An Anniversary of a Funeral

Only two days later and excavation was already underway on the burnt manor house where Arata first met the witch. The ichi-ni-san of labourers winching wooden foundations from the ground awoke the streets like a morning bird call. Men stood waiting with buckets at the ready for cracks of witch fire in the wood to emerge. It was like a rot—extinguish all but an ember and it would still come back. The labourers saluted to Reiji and nodded to Arata as the pair marched past to make up time.

They reached Korinen Temple before the head priest had begun his first sutra, although by the way Nagami glared at Arata when he approached the grave, he could have been two hours late. The daimyo, Castle Lord of Giseizawa, Takamine no Yoshige, did not look up. He and his wife bowed their heads to the family grave like cranes above water, a rigidity that should not be mistaken for passivity. Nagami only broke her stare when the chants started. The widower and father of the two deceased arriving later to the ceremony than a family friend was disappointing by any standard.

The clouds had run themselves dry during the night and now the buzz of mosquitoes replaced the patter of rain. In an effort to keep them at bay, plumes of mugwort smoke wafted from the various braziers dotted around the outdoor gathering. The end result put every witch hunter there on edge: the sutras, the smell of smoke, and the undertone of death.

Arata wondered what Kiyone would think if she could stare back from her grave at him. Whether she would recognise the man who looked like he'd aged ten times as fast in the past year. The Lotus sutra washed over him as his thoughts drifted to what would have happened if they never let Chiyo out of the house that day or even if they called off the search earlier. Feelings he'd tried to keep in check now burst the flood banks and he was forced to watch in his mind everything he should have done to save Kiyone from the mire’s embrace.

His father's legacy had been the only thing between Arata and the sharp side of an arrow in the execution square when he had returned to Giseizawa alone. Then a few months later, his father had retired with all the willingness of a fish on a line and become the daimyo’s personal retainer. That made a third person's life that Arata took from them.

By the time the ceremony ended, shafts of light had begun to pierce the clouds like swords through a body and the head monk turned to the temple. He never struck Arata as anything more than the embodiment of his station, with a face fashioned from the same straight lines as his ceremonial robes. Amongst the assistants present, he had only talked to one a year ago to the day as part of his funerary rights. He was everything he expected: polite, impassive, and like everyone else, poor at hiding his opinion about the loss.

These were the same men Kawaragi said had guided Koseki away from the House of Red Blossoms—if that was true, they were the last to see him before the witch attacked. Investigation into citizens could go on unchecked by the daimyo but if they trod all over temple grounds without a good reason, there would be more questions. First of which would be whether he had a credible source, one he did not have.

The procession followed after the monks.

“Shibagaki.” The lack of an honorific made it clear the daimyo was talking to Arata. “There has not been an execution of a witch colluder this month.” His voice had the softness of a sword sheath. “I'm sure you don't mean to tell me there are no longer any in the city whilst the attacks are still ongoing.”

“No, my lord.” Arata replied with curt formality.

“Then you're saying the brave witch hunters of this city are simply incompetent?”

“No, my lord.” But his thoughts went to those of the witch he couldn't kill, that he now had captured in the room that used to belong to his daughter. At least one of the witch hunters fit the daimyo's description. “We have a suspect in custody now.”

“In that case I suggest doing your job.” The daimyo entered the temple first, followed by his wife and their retainers. Nagami joined them, her mouth upturned from hearing the daimyo’s scolding.

A table had been laid for lunch when they reached the dining area and each took their seats in turn. Arata found Nagami to his right and his father to his left, a nightmare combination for any meal. Monks filed in from the side to bring out dishes of miso soup, rice, and grilled river fish, but Arata struggled to appreciate the quality with the number of eyes bearing into him. Here was the daimyo’s son-in-law. How pathetic.

His marriage to Kiyone had been anything but romantic. Nagami must have known the two were seeing each other and from what Kiyone had later told him, she had tried everything in her power to break it up. The advice didn't work. Soon after, as the son of the Hero of Giseizawa, he had just enough rank to avoid being punished after it was found out he had got the daimyo’s daughter pregnant. The marriage and oath of absolute loyalty were immediate. An oath he broke when he failed to protect his wife and child.

The lunch ended and they moved onto the sermon. Men and women were split into different halls and when all were kneeling, the shadow-theatre silhouette of the head monk in the dividing room read another sutra. This was the part he remembered the most during his mother's funeral anniversary, one she shared with hundreds of others. The ceremony had been held in the newly created execution grounds, the only place in the city large enough to host every family affected by the Great Fire. At the end of the sermon, his father had joined the head monk with a cage and a scabbard. Inside the cage was a fox captured deep in the bog, its black fur patchy with demon fire. Inside the scabbard, was a newly forged katana. In one motion, he opened the cage, drew the sword, and separated the fox’s upper jaw from its lower. The witch beast dropped dead to the ground.

“We’ll take the fight to them!” Reiji had shouted amongst the crowd's roar. “Each one of you is owed your revenge.”

No longer was killing witches reserved for the noble houses with ancestral swords. They had found a way to turn the tide.

Arata only noticed the silence when his father began to stand. Outside, the sun began to dip and the last stage of the ceremony began. They moved into the grave hall. At the end, above neat piles of unlit paper lanterns, were the portraits of his wife and child. This was the first time he had seen them since they were completed for their seven week memorial and he had to push each of his limbs forwards like they were trapped by man-catchers. Kiyone looked as beautiful, rendered in a tasteful monochrome painting that highlighted the darkness of her hair and eyes. He couldn't bear to look at Chiyo, he didn't want his memories to be mixed up any more with visions of the witch.

The line in front of him shrunk with aching speed until at last he stood before the paper lanterns, before the memory of his wife and daughter. A heaving in his chest and hot sting at his eyes forced him to pick up his own pair of lanterns with less grace than he would have like, but it was over now, and he stepped aside defeated.

The portraits’ eyes followed him as they left. At the temple entrance, they lit the lanterns and the procession glided through Heavenly-Gardens into Marshtown.

“I don't know what compelled you to go sneaking through alleyways last night,” Nagami whispered to Arata as they walked near each other, “But I hope it was worth being late for.”

His spine prickled. He had considered the guard posts on his route from the hunter's house to his own however hadn't considered who was stationed at each that night.

“If anyone needs help, I'll find them before they can find me.” She once told him back when they at least pretended to be amicable. If he had passed through her territory yesterday night, he had to hope she knew as little as she let on.

“I was coming back from checking fire codes,” He replied, “And I couldn't sleep last night.” Neither were lies but Nagami’s glance made it clear she didn't believe him.

They reached the rice fields and in single file walked between the paddies to the edge of the bog. One by one, they placed their lanterns on the water and let the wind carry them off into the lake. The light melded together with the ebbing sunset as they returned to Giseizawa.

Sawatari waited in her own mourning robes on the edge of Marshtown, not close enough to the bereaved to be at the temple but not far enough away to spare herself from being present at a distance. She bowed to the daimyo and his family, saluted Reiji, and brought Arata into a hug as he passed. “Last day in this.” She broke away and rapped the back of her knuckles against his kimono.

“Maybe for most.” After one year, the period of mourning concluded and it was permissible to no longer wear black. Arata always scoffed at that notion, like grief was a plant you sowed one year and reaped the next.

Because they were in the area and as a way for Arata to take his mind off the ceremony—Sawatari's joke—they agreed to fulfill their threat and check on the old hunter. Arriving at the steps of the hill, Arata tried to convince Sawatari they should just move on when they couldn't see lights in the upstairs window. She pressed on anyway.

They knocked at the door, knowing he was home from the fire burning in his kitchen. No answer and his door was ajar so Sawatari let herself in, stepping towards the kitchen. It was there they found the hunter, his body charred to cinders. The witch hunching over him had been too busy burning through the hunter's torso to notice them enter but now it turned towards them.

A thought came to Arata in that moment: how apt that he would be wearing black the day he died.