The woman lifted the kettle, shook it around a little, and then placed it back in its original spot.
“Those who fled to the village were all people who could not go back to where they had come from. Some because of illness. Some because—it was a more superstitious time back then—they were believed to have been possessed by malevolent spirits. As the village began to grow larger, the monk held a prayer ceremony. He did not build any huge temples or statues of the Buddha, because that would have drawn attention from outsiders. Instead, he simply prayed that this village might persist forever, with none ever learning of its existence.”
“So that’s why it’s called The Unknown God…,” I muttered without thinking.
The god of this land must have heard the monk’s prayers. To keep this place hidden from all others. That must have been why we couldn’t pick up a trail. Why the mystery persisted, no matter how many investigators we sent. Some power seemed to be at work that eluded notice. The dry smile was still there upon the innkeeper’s face, but her eyes grew ever faintly sharper.
“That’s why we were all so against it when those people insisted on erecting that huge building and statue. It’s like a slap in the face of our god, is it not? And then to lure in so many weak and crestfallen from across the country. Like some dumb mockery of what our god stands for,” the woman spat.
Miyaki smiled ambivalently. The woman must have noticed our reaction, because she immediately softened her eyes, glossing over her reaction.
“Your laundry will take a little while longer, I suppose.”
The woman searched around underneath the counter before pulling out a single notebook. It was a ruled notebook, like the kind a student might use, but the edges were battered, and the covering on the spine had partially peeled off. The cover was bleached nearly white from sun exposure.
“Our guests sometimes leave comments. Care to take a look? It might pass the time.”
I took the weathered notebook from the woman’s hands. The cover read, JANUARY 1, ’97—. I flipped through the pages while Miyaki peered over my shoulder. There was nothing special inside. Just comments that people had made about their stay. Some were pointless and pretentious comments, written by would-be poets in florid handwriting. Some, maybe left by some young students who had stayed here, included surprisingly well-drawn illustrations of characters from a manga I had never seen before.
THE HOT SPRINGS WERE GREAT. WE’LL BE SURE TO COME BACK.
WHAT A HIDDEN TREASURE!
WE’LL BE BACK NEXT YEAR, AND THE YEAR AFTER THAT. LOVE THIS PLACE!
—AUG. 21, ’02, FIRST VISIT.
Most of the entries seemed unremarkable, but there was one unusually straightforward comment written in faded, disconnected ballpoint-pen ink that listed nothing but the date and the number of times the person had visited. Miyaki must have noticed me staring, because she turned her attention to the same spot.
“They must have been a regular… It looks like they were trying to see how many times they could come back in a single year…”
I had a feeling I had seen this handwriting somewhere before.
“What do you think that is? It says MM. Do you think it’s the initials of whoever left this comment?”
There was indeed a zigzagging scribble next to the entry, where Miyaki’s finger was pointing. I flipped through the pages. I found more entries in the same handwriting.
OCT. 13, ’02, SECOND VISIT.
JAN. 2, ’03, THIRD VISIT.
The entries all bore the same scribbled initials. Something about the dates and the number of times grabbed my attention, even though they weren’t particularly meaningful. Why would someone go to the trouble of commemorating their visit only to write so little? I held the worn and nearly frayed page between my fingers and stared at the comment in fascination. Light penetrated through the back. It was obvious that someone had pressed hard against the page from the other side. I flipped the page over.
FEB. 23, ’03 FOURTH VISIT.
HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?
The two brief sentences were written so large that they filled nearly the entire page.
“Well, whoever it was, they were certainly passionate about this place… Only four times seems a little disappointing, though, doesn’t it? Why not five? Why not ten…?” Miyaki said with a disappointed chuckle.
I couldn’t nod along with her, however. I didn’t say a word. Not because the strange writing had left me overwhelmed. But because I had just remembered who those initials and this handwriting belonged to. Manaji Miwasaki. My former mentor, who was supposedly still in recovery, after having suffered a mental break while in this village. I had forgotten his voice for a while. But I could hear it now, echoing in my head. How many times had I been here?
I slapped the notebook back down on the counter.
“Miyaki, wait here.”
A memory of the dilapidated footbath down by the abandoned tracks passed through my mind.
“On second thought, we should probably stick together. Come with me, actually.”
I was already on my way toward the exit. Miyaki followed me in a fluster.
“Where are we going? Katagishi!”
“To the train tracks again.”
I barely felt out of breath as we climbed the steep road. There were other things to worry about now. With each new step, the trees seemed to whisper, casting dark shadows against the evening light. The birds harangued us with their calls. I proceeded with single-minded determination, steadily quickening my pace, only checking to see that Miyaki, though out of breath, was still with me. The tip of the torii gates sticking out from the remains of the landslide atop the abandoned tracks drew near. I came to a stop when I spotted the bench leaning against the fence.
“Katagishi, what’s this all about? Talk to me, please.”
I was having trouble finding the words.
“This—this is supposed to be my second time here, right…?”
I spotted the rectangular wooden frame nearly overflowing with dark wet leaves.
I hurried toward it, almost tripping over my own feet. The ground was still wet from the vestiges of snow. A black ribbon barrette was buried in the dirt. I had known the barrette’s owner, hadn’t I? My head suddenly hurt, like I was being stabbed through the brain with an iron skewer. A pair of broken glasses was lying next to the foot of the bench.
“Izawa… Miwasaki…”
My head felt like it was about to explode. Miyaki was holding me up by the shoulder; I hadn’t even realized that I had almost fallen over. Something seemed to be watching me from overhead. I cradled my skull, keeping my eyes doggedly fixed upon the ground. If I looked up now, I knew I would catch sight of that idol peeking down at me from in between the mountains. And the face that clung to its head like shriveled black mist.
“The Unknown God…”
This was the truth. Not that this village’s god was unknowable. But that it maintained its secrecy by erasing every person who stumbled across it—without a trace.