Chapter 21: The Silence they Chose.
As evening approached, the investigators realized it was too late for me to return home alone.
Aiko looked out the window at the darkening sky. "You shouldn't walk back by yourself. Not now."
I knew she was right. The village was different at night. The silence was heavier. The shadows were deeper. And after everything I had learned, I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts.
"I'll stay," I said.
Aiko nodded. She prepared a futon for me in the corner, the same thin mattress, the same folded blanket. I settled onto it, but I didn't sleep.
The investigators continued discussing the photographs and their theories for a little while. Their voices were low, murmuring. I listened without participating.
Eventually, everyone went to sleep.
But I lay awake.
The room was dark. The only sound was the soft breathing of the others. I stared at the ceiling and thought about the ancient records.
Yamatsuchi-Ushi. The being beneath the earth. The being who slept.
Nijie. The Rainbow Painters. The ones who painted promises after disaster.
But one question kept circling in my mind.
Why has everyone forgotten Nijie?
The god was remembered, even if the story had been distorted. The shrine was maintained. The offerings were left. But the Nijie, the small figures with their brushes and their rainbows, had been erased from every record. No history. No folklore. No mention.
Someone had made sure they were forgotten.
Who?
And why?
I didn't have an answer.
I closed my eyes.
Sleep didn't come for a long time.
***
The next morning, the investigators gathered their equipment.
Cameras. Notebooks. Recording devices. Copies of the shrine photographs, printed on paper and organized in a folder. They moved with practiced efficiency, checking each item before packing it away.
Aiko turned to me.
"We're going to talk to the village elder," she said. "He's the oldest person here. If anyone knows the old stories, it's him."
I nodded.
"I'll come with you."
We walked through the village together.
The morning was bright. The sky was clear. The village was waking up, vendors setting up their stalls, children running through the streets, old men sitting on benches and watching the world go by.
But something was different.
I noticed it immediately.
The villagers were watching us.
Some stopped talking when the investigators passed. Others turned away. A few stood in doorways, their arms crossed, their faces unreadable.
They knew where we were going.
They knew why.
And they didn't like it.
I kept my eyes forward. I didn't acknowledge the stares. But I felt them, pressing against my back like a weight.
The elder's house came into view.
The willow tree. The low roof. The quiet garden. It looked exactly as it had the last time I had been here, peaceful, still, untouched by the passage of time.
The investigators stopped at the door.
Aiko raised her hand to knock.
I held my breath.
The elder opened the door before we knocked. He looked at us, Aiko, Takeshi, Kenji, and me, and nodded slowly.
"Come in," he said.
We stepped inside. The room was small and spare. A single lamp. A low table. A shelf with a few scrolls that looked older than the village itself.
Tea was served. The elder moved slowly, deliberately, pouring each cup with the same careful attention he brought to everything.
Aiko waited until the formalities were complete. Then she spoke.
"Elder-san," she said. "We discovered some things at the shrine. Ancient records. Wooden tablets. Carvings. We were hoping you could help us understand them."
She laid the photographs on the table.
The elder studied them carefully. His face was calm. Unreadable. He looked at the carvings. The tablets. The images of the Nijie.
Then Aiko asked:
"Do you know anything about Yamatsuchi-Ushi?"
The elder paused.
It was a small pause. Barely noticeable. But I caught it.
Then he answered.
"Yamatsuchi-Ushi," he said slowly. "An ancient figure. Associated with the mountain. With the earth."
He spoke quietly. Carefully.
"The old stories say that it sleeps beneath the ground. That it causes the earth to tremble when it stirs. The village has always respected it. Left offerings. Kept the old ways."
Aiko leaned forward. "What kind of offerings?"
"Rice. Sake. Small things."
"Why?"
The elder looked at her. "To keep it calm."
The investigators asked more questions. About the earthquakes. About the rituals. About the history of the shrine.
The elder answered them all.
I watched him.
He wasn't lying. Not exactly.
Then the investigator asked: "What about Nijie?"
The elder's reaction was different.
It was small. Almost invisible. But I saw it.
His expression changed. His eyes flickered. His hands, which had been resting on the table, stopped moving.
His voice became quieter.
"Nijie," he repeated.
"The Rainbow Painters," Aiko said. "Who were they?"
The elder was silent for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"They were described as servants," he said. "Servants of an ancient higher being. They were associated with rainbows. With the restoration of the land."
He paused.
"That is all I know."
Aiko frowned. "But the carvings show more than that. They show the Nijie painting rainbows after disasters. After earthquakes. They show them responding to something."
The elder nodded slowly. "Yes. That is what the carvings show."
"Who were they? Where did they come from? Why are they not mentioned anywhere else?"
The elder didn't answer.
He looked at the photographs. At the small figures with their brushes. At the rainbow arching above them.
Then he looked at me.
For just a moment, his eyes met mine.
And I saw something in them. Something I couldn't name.
He looked away.
Then the female investigator asked one final question.
"Why were stories about Nijie erased?"
The elder was quiet for a long moment.
Then he answered.
"No one knows what or who they are. They might be older than this village. No one knows."
His tone was different from before.
When Yamatsuchi-Ushi was mentioned, the elder seemed cautious. Careful. He chose his words like a man walking on thin ice, testing each step before committing his weight.
But when Nijie was mentioned...
He seemed almost afraid.
His voice was quieter. His hands, which had been resting on the table, had stopped moving entirely. His eyes, which had been calm and steady, flickered toward the door, toward the window, toward anything but the photographs on the table.
He was afraid.
Not of the investigators. Not of their questions.
Of the Nijie themselves.
I said nothing.
The investigators thanked the elder.
They gathered their equipment. They bowed. They offered polite words of gratitude. The elder accepted them with the same calm, careful demeanor he had worn throughout the conversation.
We walked to the door.
I was the last to leave.
As I stepped over the threshold, I looked back.
The elder remained standing at the doorway. His hands were folded in front of him. His face was calm. But his eyes, his eyes were fixed on me.
He watched us until we disappeared.
But I got the feeling that he wasn't watching the investigators. He was watching me. The way you watch a crack in the foundation. Not to fix it. To see if it’s spreading.
***
We walked back through the village.
The morning was still bright. The sky was still clear. But the warmth had faded from the day. The stares of the villagers followed us. The silence pressed against my back.
Aiko was talking. Something about the elder. Something about the questions she should have asked. I wasn't listening.
I was thinking about the elder's eyes.
The way he had looked at me.
Not with suspicion. Not with anger.
With something else. Something that felt like recognition.
As if he knew something about me that I didn't know myself.
The investigators had decided that if the elder wouldn't tell them everything, they would ask ordinary villagers. They didn't confront anyone directly. Instead, they divided their questions naturally, weaving them into ordinary conversations.
Aiko asked the vegetable vendor. Vague shrug. Takeshi asked the fisherman. Changed subject. Kenji lingered near the rice stall. “Nijie?”. “Never heard of it,” the merchant said. But his breath hitched. Just once.
Most villagers gave vague answers.
Some said they had never heard of Nijie. Others said their grandparents had mentioned something, but they couldn't remember what. A few simply shook their heads and changed the subject.
Then Aiko approached an elderly shopkeeper.
The woman was old—older than the elder, older than anyone I had seen in the village. She sat behind a small counter, her hands busy sorting dried herbs.
Aiko asked about Nijie.
The woman's hands stopped.
She looked up. Her eyes were sharp, clear.
"You shouldn't be asking about that," she said.
Aiko blinked. "Why not?"
The woman didn't answer. She turned away and continued working, her hands moving quickly, her shoulders tense.
Aiko tried again. "Please. We're just trying to understand, "
"I said," the woman repeated, "you shouldn't be asking about that."
She refused to say anything more.
We moved on.
While we walked through the market, I noticed something.
Earlier, the elder had said: "No one remembers the old stories."
But the elderly shopkeeper had recognized the name Nijie immediately. She hadn't hesitated. She hadn't asked for clarification. She had known exactly what Aiko was talking about, and she had refused to discuss it.
That meant the knowledge hadn't completely disappeared.
It was being suppressed.
I looked toward the mountain.
The shrine was hidden beyond the trees. The six torii gates. The ancient carvings. The wooden tablets. The name Yamatsuchi-Ushi. The Nijie.
And now I understood something.
The village hadn’t lost its memory. It had buried it. Like a body. Like a secret. Like a child.
And everyone had agreed.
Everyone except the shopkeeper. Everyone except the old man. Everyone except the children who disappeared.
I stopped walking.
Aiko turned. "Hikaru-san?"
I looked at the mountain. At the shrine hidden beyond the trees.
"Nothing," I said. "Just thinking."
She nodded. She didn't press.
We walked on.
But the weight of what I had realized settled in my chest.
The village wasn't silent because it had nothing to say.
The village was silent because it had chosen to be.
And that choice, that agreement, that suppression, was still holding.
Still working.
Still keeping something buried.
I thought of Hinata. Her small hands. Her bright smile. Her strange questions.
I thought of the children who had disappeared.
I thought of the Nijie. The Rainbow Painters. The ones who had been erased from history.
And I wondered.
What else had the village agreed to forget?
