr. Shiranui,” he said, praying his tone wouldn’t give away the irritation he felt, “We appreciate the time you’ve set aside to accompany us to the temple but--”

“Think nothing of it and please, call me Genma,” he huffed, putting more distance between them. “Had to go to the temple anyway . . . huge wake tonight, huge funeral tomorrow, you know. Have to . . . finalize arrangements with the priest and monks, make sure the altar’s prepared – things like that. I’ll bet you gents didn’t know the work of an undertaker was so complex . . . oh, that reminds me, I have to get back to the morgue before noon, so I’m afraid I won’t be accompanying you back to town . . . coffin delivery and a nōkan to perform--.”

“Yeah, yeah, we got it . . . a red-letter day for you,” Kotetsu sniped. “How much longer before we get there?”

About a quarter of a mile I reckon, we’re almost at the crest of the hill. Don’t tell me a strapping young buck can’t keep up with an old man like me?”

Izumo felt his friend bristle beside him and from the corner of his eye, he saw him open his mouth to say something churlish. Mercifully, Genma was quicker on the draw.

“My apologies, we could’ve made better time on horseback; unfortunately, the only stables nearby belong to the constables and frown on hiring out their mounts to civilians.”

“Not a problem, a brisk walk in the fresh air will do us good,” Izumo assured him.

“Well let me know if you gents need to stop and catch your breath. Meanwhile, if you look to your left, that stone lantern over there was a gift from the Land of Earth I think.”

As their nescient cicerone moved up the path, Izumo nudged his friend in the ribs drawing his attention to a brace of colorful waterfowl zigzagging their way through the bulrushes and sword ferns near shallow ponds. Soon, they formed a cluster of shiny orange and black beaks and flapping feathers as they waddled closer to the winding footpath.

It took a few minutes before Genma realized they weren’t walking behind him, and when he turned about he chuckled saying, “Don’t mind them. Those little buggers are used to getting handouts from the pilgrims along this path. Once they realize you have no bread fragments or sweet corn kernels to give them, they’ll quiet down and leave us alone. Now, let me direct your attention to …”

“Humpf … “Kotetsu whispered, “wonder what it will take to make him quiet down and leave us alone?"

A shared, guilty snicker rippled between the two young men. “’Cut it out Tetsu, we’re being rude to our host.”

“Like he cares, Zumo. We’ve hardly gotten a word in edgewise since we left the constable’s office, you think he’s paying attention to us now? I say we ditch him."

“I think that unwise.” Holding up his hands to forestall interruption he added, “Consider this, we showed up on law enforcement’s doorstep the very morning a high-profile murder victim was discovered and didn’t exactly keep it secret that we have information about the killer terrorizing these people. I’m sure that didn’t sit well with Inspector Morino--”

“And that’s why I hate involving the police Zumo.” Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, lukewarm hostility tinged his voice when he said, “We always end up being scrutinized and spied on. Why can’t they see we’re trying to help them?”

“How well did we understand upon first hearing such things?”

Slowly, the look of exasperation slid off Kotetsu’s face though his body was still wound tighter than a spool of silk thread. “Yeah . . . well, Iruka’s father had lost most of his marbles toward the end, and this hoo-hah about gaki and stuff like that did sound ridiculous--”

“Of course it did.” He threw an arm around his friend's shoulder and pulled him close. "Try to understand, the people living here are paranoid, practically jumping at their own shadows and the police are walking around in circles, searching for a scapegoat to parade before the people. If we ‘ditch’ Genma, you can bet he’ll report everything we’ve said and done to the Inspector in excruciating detail; that would make us look even more suspicious to the police.” He stepped back and looked his friend in the eyes, “We already stick out like two sore thumbs around here . . . well, you more so than me; two rakishly handsome young men, all gussied up in tailored suits surrounded by kimonos, hakama and pushcarts. For now, it's in our best interests to lay low and follow Iruka’s lead like we promised.”

Watching the fat little ducks come closer as they stood on the stair, Izumo reached into his pocket, pretending to throw a fistful of nothing toward them.

“Now what are you doing?”

“Just watch.” The knot of ducks instantly scattered when Izumo's arm dropped to his side; each of them scrambling for a morsel of the imaginary treats. They all gave up at the same time; once reassembled they quacked louder as they boldly drew close to the two men.

“See that? To you and me, that loudmouth mortician’s a nuisance,” Izumo said, “but Genma’s like these ducks; fat, happy and stuffed full of confidential information. He’ll quack louder and struggle to keep us close on the off chance of getting a ‘treat’ like learning of our plans before the time is right. All we have to do is throw bits of general information his way." The twinkle in Kotetsu's eyes let him know that he understood. “If we keep his little brain occupied, he might give us something we can use.”

“’Zumo this is going to take forever--”

“I don't think so, he’s a blabbermouth. In the meantime, settle down and stay focused. We promised Iruka we'd move at his pace, and we’re going to stick to the plan,” he said, as he further invaded Kotetsu’s space. “We mobilize on Iruka’s say so, not a moment sooner. We clear?”

“I’m not stupid! I’m just saying, I can’t believe Iruka ran off and left us with this insufferable gasbag!”

“Shush, he’ll hear you!”

“Please ‘Zumo, the man loves the sound of his own voice too much, he still hasn’t realized we’re not walking behind him anymore. What a jackass!”

Another intentional and very sharp poke to the ribs doubled Kotetsu over this time, sending the ducks squawking and flapping when he stumbled off the path.

“Oi,” Genma turned and said. “You alright back there Kotetsu?”

“Yes, he’s well,” Izumo volunteered. “I assure you, he usually isn’t this clumsy.”

An extended hand was pushed away by the angry out of breath Kotetsu who glared daggers at his friend.

“Of course, that’s right, I’d almost forgotten about your long time at sea. You two probably didn’t get much sleep last night either, considering the last passenger ship didn’t disembark until well after midnight. You were on that ship, right?”

“Guess the long journey has finally caught up with us. Not to worry Genma, he’ll be fine, won’t you Kotetsu?”

Notes:

Multiloquent: speaking much, very talkative; loquacious.

Choleric: extremely irritable or easily angered.

Nescient: unknowing.

Cicerone:  tour guide; leader of a sightseeing tour.

Nōkan: a funeral ritual; the body is washed and the orifices blocked with cotton or gauze. The mortician wraps the body, and dresses it; in Hitomi’s case, she’ll be clothed in a white kimono. The body is then placed on dry ice inside the coffin and certain items like a pair of sandals, another white kimono and six coins for crossing the River of Three Crossings are placed in the coffin as well. The body is normally arranged with its head toward the north, or as a secondary choice, toward the west. In Buddhism, the western orientation reflects the western realm of Amida Buddha.

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Recherche: Into the Depths

2017-04-18T15:24:52Z

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.                     

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Recherche: Routines and Revelations

2017-04-18T15:21:28Z

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.

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Recherche: Murder Morn

2017-04-18T15:19:04Z

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.

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Recherche: Then and Now

2017-04-18T15:13:36Z

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.

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Recherche: Prologue

2017-04-18T15:08:13Z

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."

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