We walk along a river as green as matcha, climb a hill next to a big high school, continue for a while through a quiet residential neighborhood, and finally arrive at a shop. Contrary to what I expected, it’s a little convenience store that looks like it could be in my hometown. It occupies the first floor of a three-story corner building. Potted plants surround the entrance, an explosion of flowers threatening to burst into the road. More plants hang over the second-floor balcony, shamelessly covering the blue logo of the national chain. There’s an air of casual neglect to the place, like it’s telling the world not to sweat the small stuff.
As I walk through the automatic doors, a familiar melody chimes loudly. I glance around but don’t see any other customers.
“Um, excuse me…,” I say timidly to the back of a woman stooped behind the counter. She seems hard at work doing something or other down there.
“What?”
When she looks up, I see that she has pronounced features and a nameplate on her chest that reads CAROL.
“Um, my name is Iwato.”
“Hmm?”
“Um, that phone call a little while ago…”
“Hmm?”
“Uhhh…”
She’s staring at me suspiciously. Souta, what do I do?! Sending him psychic calls for help, I grip the bag on my back. Of course, he can’t answer me in this situation. But just as I’m starting to think I’ll have to temporarily retreat, someone calls from the back of the store. “Oh, yes, yes! You must be Souta’s relative. I’ve heard about you!”
A tiny old woman with a mushroom of white hair comes pattering out in sandals. She’s wearing the same blue-striped uniform as Carol, and the nameplate on her chest reads OKINU.
“Here’s the key to Souta’s room. It’s number 301,” she says, handing me the key. She must be the landlady he mentioned.
“His relative?” Carol asks the landlady, who answers in what I think is English. Carol smiles at me.
“When will he come back from his trip?”
“Um, I’m sorry, I don’t really know.”
“I do hope he comes home soon,” the landlady says, sounding quite lonely. Carol says something like “sweet” or “cute,” and the landlady adds dreamily, “He’s such a handsome man.” Quite the popular tenant, it seems. I grip the bag harder.
“Um, thank you!” I say, bowing my head.
“Go on outside, and you’ll find the staircase to your left. Take your time,” the landlady says, holding her hand up next to her face and waving.
When I open the door, a wall of hot air hits me in the face. It’s followed by the smell of a school library, then the smell of soap and other household items, then a very faint, unfamiliar, elegant smell that makes me think of a foreign city. A grown-up smell, I think.
“Go on in,” Souta says, sticking his head out of the bag.
I take my shoes off in a little entryway that’s barely deep enough to fit them, then step up into his apartment. I’m in the kitchen, which is more a wide hallway than a room. Beyond it is a dim living area measuring around fifteen square meters.
“Wow…,” I gasp. Lit hazily by sunlight filtering through the curtains, the walls and floor of the room are covered with books. Thick antique volumes are stacked on the tatami mats like we’re in a professor’s study or something—of course, I’ve never been in a professor’s study, but the room has that air that usually belongs to some sort of specialist. Wedged between the books is a low desk like a literary giant of the postwar period might have used, a round table for eating, and three big bookshelves. In one corner is a steel desk, maybe from IKEA or something, with a metal frame bed over the top of it. Meanwhile, the books in this corner are colorful and modern, like the ones you’d expect a university student to have.
“It’s hot in here. Would you open that window?”
“Oh, sure.”
I push aside the curtains, and late-afternoon sun floods the room. When I open the window, a refreshing breeze blows in. I put my bag down on the floor. Then I take off my cap and set it on the bag. As I take in the sights, I think the bright room feels like a little garden. Oddly enough, even though it’s full of stuff, it doesn’t feel messy. The objects seem to have grown there of their own free will, like plants.
“Suzume,” Souta says, looking over at me from one of the bookshelves. “I want to do a little research. Do you see that cardboard box on top of this shelf?”
“Yes…”
“Can you bring it down for me?”
“Sure.”
I stand in front of the shelf and reach for the box. It’s too high, and I stretch farther. No good. I climb on top of Souta. I can feel my three-legged companion quickly adjusting himself to hold my weight. My hands reach the box. It’s really heavy.
“……”
Suddenly, I feel like laughing. My lips curl. I hold the box and march in place a few times. I remember his cool, debonair voice when we left the convenience store. I said, “You sure are popular,” and he said, “Not really.” I stomp a few more times. One, two. One, two. Then I look at my feet and smile.
“Souta, do you mind if I step on you?”
“…Next time, ask me first!” he snaps, and the chair bucks under my feet. I shriek and laugh.
The box is full of books. Souta tells me to open one called Excerpts from the Closer’s Secrets. I’ve only seen this kind of traditional Japanese book in photos before. The rough paper is bound with string and looks ready to crumble any minute. Taking care not to tear it, I solemnly open the book.
Pictures cover both pages. The hair on my arms and legs stands up. One picture shows a volcano. A village and mountain are drawn in black ink, but the flames bursting from the mountain are painted with bright-red pigment. A crimson river writhes in the sky. I know that shape well.
“Is that…the worm?”
Souta nods, gazing at the picture. When I look more closely, I see that the flames are coming not from the volcano’s mouth but instead from a torii gate on the peak of the mountain. It must be a Gate. I can make out the word Tenmei and the number three in one corner of the picture. When was that, the 1700s? Souta tells me to turn the page, so I do.
The next picture is of a dragon. Between the curves of its long, winding body are mountains, villages, and lakes, as if the dragon and the land are one. What appear to be enormous daggers pierce its head and tail.
“Those are Keystones. The Western Pillar and the Eastern Pillar.”
The chair leg points to each one in turn.
“Keystones? You mean—”
“Yes. There are two of them.”
“So…there’s another one of those cats?”
“The cat is only a transient manifestation,” he says in a low voice.
I turn the page again. On each side is a stone monument with a throng of people praying to it. The word Keystone is written in red characters on each monument, and several people dressed like mountain ascetics seem to be trying to bury the stones in the earth. In the gaps around the pictures is fine cursive writing that I can’t read. The text next to the stones, however, I can just barely decipher. Something about “subduing the black Keystone” and “the terrible white tiger Keystone.”
“Natural disasters and plagues come from Ever-After to our realm through Gates and terrorize everyone nearby,” Souta says, gazing at the pictures. “That’s why we Closers go around shutting them. We return those places to their cradle—their rightful owners, the gods of the land—and quell the unrest. But there are some disasters, the terrible kind that occur only once every few hundred years, that can’t be fully suppressed by closing Gates. For those situations, two Keystones were bestowed on this land in ancient times.”
Souta points to another book. “Catalogue of Keystones” is written on the cover. This is also a traditional Japanese book, but it looks decades (or perhaps centuries) newer than the first one. I open it. Inside are what look like old maps. An amorphous shape like stones melted together is labeled “Map of the Land of Fuso”—at least I think that’s what the characters say. Large swords pierce either end of what seems to be an island.
“The Keystones change locations with each era.”
I turn the page to another old map. The coastline of this one is more realistically drawn. The two swords are piercing slightly different locations.
“This looks like…”
I turn to the next page. The resolution of the map improves. It’s packed with narrow roads and borders. The swords are piercing the Tohoku region and a spot below Lake Biwa.
“…a map of Japan!”
“It is,” Souta says. “The changes in the map reflect changes in the cosmology of the Japanese people. When people’s consciousness changes, the shape of the land changes, and so does the shape of its ley lines and natural disasters. That, in turn, changes where the Keystones are needed. It’s a slow and constant change in the interaction between people and land, so we enshrine the Keystones where they are truly needed in each era. The Keystones soothe the land over decades, even centuries—always in places we don’t see. The forgotten places.”