Show is over

Not a single line in the weekly newspaper in spite of the flock of journalists attending the show on the Tokyo’s courthouse parvis: even after years of practicing, I’m still impressed by the way my respected employer is able to cover up any mess I got involved into.

That said, I must admit that being the second world power, they can hardly leak about shintô priest used as a ghost buster, they would look like damn fools even before Americans.

This morning, the Minister phoned to remind me that “would be better to provide appropriate information about my trips and missions on business out of the governmental jurisdiction” –meaning: would be nice of you to let us know when you’re gonna create mayhem without us asking for it, duck- I unctuously answered that I shall soon think about a GPS transplantation. Failing for subtlety, it occurred to me he hanged a bit rudely.

In case you were wondering, no I did not paint crimson the courthouse stairs, nor did I rampage part of the building by mistake. But I did meet my mysterious “sponsor”, the one who has nearly burnt my lasts useful brain cells. And I went quite… disappointed, truly speaking.

Mainly because I was a mere spectator as I didn’t take any part in what happened. Truth is, the fact irks me a little. Being able to send back a soul where it belongs, to blow up a building without a single sweat drop, and finding yourself powerless and inefficient in front of an “ordinary tragedy” is deeply frustrating.

The wise would say “better to know about your own limits”.

Bullshit.

Good heavens, what’s the use of all these years of training?

Usually I make my entrance when it’s already too late, to minimize loss, like guys paid to throw away plague-stricken corps in order to avoid survivors’ further contamination. Ok, they were useful. But they didn’t have to spend ten years of their lives learning Taoist magic, dipping into frozen baths and hours of meditating cramps.

So I don’t give a shit for the Minister’s call.

***

At dawn I arrived in front of the courthouse, and stood there against one of the trees guarding the front entrance, waiting for my sponsor, determined to wait all day long and merge with the trunk if needed. I wonder if my pen pal would leave me alone if I didn’t show up because of the drizzling. Nothing would please me more than trashing away computer and keyboard, but I sincerely doubt that would solve the problem.

A few people are passing by: magistrates, white necks walking at full throttle without even looking at me, a group of girly students giggling and glancing at me –seems that I am the sort of man who appeals to this age group of the fair sex, I bet it comes from my trendy “hobo” look. Whatever sinks your boat… - and I’m waiting here, empty-headed, waiting for the shiki on my shoulder to react any time something vaguely unusual is passing by.

Ha. I can feel a touch of perplexity saying “what’s a shiki?” No, I didn’t adopt a faithful dog (although the Minister’s counselor, always sniffing on my heels…). It’s a bit more subtle.

Here’s a detailed description for curious ones: a shiki or “servant spirit”, is an embodiment of the onmyôji’s mind and psyche, a living extension in a tangible shape. Used for scouting -it can sneak in closed places or travel quickly on far distances- and also for fighting. It is generally shaped like an animal or a little demon, depending on whom or what is invoking it. Mine look like birds or little mammals.

Short-description: animal-looking invocation useful when I am in an intense laziness state and I don’t feel like fighting or moving by myself.

Once semantic issues are solved, let’s be back to our course of things: courthouse, it’s raining and I’m taking roots.

My phone cell tells me it’s nearly eleven in the morning, I’m dozing, sitting under a drizzle which will probably send me back to my sickbed with galleons of cough syrup when a piping voice calls me out.

“Why are you on the floor?”

I hate kids. What does she think I am doing, head tilted and eyes closed? Mimes? Opening an eye, I cast a more than hostile glance at an eight-years-old miniature.

“I’m playing dead.”

“Then you’re doing it wrong. It ain’t the way it should be done”, she says with pedantry.

“Sure?”

“You will catch death, true.”

True indeed. My jacket and t-shirt are soaked wet in the shoulders area. Rain drops are running along the leaves and keep dripping on my head. I stood up and shake myself a bit, sighing heavily, still staring at the kid. I don’t have the know-how with the children part of mankind, besides, I don’t have it either with the other part. Maybe because I don’t scare them. Yet.

Maybe because they can see more than meet the eye.

“And you, may I ask what are you doing here?” I say, methodically wringing my jacket. “Your mother never told you don’t talk to strangers?”

“Mommy is not here with me. She’s there.”

She points at the courthouse, in front of which a small flock is gathering. Judging by the army of mikes waving, they do not look like magistrates. As a rule I don’t work with judges, so I admit I didn’t inquired about the latest mainstream trial –what’s the point in court-appointed attorney for a demon?-. My shiki looks troubled when the brat holds out her hand to touch him, and I absent-mindedly cluck my tongue to ease him.

“I want to play with kitteh!”

“Is your mother among the journalists?”

I turn to see the doors opened, framing two figures holding each other, and suddenly I feel like sinking under water.

It’s not a suffocating feeling –that I can endure- but a sucking up sensation burying me under a cold and heavy blanket, my heart pounding in my ears as the only sound in the silence around me… total silence while less than two yards from me a swarm of journalists is snapping away, jerking mikes at the couple climbing down the stairs. Slowly, stunned, I look down and see the kiddo taking my hand and dragging me to the bottom of the stairs.

My shiki snarls, startled as if in agony and I’m finally following her as if I was not the one ordering my legs to move. I should be freaking out, looking for a way to free me…

But no. Not for this soul.

We step together at the bottom of the stairs and our eyes look at the group, at the man and the woman answering the journalists’ questions. Especially the woman, talking about her daughter, about the punishment her murderer deserved, finally convicted by justice after long months struggles… her husband is adding so, saying he’d never had guessed about the kid’s institutor, and thanking the media and policemen for their job and support…

I’m not bonding with others, that’s a fact and I have a lot of hard time trying to understand what people hides in his inner self, at least while he’s still alive. But here, the child’s hand squeezing mine, hearing the false cries in the mother’s voice makes me feel sick as I never were.

“I loved Aya” she utters in front of a female journalist having eyes only for her.

“So then, why did you kill her?”

My voice is easily heard over the hubbub, and it is not entirely because of my lungs. A heavy silence falls on us while my question fades into the air and they turn to face me one by one, like automatons. One feels so alone before these glares and minds craving for easy, so much more popular moving answer than for the miserable truth. One feels alone when blaming a mother for killing her own daughter, even when said kid is holding tightly your hand, silently asking for justice.

“You won’t answer?”

However, if my voice is so cold, it is entirely because of me. I do so to hide my sudden weakness, this fucking feeling stuffed into my gasping throat as I’m stuck between Aya’s aura squeezing me and the slowly awakening terror of the mother, suddenly able to catch a glimpse of her dead daughter by my side: I can see her pupils expand with fear. Bruises, blows, blood stains… and the deep dark look ghosts have when they come back to bother you. Drives you crazy.

I don’t react when Aya’s mother collapses with a cry, convulsing, calling for her husband. Accusing, she shouts he left her alone, not taking care of the «burden » Aya grew to, him wanting to keep her in spite of her disability… I close my eyes, I try not to see this restless mob… pressure is slowly turning down as the ghost finally let go of my hand and I fall on my knees, gasping, chilled to the bones.

“Sorry. I didn’t wanted to hurt you,” Aya whispers, smiling. “Mommy wasn’t able to hear me but it was easier with you. Sorry.”

Take a deep breath, don’t let yourself been distracted. If she attacks her mother, I can’t let her do so, as a rule: only livings settle scores with the livings. I stand up.

“You want to fight?” she asks, backing off.

“That is not entirely up with me.”

I finally notice her crooked legs, nearly blurred. She looks at them, undecided.

“So these were the reason?”

“Looks like so.”

On the stairs, the mob begins to move, some journalists are looking at me again… damn, I don’t want them into the bargain!

Suddenly Aya moves her little face closer to mine and flings her arms around my neck.

“Thank you.”

I stood here, definitely frozen by her kiss on my forehead, as she seems to melt in the ever-pouring rain.

***

In the end, journalists weren’t able to catch up with me, but running when you’re soaked wet and just-hugged by a revengeful ghost is like running a 110-meter hurdle with a cannon ball locked to each ankle. Surely I could have looked for Aya’s file, could have tried to understand… and I think that’s what everybody would have wanted.

But I alone have felt each of Aya’s feelings, and I have no interest in her desire to understand or to get answers. I feel even less affected as I was only a mere communication channel. That’s not my first time, but they were teenagers, not a child in a wheelchair.

That sounds not like a frankly romantic ending… but what could I do?

The hell with it, I’m no different from a grave digger. And I’ve never saw any of them crying at burials.