The Spirit Drum Read online

  “Ah!” The widow cried out in surprise. Grasping the left side of her chest with both hands, body contorted, she staggered away to the bed, abruptly falling face-down as she doubled over in agony. I remained sitting, staring dumbly at Tsumaki standing frozen in the hallway and Lady Tsuruhara lying collapsed on the bed.

  Tsumaki walked straight into the room, stopping next to where the widow lay. Wielding in one hand a narrow dagger glinting coldly in the light, he looked down at me with a smile.

  “Did I surprise you? That certainly was a close call. You were nearly a victim of that foul woman’s perverted sexual inclinations. She killed the viscount and was planning to kill me, with you as her next target. Take a look at this.”

  He exposed his left shoulder and directed a light at his gaunt backside. Painful-looking red and black welts were scattered from his ribs to his lower back.

  “This was the price I paid,” he said calmly, covering up his shoulder again.

  “Obsessed with this woman, I became corrupted to the point where I even took pleasure in this. Even so, she lost interest in me. That’s why she brought you here, intending to break my heart and take pleasure from that. Knowing full well that I was awake, she purposely flirted with you…but it wasn’t jealousy that drove me to kill her––it was because I thought you didn’t deserve this. I did it to save you.”

  “To save me?” I muttered, as if in the middle of a dream.

  “Snap out of it. I’m your brother Kyuroku, who was sold to the Hayabashi family when you were only six.” His pale face drew up close to mine, tears dripping down it. Two bony hands grabbed my shoulders and shook them tightly.

  I looked carefully at his face. From the myopic eyes to the emaciated features, it was as if the face of my late father had suddenly appeared before me. Brother…young master…Tsumaki…These thoughts flowed through my mind as I stared, but I didn’t particularly feel anything. It was merely like I was watching a motion picture.

  My brother wiped his tears with his kimono and cast me a melancholic smile.

  He chuckled. “When you think back on this day, you’d better not laugh, Kyuya…Today I have become a new man. I have finally woken from the curse of The Spirit Drum.”

  His face was already wet with fresh tears.

  “Your car will be here soon, so take that back home to Kudan. When you go, take the bag from that closet over there. It contains this family’s entire fortune, which that woman just handed over to you. Leave everything else to me. I’ll make sure you don’t take the blame. You should only tell the old master about this. And I ask that you mourn…both of our deaths…”

  My brother lumbered down and sat cross-legged behind me. He sobbed quietly, wiping his face with the sleeves of his kimono. I stared dumbfoundedly at the leather whip and dagger that lay nearby.

  Before long, the widow’s body began to visibly tremble.

  “Uh….Uhhhh…” came a soft, feeble voice, and the widow raised her head, looking across at us, face pallid and eyes bloodshot. I don’t know why, but I slowly slipped out of the futon. Her whitish lips began to quiver.

  “I…am…so…sorry…” she said with a clear voice, extending her hand towards the water pitcher nearby. Without thinking I grabbed it and slid it closer to her, but when I saw dark blood from her white fingers staining the pitcher’s silver handle I quickly withdrew my hand.

  The widow took two or three gulps and pulled back her hand. The pitcher rolled off the mattress onto the floor, water spilling out.

  The widow’s head collapsed back onto the mattress.

  “Sa…yo…na…ra…”

  The widow’s voice was barely audible, and from the look on her face I could tell her time was near.

  Biting his lip, my brother gazed quietly at her face.

  When my car reached Sakurada, I called to the driver, “Tokyo Station please.” But I had no idea why I was going there…

  “You’re not going to Kudan?” the young driver asked. “No,” I shook my head.

  It was right around then that my strange, meaningless days began.

  After arriving at Tokyo station, I bought a ticket to Kyoto, again for no reason. Pointlessly getting off at Kozu station, I pointlessly entered a hotel lounge in front of the station, ordered a drink that was too strong for me, gulped it down, then immediately reserved a room and went to sleep.

  In the evening I woke up and finally got something to eat, after which I pointlessly got on a steam train going west. Then somebody, maybe it was a hotel maid, brought me a bag that I had no memory of, and after I got into an argument about how it wasn’t mine I finally remembered my brother had given it to me in the car when I was leaving the Tsuruhara residence, so I took the bag. I also remembered that it was packed with stacks of bills, but I guess at that time I didn’t particularly consider what I would do with them.

  After the train started moving I realized that two pages from the Tokyo evening paper were on the floor. I picked them up, and as I was leafing through them a large headline caught my attention: “Viscount Tsuruhara’s Widow Deceased”.

  ***

  Today at 10 a.m. the widow of the Viscount Tsuruhara (31), known for her beauty and lascivious tastes, died in a fire together with a young man in her residence in Azabu, Kogai city. But what on the surface appeared to be a double suicide was, in fact, a homicide. As proof of this, although a badly burned dagger was found near their bodies, a clasp from the dagger sheath was recovered in the corner of a hallway several meters away.

  Not only had the widow had withdrawn her entire savings from Toyo Bank two or three days ago, but several days prior she had sold off all of her property, and the cash from the transactions was apparently destroyed in the fire.

  The young man who had died with her in the fire was identified as a nephew who had been living with her, Toshiro Tsumaki (27). As there was apparently no maid or anyone else living in the house the details are not clear, although rumors have it that the two were romantically involved.

  At present this unusual case is being investigated by the authorities to the best of their abilities.

  ***

  Following this was a long list of the widow’s wrongdoings. I yawned several times while reading the article and soon dozed off, my head against the window.

  The next morning I got off in Kyoto and wandered around aimlessly. When I arrived in a quiet part of town, I stopped a random person on the street.

  “Might this be where the remains of the Tsuruhara residence are located?” I asked.

  The person gave me an awkward look and left without answering. I also tried asking here and there about the Imaoji and Otomaru families, but all my effort was for naught. I didn’t have any plans to go to the Tsuruhara residence and do anything in particular; I simply felt a vague irritation.

  When evening came I went out to a street in Gion, and as I gazed lovingly at the myriad beautiful lights throughout the area, a great feeling of nostalgia came over me. I was standing there absent-mindedly, feeling as if I had returned to my hometown as a young child, when I noticed a pair of apprentice geishas walking toward me. The facial features of the one on the right looked identical to Lady Tsuruhara, so I couldn’t help but grin and ask their names. The one on the right answered, “Michiyo”, and the one on the left, “Gyokudai”. When I questioned where they were from, Michiyo pointed at a corner across the street.

  “Would I be able to speak with you somewhere in private?” I said, passing my business card to the girls.

  They stared at the card for a few moments, then after nodding to one another with wide eyes they smiled and lead me inside a building with the name “Tsuruha” a little ways down the street. The girls left, but Michiyo returned shortly after, now wearing a kimono––causing me to feel like I was watching a miracle occur before my very eyes.

  The serving girl there fawned excessively over me, calling me “Mr. Takabayashi” and “young master”. Because this somehow disturbed me, I said my real name was Kyuya, wher
eupon she asked my last name. When I said “Otomaru” she laughed, holding her chest. I myself chuckled loudly, for the first time since leaving Tokyo.

  After that, I sought out only women resembling Lady Tsuruhara: geishas, apprentice geishas, cafe hostesses, actresses…in the end, I was happy to find anyone who had even a similar nose, similar eyes, or similar figure. Next I headed to Osaka.

  From Osaka I traveled far and wide to various well-known cities––Beppu, Hakata, Nagasaki––drinking and getting drunk, searching around for women. There were times when a woman’s face looked identical to Lady Tsuruhara at night, but come morning lacked even the smallest resemblance. When that happened I broke out into tears, only to be laughed at by the woman.

  When I wasn’t drunk I was lounging around, reading novels or retellings of history. I wondered if there might be someone who had fallen in love the same way I had. I searched, curious to discover what they did, but alas, I couldn’t find anyone like that.

  Eventually two years passed, and in Dogo, Iyo City, I heard the fuss about a great earthquake in Tokyo. But after hearing that Kudan wasn’t affected I gave up returning to Tokyo and went back to wandering around. But this time it didn’t last long. As my remaining funds diminished, so did my health. My lung catarrh, which had given me trouble for some time now, had finally gotten serious.

  It was the beginning of the next spring when I passed through my beloved Hakone and made an infrequent visit to Odawara. As I waited there for the temperature to warm up, again my money ran low so I paid the inn bill and began to wander eastward. There the weather was wonderful, peach and camellia flowers blooming at the houses in each village, and skylarks often flying up from the rapeseed fields that I passed.

  On the way I grew tired, so I sat beside a green wheat field upon a hill, only to find myself suddenly dizzy and coughing up blood. Gazing at the sun reflecting off my dried blood on the ground, I put my hand to my forehead and began to contemplate everything.

  After being away from Tokyo for a full three years, I finally regained a proper state of mind. Checking my pockets, I had only two yen and a handful of small change. Laying in the grass beside the field I gazed up at the great blue sky, listening for a long, long time to the lovely prriee-prreet prriee-prreet call of the skylarks.

  Returning to Tokyo, I sold off my clothes and, now looking like a member of the working class, got a room at a cheap inn at Yotsuya. But, unable to wait for the break of dawn, I took a train to Kudan.

  Once I saw the old cypress gate in the distance, I pulled my hunting cap low over my eyes and sat down on a large rock in the street. Right then two students from Gyosei school came walking down the street. When they saw me they gave me a wide berth, whispering “what a young bum” as they passed by. Considering how I looked––with my pale, bearded face, and dust-caked sandals––their response wasn’t a surprise.

  By the time the sky had begun to darken, I had only seen a single unfamiliar live-in student pass through the Takabayashi gate, and hadn’t heard a single drum tap.

  Coughing terribly, I returned to the Yotsuya inn where I went to sleep. When morning came, I returned to the place near the Takabayashi gate and watched a few more people come and go, but no one resembling the old master. That day the sounds of hand drums were quite lively, but I never heard his drum being played.

  I came back the next day. The following day I returned again, and once more the day after that. But I didn’t see any sign of the old master. My heart sank when I realized he might have passed away unbeknownst to me.

  “But he might still be alive,” I thought. ”Before I die, I wish I could at least catch a glimpse of him from a distance…" Once the sun rose I found myself heading back towards Kudan. After spending time sitting upon it every day, I had grown a certain attachment to the discarded rock that laid a good distance from the Takabayashi gate.

  “It’s that beggar again…” said two women who looked like students, pointing at me as they entered the game. Later, when I happened to fall asleep, someone gently placed a hand on my shoulder. I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was a policeman, but to my great surprise it was the old master. I hastily knelt on the ground before him in respect.

  “I thought it was you…It’s good to see you…I’ve been waiting for you…Take this money, make yourself presentable, and come to my room at one a.m. tomorrow night. I’ll open the shutter below the roof for you. And don’t mention this to anyone.”

  As he spoke the older master handed over a bunch of silver coins wrapped in a handkerchief, then hurried back home. The coins still in my hands, I pressed my forehead into the dirt.

  That night it was cloudy and warm.

  Dressed like a gardener, I squatted in the backyard of the Takabayashi residence as I waited for the appointed time. Something like rain brushed by my cheek.

  But…then I heard the sound of a hand drum coming from the old master’s room above me. Thuh, thuh, thuh…pa-thuh…thuh, thuh, thuh.

  I caught my breath in disbelief.

  “Dammit. That drum survived the fire. My brother must have sent it to the old master. Or maybe the master accepted a package from my brother addressed to me…This is terrible,” I thought, listening carefully.

  The sound of the drum died away, then returned. As I listened to its quiet, beautiful tone, my chest began to rise and fall with increasing vigor.

  Dark…dismal…forlorn…struck with a great passion, before I knew it the drum’s sound had taken on a bright, cheerful timbre. It was like a soul, having sunk to the farthest depths of hell with a hatred of all things, now ascending ever so slowly back through this world, permitted by the grateful hand of Buddha to finally rest in peace.

  As I listened, the sound took on a certain lightness, eventually becoming that of a completely normal drum––a wonderfully clear sound, like a dazzling blue sky on a perfect, cloudless day.

  “Yahhh…tah…Hahhh…thuh…Hah…thuh……thuh-thuh,” the old master chanted as he played the drum.

  It was the rhythm of the ancient Noh song “Okina”.

  “To-totarari, tarariraaa…All the way to Tokorochiyoooooo…We too are samurai from long agoooooo…Old as a crane and a turtleeeeee…Believe in yourself and happy you will beeeeee…To-totarari, tarariraaa…”

  Humming the song to myself, for the first time in many years I experienced a sublime joy as if my mind and body were fading away into nothingness.

  After some time the sound suddenly stopped. Complete silence stretched on for the next five or six minutes.

  I touched my hand to the shutter. It slid open soundlessly, so I took off my new rubber shoes, brushed the dust off my newly-bought socks, and silently climbed the memory-laden ladder to the rooftop. Supporting myself with one hand on the wooden floor, I slowly opened the sliding door.

  I can hardly bear to write down what happened after that. But I’ll at least try to describe the rough sequence of events.

  I took down the old master’s corpse from the lamp cord and laid him down on the bed.

  Then I took down the memorial tablets of my parents and older brother from the altar in the corner of the room and placed them near the old master’s pillow. I burned incense and prayed for their souls.

  A little while later, I left the Takabayashi residence carrying the box of The Spirit Drum. I returned through the pouring rain to the Yotsuya inn.

  Fortunately the rain had let up the next day, so everyone staying at the inn went out; only I stayed behind in bed, saying I wasn’t feeling well. Once it seemed everyone had left, I got up and opened the box of the hand drum: besides the drum itself was a single note and a bunch of bills wrapped in white paper. There was no name nor signature on the note, but it was unquestionably the old master’s handwriting.

  ***

  I’m giving you this money that I have been saving up. Take this drum, go somewhere far away, and live a good life. Find at least one or two people who show potential and leave them behind as your successor. I’m sure you already
know how to dispel the vexed spirit within that drum.

  I’ve grown to admire you and your brother’s talents far too much. That’s why I was able to send you to get that drum without concern. But as a result, I caused that terrible, irrecoverable tragedy. I’m going now to meet your parents and apologize.

  ***

  I cried so hard I felt my life would end right there. But when I thought about how I might not live long enough to repay my obligations to the old master, I ripped apart my futon, scratched up the tatami mat, and chewed the old master’s note as I flailed wildly around my room.

  However, my fate was not yet over.

  Clutching the drum, that night I took a steam train from Tokyo to Ikaho.

  I think it was the next day after I settled down in a hot spring resort when a Tokyo newspaper arrived with a long article about the Takabayashi family. At the beginning was a picture of my beloved old master, and at the end a photograph of someone I had no memory of, but I was surprised to see “The Peculiar Pirate Kyuya Takabayashi, a.k.a. Kyuya Otomaru” written below it. The article went like this:

  ***

  Exactly three years ago, in the spring of 1922, the Tsuruhara widow died in an unusual accident. According to the subsequent investigation performed by the authorities, the person who murdered the widow and her nephew Tsumaki on the night before a trip, escaping with a large sum of money, was the burly young man previously known as Kyuya Otomaru, the successor of the Takabayashi family in Kudan.

  However, perhaps after exhausting the stolen money, Kyuya suddenly snuck into the Takabayashi residence, strangling his former teacher, and escaped with a stash of money and a well-known hand drum.

  For the last several days he had been posing as a beggar near the gate of the Takabayashi residence to observe the house. It appears that he committed this heinous crime after seeing his former teacher, Yakuro Takabayashi, withdrawing his entire savings for an unknown reason. Taking into account the case from three years ago, he is truly a clever, scrupulous, and efficient criminal of the highest caliber.