Chương 34: Book 1: Chapter 11 - Communications [Part 2]

"The things at the altar this morning," he answered carefully.

"And other things around shrines." Heita opened one eye, perhaps surprised that Shimon had chosen not to reveal more. The commanding man studied both warriors before looking toward the young artist.

"Can you draw what Matsunaga describes?"

"If he can describe it clearly enough," Aya replied.

"I can," the strange warrior conceded reluctantly.

"Then do so." Shimon cleared his throat.

"There are some details I would prefer not discussed here." The room grew noticeably quieter as Nagai regarded him with the calm expression the new samurai had learned to fear considerably more than anger.

"The shrine may be better," the young man added quickly.

"Noritsuna-sama should hear them." The senior retainer considered that suggestion for several breaths before giving a single nod.

"Take Matsunaga. Report anything useful, and do not decide for yourself what I would consider useful." That final warning was undoubtedly directed at Shimon. Aya rinsed her brush in clean water.

"I will be at the shrine this afternoon." As she looked toward him, a trace of pleasure from the earlier compliment still lingered in her expression.

Chief Priest Imbe Noritsuna's residence stood behind the shrine buildings, separated from the public approach by a low fence. Shimon arrived with Heita shortly after midday and was shown through to a narrow veranda overlooking the priest's garden. The space was modest in size but beautifully ordered, with flat stones crossing pale gravel toward a pond fed by a narrow channel of running water.

Carp moved beneath the surface in slow flashes of white, orange, and gold, while a carefully trained pine leaned toward a weathered stone lantern. Irises and low shrubs softened the edge of the water, and moss filled the shaded spaces between the stones. Near the far side of the garden, a bamboo pipe slowly filled from the channel until the weight of the water tipped it forward. The pipe emptied, returned, and struck a stone with a hollow knock. Shimon recognized the device after studying it for a moment.

It was a classical shishi-odoshi. Chief Priest Noritsuna received them without ceremony, having exchanged the white and pale-blue robes Shimon knew from the shrine rituals for simpler clothing. He had not previously considered Aya's resemblance to her father very closely, but it became obvious in the quieter surroundings. Both possessed the same attentive eyes and the same habit of becoming completely still when something caught their interest.

"My daughter tells me you wish to make pictures of invisible things," the shrine priest remarked as they settled upon the veranda. Heita looked toward Shimon, but the displaced young samurai declined responsibility through silence. Aya joined them shortly afterward carrying an elegant tea set. The service that followed was not the elaborate ceremonial performance Shimon associated with celebrated tea masters or museum demonstrations. It was smaller and more domestic, yet every movement remained deliberate.

The dark-haired young woman placed the utensils in order, handled the cloth with practiced precision, cleaned what required cleaning, and measured the powdered tea before adding the heated water. Shimon became profoundly grateful for Fumi's lessons. The widow who had helped with their etiquette training had spent several afternoons teaching both him and Tarō enough basic chanoyu that neither would disgrace Nagai's household if a superior ever placed a bowl before them.

At the time, Shimon had regarded the instruction as an elaborate method of discovering new ways to sit incorrectly. Now every small correction returned with unexpected usefulness: Do not seize the bowl. Admire without staring. Turn it. Drink slowly. Avoid making some idiotic remark about caffeine. Heita accepted his bowl first and drank with an almost intense concentration while Aya prepared one for Shimon. She placed it before him and raised her eyes.

"Thank you," he offered politely. The young miko inclined her head before returning her attention to the utensils. Her hands were graceful, but Shimon found himself noticing that the grace was not merely ornamental. It was practical. He had watched those same fingers prepare protective charms, take testimony, reconstruct monsters from frightened descriptions, and record details which might later save the lives of men carrying swords.

Aya was educated according to the needs of this world, and her knowledge gave her an important place within the strange venture Nagai had assembled around the yōma. The thought led somewhere his mind had no sensible reason to go. She was not a modern woman. Immediately, Shimon realized the stupidity of the observation. Aya was simply a woman who did not live in his century. There was nothing incomplete about her because she had never used a smartphone, ridden a train, or complained about subscription services.

He watched her prepare another bowl and wondered what she would look like in modern clothing. Something elegant, perhaps. She would probably walk through Ginza without looking especially out of place, provided no one explained that she had been born several centuries too early. What music would she like? Classical seemed too obvious. Jazz might suit her. Perhaps the recently revitalized city pop. Then his imagination became actively unhelpful and began testing different modern subcultures against her.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Elegant Gothic Lolita might almost work. There was something about the elaborate formality and femininity he could imagine suiting her. Gyaru? Absolutely not. The mental image of the poised shrine maiden with bleached hair, impossible fingernails, and a smartphone buried beneath dangling charms was so profoundly wrong that Shimon nearly smiled into his tea. Aya noticed.

"Is something amusing?" she inquired, studying him over the utensils.

"No." Heita looked across at him even as the young woman raised one eyebrow.

"The tea is very good," Shimon pivoted.

"That was not what I asked," she returned, perfect politeness unable to conceal the amusement warming her voice. Shimon drank rather than answer. And, when he lowered the bowl, she was still watching him. Their eyes met for another heartbeat before she looked away, a slight smile appearing at the corner of her mouth. Something uncomfortable and pleasant moved through Shimon's chest. He, however, attributed it firmly to the tea.

Across the veranda, Noritsuna had developed a sudden and apparently profound interest in his garden. Once the utensils had been cleared away, Aya returned with paper and brushes.

"Which one first?" she asked. Shimon looked toward the tight-faced warrior beside him.

"The two from the altar." Heita rubbed his palms together before settling opposite her.

"They were not shaped like men." The shrine maiden prepared the brush.

"What were they shaped like?"

"One was smaller."

"How much smaller?" Matsunaga raised one hand to indicate the height.

"Perhaps this high while sitting." The first light lines appeared.

"It had arms?" Aya prompted.

"Yes, but too long and very thin. Its body was covered in something like hair, except the hair moved when nothing else did." Her brush worked across the page.

"A face?" The scarred warrior frowned at the memory.

"A mask, perhaps, or a face that looked like one. White, with a long nose." Aya added the shape before glancing up.

"And the eyes?"

"Three." Her brush stopped.

"Three, you say?"

"Two where eyes should be, and another above them," the spiritually attuned samurai nodded. Shimon watched the image develop into something crouched with its knees drawn toward a narrow body. Long arms reached downward beside it, while shifting hair or fur surrounded an elongated pale face marked by three dark eyes. Heita shook his head.

"The arms are wrong. Longer." The young artist corrected them.

"The fingers?"

"More joints." Another alteration followed, and the spiritually sensitive warrior leaned closer before finally giving a reluctant nod.

"Yes. Almost," the warrior admitted. The second kami proved considerably harder. According to Heita, it had been taller while sitting within approximately the same amount of space. Its body folded in ways he struggled to describe, while thin branch-like structures grew from either side of its head. It possessed no mouth and only one eye, yet that eye had remained fixed upon Shimon until sometime before dawn. Aya made three attempts before Matsunaga finally pointed toward the last.

"That is close."

"Only close?" she said, exasperated. The restless fingers touched the scar beneath his chin again.

"I do not know whether brush and paper can be exact in replicating the shape of spirit." Shimon understood the difficulty. Perspective depended upon geometry, and Heita appeared to be describing things whose relationship with ordinary geometry was uncertain at best.

"Capture both images and build approximate three-dimensional models from Heita's descriptions. Mark all uncertain proportions," he ordered silently. [VISUAL ARCHIVE CREATED] Reference: ALTAR ENTITY A Reference: ALTAR ENTITY B Source reliability: Single witness Spatial reconstruction confidence: Low AR projection available"Overlay them approximately where he saw them." Two translucent figures appeared at the edge of Shimon's vision.

Then, he mentally placed the remembered altar several paces across the veranda, and the reconstructed forms settled around the imaginary location. One crouched low before it, while the other folded upward behind the first in a shape which seemed to occupy more room than the physical space should have permitted. They were not real. They were models assembled by his chip from Aya's paintings and Heita's testimony. Shimon understood that perfectly well, but his body reacted anyway.

[STRESS RESPONSE ELEVATED]"Wonderful," he muttered in English under his breath. Aya looked up.

"What is?"

"Nothing." The young miko turned toward Matsunaga.

"Does he often say strange things?"

"Constantly," Heita replied with quiet satisfaction. Shimon gave the strange warrior an injured look, while Noritsuna's expression suggested that the priest found the exchange more entertaining than propriety allowed. Aya placed the completed paintings aside.

"And the other?" The change in Heita was immediate. Whatever small amusement had entered his face disappeared, and Shimon felt his own mood follow it.

"The thing you saw around me," the young samurai clarified. The scarred warrior remained silent for several moments before drawing a slow breath. The instructions came in their maddening detail. Following his words, the artist began overlapping the limbs, allowing some to remain solid while others divided into half-formed shadows. Each ended in something curved that was not quite a claw, not quite a sickle, and not quite a hand.

"The body was wrong," the spiritually sensitive warrior continued, his voice becoming quieter as the picture improved.

"Like an animal that had learned the shape of a man by watching one from far away." Shimon's stomach tightened. Aya studied the half-finished form.

"What sort of animal?"

"I do not know."

"Four-legged?"

"Sometimes." Even Noritsuna shifted at that answer.

"Make the back longer," Heita instructed.

"The shoulders higher and the head lower." The young artist obeyed before asking, "What did the face look like?" Matsunaga fell silent. Shimon remembered the weight against his chest in the inn, the impossible pressure bending the air above him, and the terrible warmth entering his skull while words arrived without sound. I am your friend.