Chapter 19: The Clue that wasn't There.
The following morning, I returned to the market.
The village was already awake, vendors setting up their stalls, villagers browsing, children running between the tables. The sun was warm. The sky was clear. Everything looked ordinary.
But I knew better now.
I spotted the investigators near the edge of the market. Aiko was kneeling on the ground, her camera in hand. Takeshi stood beside her, holding a notebook. Kenji was scanning the area with one of his devices.
They were examining the false clue.
The footprints. The bowl. The symbols carved into the shed.
I watched them from a distance. Aiko was taking photographs, her movements careful and deliberate. Takeshi was writing something down. Kenji was frowning at his device.
They were treating it seriously. They were documenting everything, analyzing everything, comparing it to the information they had gathered.
They didn't know it was fake.
I recognized it immediately. The footprints were too perfect. The bowl was too clean. The symbols were too deliberate. It was a story, carefully constructed.
But this time, I didn't simply watch from a distance.
I approached them.
"Are you investigating this?"
Aiko looked up. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
"Hikaru-san," she said. "Good morning."
"Good morning." I gestured toward the footprints. "What have you found?"
Aiko stood up, brushing the dirt from her knees. "Something interesting. Footprints. Offerings. Symbols carved into the shed. It looks like a ritual site. Something old."
"Old," I repeated.
"That's what we're trying to determine. The symbols are unfamiliar. We're comparing them to known folk practices in the region."
I nodded. I didn't tell her what I knew.
"I'm curious," I said. "Would you mind if I accompanied you? I'd like to see what you find."
Aiko studied me for a moment. Then she smiled.
"Of course," she said. "We could use another pair of eyes."
I nodded.
I decided to stay close, not because I trusted the investigators completely, but because I wanted to know what the villagers' false clue would lead them to.
The investigators documented everything carefully.
They photographed the marks and objects from every angle. They measured the footprints. They recorded the symbols. They collected samples of the soil, the rice, the cloth.
Then they followed the trail.
The false trail.
It led away from the market, down a narrow path that wound through the village. The footprints were spaced evenly, as if a child had walked this way. The bowl had been placed at intervals, markers along the route. The symbols had been carved into trees and fence posts.
I recognized the route.
It led toward the old abandoned house at the edge of the village.
The investigators followed the trail without hesitation. They didn't know what I knew. They didn't know they were being led.
We reached the abandoned house.
It stood at the end of a narrow path, half-hidden by overgrown trees. The walls were weathered, the roof sagging. The windows were dark. The door hung open, creaking slightly in the breeze.
The investigators searched around the building.
Aiko photographed the exterior. Takeshi examined the windows. Kenji scanned the ground with his device.
At first, I assumed they would discover nothing. The trail would end here, and they would be left with questions.
But then…
They found something.
Something that the villagers didn't plant.
I heard Aiko's voice, sharp with surprise.
"Hikaru-san. Come look at this."
I walked over. She was kneeling near the back of the house, her camera in hand. She pointed at the ground.
There, half-hidden beneath a layer of dead leaves, was a small object. A child's shoe.
It was old. Faded. Covered in dirt. But it was real. I could see it in the wear of the sole, the way the fabric had frayed, the way it had been lying there for a long time.
"This wasn't part of the trail," Aiko said quietly. "It wasn't with the other objects. It's been here longer. Much longer."
I stared at the shoe.
It was small. Child-sized. The kind of shoe a girl might wear.
I felt my chest tighten.
"This doesn't fit the pattern," Aiko said. "The other objects were placed recently. This one... it's old. It's been here for years."
She looked at me. Her eyes were sharp, curious.
"What does this mean?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
The villagers had planted false evidence. They had created a story for the investigators to find. But this shoe, this was real. It had been here before the villagers had started their deception. It had been here long before I ever arrived.
It was something the villagers didn't know about.
Or something they had forgotten.
I looked at the shoe. At the small, faded fabric. At the dirt that covered it.
And I realized…
The village had secrets even the villagers didn't understand.
We entered the old house.
The air inside was thick with dust and the smell of damp wood. The floorboards creaked beneath our feet. Light filtered through the broken windows, falling in thin slats across the empty rooms.
Aiko moved carefully, her camera raised. Takeshi followed with his notebook. Kenji scanned the walls with his device, its soft beeping the only sound besides our footsteps.
I stayed near the door. I didn't want to go deeper than I had to.
Then Aiko stopped.
"Look at this."
She was standing near the back wall, her camera pointed at a wooden beam. I walked over.
There, carved into the beam, was a symbol. Faded with age, worn by years of neglect, but unmistakable.
A circle. A crescent. A series of small lines radiating outward like rays.
It looked like the moon.
Or a face.
Or something in between.
Aiko lowered her camera and pulled out her notebook. She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for, a photograph, printed on a small sheet of paper.
She held it up beside the carving.
The symbol was identical.
"From the shrine," she said quietly. "This is the same marking we found near the old bonfire site. The same one carved into the stone lanterns."
I stared at the carving. My chest felt tight.
"Someone who lived here was connected to the shrine," Aiko continued. "Maybe a keeper. Maybe a worshipper. But this house belonged to someone involved with that place."
The villagers had planted false evidence. They had created a story to mislead the investigators, to send them away satisfied. But their plan had backfired. The false trail had led us here, to a real clue. To something the villagers hadn't planted.
Something they might not even know about.
Then Takeshi called out from the next room.
"There's more in here."
We found another clue, a small wooden box, hidden beneath a loose floorboard. Inside were fragments of old paper, brittle and yellowed. Faded writing. A name I couldn't read.
But the characters were the same as the ones on the ema at the shrine.
The same hand.
The same plea.
"...forgive..."
I felt my hands grow cold.
The villagers' plan had backfired.
And now the investigators were following a trail that led somewhere the village had tried to hide.
***
The investigators followed the new evidence.
They photographed the box. They wrapped the papers carefully. They documented every detail with the precision of people who knew they had found something important.
Then they followed the trail.
It led out of the house, through the overgrown garden, up a narrow path I hadn't noticed before. The path wound through the trees, climbing steadily.
Toward the mountain.
I felt my stomach tighten.
I knew exactly what was waiting there.
The abandoned shrine.
The six torii gates.
The silence.
The investigators moved quickly, their excitement growing with every step. They didn't notice my hesitation. They didn't notice the way I slowed down, the way my eyes kept drifting toward the trees.
We climbed the mountain.
The path grew steeper. The trees grew thicker. The air grew still.
Then the first torii gate appeared through the trees.
Weathered wood. Faded vermilion. The crossbeams cracked with age.
Aiko stopped. She raised her camera.
"Six gates," she murmured. "Just like the rumor said."
She photographed each one. Takeshi noted their positions. Kenji scanned them with his device, frowning at the readings.
I stood at the base of the first gate.
Instinctively, I bowed.
Aiko noticed. She didn't say anything, but I saw her eyes linger on me for a moment.
Then we proceeded through the gates.
The silence deepened with every step. No birds. No insects. Just our footsteps on the worn stones and the soft rustle of the wind.
We passed the second gate. The third. The fourth.
The fifth gate was more weathered than the others. A piece of the crossbeam had fallen, resting against the base like a broken bone.
We stepped over it.
The sixth gate stood at the top of the slope.
Beyond it, the shrine.
We reached the clearing.
The shrine sat at its center, small, dark, weathered by time. Moss covered the steps. The stone lanterns leaned. The offering box lay in pieces near the entrance.
Aiko stopped at the edge of the clearing. Her camera lowered slowly.
"This is it," she said.
Takeshi and Kenji moved forward, their equipment ready. They began photographing the shrine, examining the structure, documenting every detail.
I stayed at the threshold.
I had been here before. I had searched this place. I had found the hidden rope, the scattered shide, the fresh rice, the footprints that vanished.
I had found the ema with its plea for forgiveness.
And I had found Hinata on the mountain, her eyes blank, her voice speaking words that didn't belong to her.
The investigators didn't know any of that.
They didn't know what this place was.
They didn't know what it meant.
But I did.
I stood at the threshold and watched them work.
And I felt the mountain watching back.
The investigators began documenting the shrine.
They moved carefully, respectfully, their equipment held with the kind of reverence that came from years of working in old places. Aiko photographed every surface. Takeshi recorded notes. Kenji scanned the walls and floors with his devices.
I stayed near the entrance, watching.
At first, the shrine seemed simple. Small. Modest. The kind of place that had been built by ordinary hands for ordinary prayers.
But as the investigators worked, they began to uncover something else.
Beneath the moss and the dust, beneath the layers of neglect, there were carvings. Paintings. Faded images that had been hidden for centuries.
Aiko found them first.
"Look at this," she said. She was kneeling near the back wall, her flashlight illuminating a section of wood I had never noticed before.
I walked over.
The carvings were small. Delicate. They depicted figures—strange little beings with round bodies and long, thin limbs. They were painted in faded colors, their shapes almost childlike.
They were gathered around something. Something bright. Something arched across the sky.
A rainbow.
"There are more," Takeshi said. He had moved to the opposite wall, his camera raised. "The same figures. The same rainbow. They're everywhere."
Aiko moved from one carving to the next, photographing each one. Her brow was furrowed, her lips moving silently as she worked.
Then she stopped.
"There's writing," she said. "Old writing. I can barely read it."
She traced the characters with her finger.
"Nijie," she murmured. "The Rainbow Painters."
I felt a chill run down my spine.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
Aiko didn't answer immediately. She was still studying the carvings, her eyes moving from one figure to the next.
"The Nijie," she said slowly. "They were described as servants. Servants of a higher being. According to the records, they appeared after rain and painted rainbows across the sky."
She looked at me.
"They were believed to be the ones who created the rainbow. Not the gods. Not the weather. These little beings. They painted the sky."
I looked at the carvings. At the small, round figures. At the rainbow arched above them.
"They're servants," I repeated.
"Yes. Servants of something greater."
She compared the drawings with the imagery on the shrine. Everything appeared connected, the symbols, the figures, the rainbows.
"The same deity," she said. "The same mythology. Everything here is part of the same story."
The investigators pieced together what they could.
The village once worshipped an ancient god. The Nijie were believed to be its servants. The rainbow was considered a bridge, a connection between the earthly world and the realm of the higher being.
Aiko explained it as she worked.
"It seems this religion disappeared centuries ago," she said. "There are no records of it after a certain point. No mention in any official histories. It was forgotten."
She looked at the shrine. At the carvings. At the small, abandoned space.
"The god was forgotten. The Nijie were forgotten. Everything here was left behind."
I looked at the abandoned shrine.
Something about that bothered me.
If the religion disappeared...
Why did the shrine still seem to be maintained?
The hidden rope. The scattered shide. The fresh rice in the offering bowl. The footprints that vanished on solid stone.
Someone had been caring for this place. Someone had been leaving offerings. Someone had been keeping the shrine alive.
I looked at the shrine. At the carvings. At the rainbow painted across the wall.
And I wondered.
If the god was forgotten...
Why was someone still leaving rice?
While searching the shrine, one of the investigators noticed something.
Kenji was kneeling near the back wall, his device scanning the floorboards. He frowned, tapped the wood with his knuckles, then tapped it again.
"This is hollow," he said.
Aiko looked up from her notebook. "Hollow?"
"Not the whole floor. Just this section." He traced a square shape with his finger. "There's a compartment underneath. Something's been hidden here."
I felt my chest tighten.
The investigators gathered around. Takeshi produced a small tool from his bag, a thin, flat blade and carefully worked it beneath the edge of the board. The wood creaked. Then, with a soft pop, the panel lifted free.
Beneath the floor was a hidden compartment.
It was small. Shallow. The kind of space that had been carved deliberately, concealed by the floorboard above. Inside were several objects, wrapped in a cloth that had long since rotted away.
Wooden tablets.
Thin slips of wood, dark with age, covered in writing. The characters were small and precise, carved rather than painted. They resembled the old East Asian method of recording text, narrow strips of wood or bamboo, bound together with cord.
Aiko knelt beside the compartment. Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted one of the tablets.
"This is old," she whispered. "Very old."
Takeshi was already photographing them. Kenji was scanning them with his device, recording every detail.
Aiko studied the writing. Her brow furrowed. Her lips moved silently as she worked.
"I can read some of this," she said. "Not all of it. The characters are ancient. But I recognize enough."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she began to translate.
"Most of the writing is difficult to understand. But there's a name that keeps appearing. Repeated over and over."
She looked up at me.
"Yamatsuchi-Ushi."
Aiko explained as she worked.
"Yamatsuchi-Ushi appears to be an ancient being. Associated with the mountains and the earth."
She traced the characters with her finger.
"The surviving text describes something enormous. Something beneath the land."
She read aloud, carefully, piecing together the fragments.
"Trembling earth. Mountains. Something sleeping beneath the ground. Offerings made to keep it calm. People listening for sounds beneath the earth."
I felt a chill run down my spine.
The investigators continued to read, their voices low and urgent.
One passage was damaged, incomplete. The wood had cracked, the characters faded beyond recognition. Only fragments could be understood.
But one phrase was clear.
"When the earth forgets..."
The rest of the tablet was broken.
Aiko set it down carefully. She looked at the others.
"There's more. But it's fragmentary. We'll need to study it properly."
I looked toward the mountain.
This ancient being.
Yamatsuchi-Ushi.
Something sleeping beneath the ground.
Something that demanded offerings.
Something that was listening.
Someone had been maintaining this shrine. Someone had been leaving offerings. Someone had been keeping the old ways alive.
But why?
What were they trying to keep calm?
The investigators were excited.
They finally had something tangible. Something they could study, analyze, publish. The wooden tablets were ancient, genuinely ancient and they contained a story no one had heard in centuries.
Aiko turned toward me. Her eyes were bright.
"This isn't part of the rumor," she said.
I looked at her.
"What?"
She gestured toward the wooden tablets. "Someone could have planted a fake symbol. Anyone could have carved something into a beam. But nobody could have planted history."
She held up one of the tablets. The wood was dark with age, the characters worn by centuries.
"This is real," she said. "This shrine. This god. This history. It's all real. It's been here for hundreds of years. Maybe longer."
I said nothing.
Because I knew the investigators were following a false clue.
The villagers had planted evidence. They had created a trail for the investigators to follow, a story to keep them busy. They had wanted them to find a lie.
Instead, they had uncovered something the village itself may have forgotten.
Yamatsuchi-Ushi.
The being beneath the earth.
The god who demanded offerings.
The god who was listening.
I looked at the shrine. At the carvings. At the tablets.
And I wondered.
If the village had forgotten...
What happened when the earth forgot too?
What will happen next...
Find out in the next chapter, same place, same time.
