Chapter 1 — The Heir Returns (Part 2)

“How novel. An elephant on Nyoigadake.” The English gentleman touched down on Daimonji and gazed upward at me, his hand moving to his top hat.

I shrank my form into that of an unkempt college student, upon which he commented, “But of course, a tanuki. Very good.” He made a show of applauding silently.

The tengu looked like a foreigner, with his Western attire and fair skin, and he had the anachronistic air of an expatriate recently returned from travels abroad. A shiny silk top hat, an impeccably fitted three-piece suit, a bone-white shirt and black bowtie, leather gloves, and a walking cane. It was notoriously difficult to guess a tengu’s age, but in human terms he appeared to be in his late thirties, and devilishly handsome to boot.

Picking up the valise, he addressed the groaning Kurama tengu. “Good day, gentlemen. And what might you all be doing over there?”

The Kurama tengu got up and gawped at him in amazement. Reizanbō suddenly whipped his sunglasses off and exclaimed, “Say, ain’t you Yakushibō’s heir? How come you’re back after all this time?”

“I have seen all I intended to see. I do hope your patriarch is in good health, I intend to call on him once things have settled down. By the by…” The Heir frowned and looked around. “I was expecting more of my belongings would have arrived by now.”

“Ah, yeah,” Reizanbō said frostily. “They were taking up too much space, so we tossed ‘em.”

“And why would you do that? This is not your mountain.”

A flick of the eyes from Reizanbō, and the rest of the Kurama tengu circled out around the Heir. The air grew tense.

“Little behind the times, aren’t ya? Nyoigadake is ours, now.”

My fur quivered in anticipation of seeing a clash of tengu. Tengu clashes were awfully uncommon these days. The battle between Master Akadama and the Kurama tengu over Mount Atago, or the great tug of war over Chikubu Island between Shiga and Kyoto, or the assassination over Mount Ibuki—all had passed into the realm of legend. Any tanuki that witnessed one of these monumental clashes for himself would have something to boast of at the pub for the rest of his life.

But the Heir seemed utterly disinterested, and the challenge fell on deaf ears. “Ah, I see. Very well.”

“That all you gotta say?” Reizanbō challenged him, as if taken aback. “You’re one stone-cold fella. Don’t you realize we kicked your old man off his own mountain?”

“And that would make Nyoigadake yours, then,” replied the Heir, looking unfazed. “Or do you mean to say that you feel remorse for what you did?”

“Whadda we gotta feel sorry for, eh?”

“Then carry yourselves proudly. You are tengu! If you wish to fritter away your days fighting over territory, who is to say that you are wrong? Now, may I trouble you to tell me what has become of my father?”

“He moved to some grubby apartment behind the Demachi arcade now, spends his days getting wait on hand and foot by some tanuki.”

“Then I suppose it falls to me to put him out of his misery. Good day, gentlemen.”

With a courteous tip of the hat, the Heir ascended into the sky, as smoothly and elegantly as if he was riding an unseen escalator. The Kurama tengu watched him go, their jaws slack with amazement. After he was out of sight, they turned to each other and started jabbering, practically frothing at the mouth with excitement. Fallen hanafuda cards jangled as they tread them underfoot.

“That asshole ain’t changed one bit.”

“But who’da thunk he’d ever come back?”

“We gotta let the boys at HQ know.”

“Think Mount Atago’s already heard the news?”

The fact that I’d called them all pipsqueaks seemed to have slipped their minds. Hardly believing my luck, I turned back into a tanuki and raced down the mountain.

As I was passing through the forest, my brother popped out of a bush.

“You’re alright!” he squeaked with joy.

After the happy reunion was over, I transformed into the college student, my brother into a little boy, and we ran down the crowded slope in front of Ginkakuji and along the canals beneath the cherry trees.

This was no time for worrying about tsuchinoko or tengu hail. I needed to make sure the Master was safe. Considering the century-old rift between the two, and what the Heir had said about “putting him out of his misery”, it wasn’t out of the question that he might show up on the Master’s doorstep, intent on violently settling the score. The Master had been the teacher of many a tanuki before me, including my father, and his father before him, and so on and so forth. Even though his status as a tengu was practically nil, I couldn’t just stand by and watch his candle be extinguished.

As we sprinted down Imadegawa Street, I told my brother to return to the Tadasu Forest.

“Tell Yaichirō that Yakushibō’s heir has returned. Yasaka needs to hear about this too.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“I’m heading to Demachiyanagi. The Heir has a grudge against the Master, and he’s bound to try to settle the score. I have to get the Master out of there before he arrives.”

Yashirō raced off like the wind towards the Tadasu Forest, and as for me, I headed towards the Masugata Court Apartments behind the Demachi shopping arcade.

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In Osaka’s Nipponbashi there is a second-hand camera store run by a retired tengu by the name of Konkobu of Iwayasan. I had visited him on several occasions. Konkobu was one of the few whom the Master counted as a friend, and he had told me much about the Heir.

The Heir was born in Kiyō, the city which is now known as Nagasaki. He was whisked away to Kyoto by the Master around the twentieth year of the Meiji era, when the turmoil of the Meiji Restoration was already fading into memory. The Master had introduced the Heir to Konkobu as his own son.

Konkobu remembered quite well the Heir’s arrival in Kyoto. He had been a fair lad, still traces of the boy in him, but his eyes were piercing, and he struggled to keep his fiery temper in check. It was plain to see he had the Master’s blood in him.

The revolutionary transformations of the Meiji era were of no interest to the young Heir. While the Biwa canals were dug, electric lines were laid, buildings were thrown up, and the city was coming into the modern age, up on Nyoigadake the Heir threw himself into the Master’s harsh tengu instruction. Yet he was not satisfied with the way things were. The real reason that he engrossed himself in training was so that he could reach the apex of his powers sooner and overthrow his hated father.

In this way years passed, a new century dawned, and the world moved on to the Taishō period.

The Heir grew up into an exemplary young man, and no longer cooped himself up on Nyoigadake. He befriended Sōjōbō, the patriarch of the Kurama tengu, and together the two spent their days masquerading as students at the local high school and dragging along tanuki for nights on the town. The Master frowned upon his antics, but the Heir steadily grew his tengu strength and openly defied the Master. Both father and son waited and watched, hawk-eyed, for the spark that would ignite the powder keg.

This spark turned out to be a woman.

During those days a Western hotel with a clock tower sprang up on Karasuma Boulevard. It was called the 20th Century Hotel, and she was the sheltered daughter of the war profiteer who had built it.

It took only a single glance for the Heir to fall head over heels for her, but the Master declared that it was his duty to chasten any disciple of his who had strayed from the path of wickedness. At the time the Master was at the height of his tengu powers, and the depravity of coveting his disciple’s first love was hardly enough to give him pause.

On and on the browbeating went against the backdrop of the blazing lights of the hotel, until at last the Heir’s long simmering grudge finally boiled over.

For three days and three nights their battle shook the Higashiyama Sanjuroppo mountains. Neither paused for rest or sleep, their bodies covered in cuts and bruises like a couple of cavemen, until they finally crawled up to the roof of the Minami-za, which at the time had not yet been rebuilt to its current facade. Pale lightning rent the sky above them, and rain poured down on the city as they mustered what little strength remained for one last clash. They stuck fingers up each other’s nostrils and pulled at each other’s hair, resembling less two tengu locked in a life-or-death struggle than two children engaged in a schoolyard tussle. But experience won the day, and Master Akadama kicked the Heir off the roof down to Shijō Boulevard below, letting out a screech of triumph. Pelted by raindrops, the defeated Heir vanished into the night.

One hundred years had passed since then.

Upon his return from England, the heir to Yakushibō of Nyoigadake established a grand residence at the Hotel Okura in Kawaramachi Oike, and was there in his chambers now making preparations to confront his father.

Meanwhile, Master Akadama was holed up in his cheap flat behind the Demachi shopping arcade, hugging a one-eyed daruma and praying for Benten to return, muttering her name over and over to himself: “Benten...Benten…”

Wherefore had such a wide gulf opened up between father and son?

The story was a true tengu tragedy.

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Fortunately, the Heir had not yet arrived when I burst into Master Akadama’s apartment.

Spring sunlight was shining through the raggedy curtains, illuminating the garbage that was piled up on the tatami. The Master was lying on his futon in his yellowed underwear, snoring uproariously. In contrast to his beggarly surroundings, the Master’s expression was utterly enraptured. No doubt he was dreaming of Benten’s behind.

“Wake up!” I gave him a shake, but the Master only turned over in his sleep, probably seeking to bury his head ever deeper in that luscious dream of ass. “I don’t believe this. Of all the times to be sleeping!”

Scattered around the futon were tengu cigars, the Fūjin Raijin fan, Benten’s haphazardly written postcards, the Master’s favorite handkerchief, and other of the Master’s personal effects. I gathered them into a cloth and tied it up, then heaved the Master up onto my back. He wouldn’t be pleased to wake up from his dream and find that he had been transported to a forest full of tanuki, but I didn’t have time to let him leisurely wake up on his own.

I opened the door and was about to step outside when I noticed, standing on the other side of the wall, something very few people would expect to see in Demachiyanagi: an English gentleman.

“He sure doesn’t waste any time!”

I was forced to retreat back into the apartment.

The Heir’s mental image of Master Akadama was a hundred years out of date; he would most certainly not expect to be seeing him in such a derelict state. What if I were to transform into Master Akadama instead? I might just be able to pull the wool over his eyes, and if I greeted him warmly enough I might even be able to bring a thaw to this frozen century-old relationship. Why not?

I dragged some garbage out of the closet and stuffed Master Akadama, still clutching the daruma inside, futon and all. Just as I slid the door shut, I heard the sound of the Heir’s knock on the door.

“Is this the residence of Yakushibō of Nyoigadake?”

I transformed into the Master and sat down cross-legged in the center of the room.

“Enter!” I loudly commanded.

The Heir opened the door and stepped inside, glancing into the room from the kitchen. He was covering his nose and mouth with a snow-white handkerchief. The room reeked of tengu cigar smoke and port wine and mouldering bento boxes and earwax-laden cotton swabs and worn then discarded underwear and old man stench and tanuki hair. It was such a chaotic room that it seemed to have overpowered the Heir, who stood at the threshold of the room looking aghast.

Summoning all of my shapeshifting guile I recreated a facade of tengu majesty. “How glad I am that you have returned, my son. Not a day has passed that I do not regret the injustices I have done you. Will you forgive this old man?”

Hearing these lily-livered words dribble unconvincingly out of the mouth of Yakushibō of Nyoigadake—he who steeped himself in the ways of wickedness, he who spat on all creation—was almost more embarrassing than I could bear. Seeing me open my arms to him, the Heir approached, wiping the tatami clean with his handkerchief before coming down to his knees and gingerly returning my embrace in such a manner so as not to dirty his suit jacket. It appeared that this century-old rift between tengu father and son was at an end.

Suddenly the Heir whispered in my ear, “You seem to have acquired the stench of tanuki, Father.”

“They frequent my abode, from time to time. A most intolerable state of affairs, I assure you.”

“So you say, but I might venture to guess that you are quite fond of them.”

“Foolishness. How can you say such a thing?”

“Why else would you have a tanuki tail?” The heir gave me a smack on the back, and immediately took a firm grasp on the tail that came shooting out. In a twinkle my transformation came sliding off and I found myself hanging upside down, regretting ever thinking that hoodwinking a tengu by transforming into a tengu was a good idea. It was hard to imagine a more humiliating, not to mention painful, experience. Tanuki are meant to live right side up.

Dangling there viewing the world askew, I squirmed and begged for mercy. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“I say, you’re the tanuki from up on Nyoigadake.” The Heir brought his impeccably formed nose up close to me. “So you were one step ahead of me.”

His anger subsiding, the Heir placed me down on the tatami.

I rubbed my aching tail and looked up at the Heir. “Your forgiveness, I beg, for my fatuous fraud. I am Yasaburō, third son of Shimogamo Sōichirō. Allow me to wish you joy of the occasion, sir, on your safe return from your travels.”

“You may dispense with the horrid formality. Now, where is my real father?”

“Ahem. I’m afraid I don’t know where he’s gone.”

The Heir sniffed and looked around the room, his eyes coming to rest on the closet door which I had hastily slid shut moments before. Inside that closet, Master Akadama was drooling and hugging his daruma and dreaming of Benten’s ass. For a second I was deathly sure that the game was up, but rather than investigating the closet the Heir simply muttered, sounding in equal parts admiring and exasperated, “What gallant creatures you tanuki are.”

“That we are, sir,” I replied. “Should you want for anything just say the word. I expect you’ll find many things inconvenient returning after such a long absence, your furnishings being one.”

“Yes, quite. Those Kurama fools seem to have scattered my belongings to the four winds.”

“May I take care of that for you, sir?”

The belongings that the Kurama tengu had tossed off Daimonji had probably ended up in the hands of tanuki all over town. But as long as the Heir invoked his right of possession, it was still entirely possible to reclaim them from the tanuki dens in which they now lay.

“That would be a great help,” the Heir assented, producing a golden coin from his pocket and attempting to press it on me. “Of course I would never think to ask for your assistance without proper compensation.”

“But sir, tengu are by nature greater than tanuki. You should think nothing of it.”

“I dislike being indebted to others, Yasaburō. And furthermore,” added the Heir, “I am not a tengu.”

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The return of the Heir set the tanuki world abuzz.

To us short-lived furballs, witnessing the appearance of a new tengu is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Throngs of curious tanuki jostled in and around the Hotel Okura, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fabled new tengu. Even some of the old furballs of Tanukidani Fudō who had one paw in the grave made the trek out, for someone had started a rather irresponsible rumor that seeing this tengu would add years to your life.

In the midst of all this hullabaloo, I received a summons from Yasaka Heitarō, leader of the tanuki world, and so my elder brother Yaichirō and I found ourselves paying a visit to Gion.

“What a pain in the ass,” I scowled as we headed east from the Shijō Bridge towards Yasaka Shrine. In my experience, being called to a meeting with the Trick Magister meant one of two things: either I was about to get a lecture accompanied by lilting Hawaiian melodies, or I was about to be saddled with another onerous job.

According to Yaichirō, he and Yasaka Heitarō had presided over a meeting yesterday concerning how to respond to the return of the Heir; said meeting had adjourned inconclusively, with all concerned putting off making any decisions in favor of asking me what to do.

“You’re the only tanuki who’s spoken to the Heir,” Yaichirō explained. “And you’ve been dealing with Master Akadama for a long time. When it comes to tengu, it’s got to be you.”

“It’s not like I have a degree in tenguology…”

“Don’t be smart with me. Just do your civic duty, for the tanuki world’s sake.”

The honorable Yasaka Heitarō was not only head of the Yasaka clan, whose territory extended from Maruyama Park down to the streets of Gion, but also the Trick Magister who held together the many tanuki of Kyoto. His office was located in the alleys of Gion Nawate amongst narrow pubs and bars, in a defunct proctology clinic. The clinic had served the tanuki of Kyoto faithfully and well for many years, and in my younger days I’d visited it to deal with an unfortunate outbreak of mushrooms.

The dilapidated waiting room was stuffed with tanuki waiting to plead their case, so we settled down on an ancient leather sofa to patiently await our turn. At last we were shown into the examination room, which was adorned with island decor, where Heitarō was lounging on a wicker chair idly plucking at a ukulele.

“Mahalo, mahalo, thanks for coming. Welcome to my own personal Hawaii.”

The room was painted to look like the blue sky and sea. A couple of fake palm trees were planted in the corner, and hula dancer bobbleheads and leis and Hawaiian shirts festooned the walls. Yasaka Heitarō had been obsessed with Hawaii ever since he visited on a vacation when he was young, and he was eager to foist the Trick Magistership on Yaichirō and make his getaway to the South Pacific. There was nothing his heart desired more than to retire and spend his days relaxing on the beach sipping a coconut.

“Looks like business is booming,” I commented.

“Yeah, shame this job doesn’t actually pay anything. There’re better things I could be doing, you know?”

As the Trick Magister, whenever disagreements arose among the tanuki of Kyoto he had to be the mediator; whenever there was a large gathering, he had to take charge; whenever some young tanuki was having a quarter-life crisis it was his job to show them the way. Sometimes people even came to ask about their love lives. But tanuki have a tendency to overlook the big things, and freak out over the small things. Rare was the problem which Heitarō faced that required some witty King Solomon-esque judgement. So now that a tengu-sized problem had come falling out of the sky, It was only natural for Heitarō to be completely bewildered.

The Trick Magister ushered us into our seats, and took out some mango frappuccinos from the fridge. His ukulele twanged. Now this was more like it.

“Now Yasaburō, I brought you here because no one else can deal with the tengu like you do,” Heitarō began.

I liked the way this was sounding.

“This ‘Heir’...is he the real deal?”

According to Heitarō, if the Heir was a real tengu, and the legitimate successor to Master Akadama, then as a matter of courtesy the tanuki would need to send an official delegation to greet him and hold a proper welcome ceremony. Considering that it had been a hundred years since he had last set foot on his native soil, too, the pomp would have to be that much more ostentatious. At the same time, they were only too well aware of the quarrel that had taken place a century ago, and of the discord that existed between Master Akadama and the Heir. What if the Master refused to recognize the Heir and chose instead to cede his seat to Benten? What if the tanuki sent a delegation to the Heir, only to befall the wrath of Master Akadama and Benten combined?

I told him of everything that had transpired with the Heir. “From everything I’ve seen, I reckon he’s a real tengu. It’s kinda funny that he says he’s not one, but...maybe he just has identity issues.”

“That sounds even more complicated to deal with.”

“Him and Master Akadama are getting along as badly as ever, and once Benten comes back we’re sure to have a fight on our hands. Play with fire, and you’re going to get your ass singed, if you catch my drift.”

“Language, Yasaburō!” Yaichirō chided me.

“No worries,” said Heitarō. “So, what do you think, Yaichirō?”

Yaichirō folded his arms, his expression turning stern. “My brother is a fool. But I believe his judgement is sound.”

Heitarō plunked at his ukulele and thought.

When my father, the previous Trick Magister, was made into the Friday Fellows’ stew, Yasaka Heitarō was tapped to succeed him by dint of having been friends with him since childhood. Thrown into turmoil by the sudden loss of their leader, all the tanuki bigwigs started tossing the hot potato around, and to his great bewilderment it was the unsuspecting Heitarō who ended up getting his hands burned. At the time, Ebisugawa Sōun had attempted to seize the seat for himself, but lacked the necessary status, and many tanuki figured that given the choice they’d be better off with Heitarō in charge. Hence, while Heitarō hadn’t had any notable successes, he hadn’t had any particularly egregious failures either, and the fact that he’d continued to stolidly carry out his functions despite being entirely unsuited to the job was respectable in itself.

“We’re tanuki, after all. Haste makes waste.” At last he stopped strumming and slapped his knee. “Here’s what I think, then, as the leader of this whole shebang: we watch and we wait. Once we see which way the wind is blowing for the tengu, we’ll wag our tails that same way. For the time being, I just need you to keep an eye on them, shoots?”

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I requested Heitarō to announce the Heir’s claims to the tengu hail and reclaim the items now lying in fur-strewn dens all over town. Next I headed to Kiyomizu Chūjirō’s antique shop on Teramachi Street and persuaded him to set aside part of the shop for my use as the collection point for all the returned tengu hail. Many tanuki were loath to part with their precious tengu hail, moaning and pouting and making a scene, and I heard a fair number of them calling me a killjoy under their breaths.

The Heir had brought back an astonishing variety of things from England. Among them were: a writing desk; over ten different canes; several dozen pairs of leather shoes; wooden dressers; a great many valises; a collection of spyglasses; magnifying glasses, microscopes, and other assorted scientific equipment; indoor slippers; silverware and candlesticks; a violin; a chessboard; a mysterious ring of keys; three overcoats; lamps; a bathtub; Persian rugs; hunting caps; hundreds of books; newspaper clippings; and this represents but a mere fraction of his belongings. We also recovered the sofa that my little brother and I had found at the foot of Nyoigadake.

For the next week I was so swamped in sorting everything out I could hardly breathe, let alone think about tsuchinoko.

Tsuchinoko are fantasy. Tengu are reality.

While this was going on, the Heir spent his days at the hotel in Kawaramachi Oike. With his princely looks and tengu majesty he enthralled the staff, who in turn treated him like royalty. His old-fashioned English charm was right at home whether he was sitting in the stately lobby or in the café, putting his tengu-ness on full display. It was his custom to take an hour-long walk every day at five in the afternoon, rain or shine, his route always the same. He cut a conspicuous figure in the crowds of Shinkyōgoku, every head turning to get a second look. On his return to the hotel he always stopped before the door to check the time, and every movement, from the way he took out his pocket watch to the angle of his chin as he observed the position of the hands, was as precise as clockwork. The way napoléons poured forth like water from his waistcoat pockets hinted at the vast amount of wealth at his disposal, but rather than squander that wealth on nightly debauchery he lived a rather quiet life.

Each evening I headed to the hotel around the time I estimated he would return from his walk to deliver the day’s haul of repossessed goods.

“Ah, Yasaburō. Splendid work today, as always.”

Over the course of my daily visits, the hotel room slowly began to take on the semblance of a posh little slice of Europe. Each day, the Heir would greet me in a spotless white dress shirt, relaxed and ensconced among his favorite accoutrements. He would often attempt to press a gold coin into my pocket, but having my own sense of tanuki dignity, I always found a way to decline.

“I don’t like being indebted to people,” he insisted.

“Sure, sure, but I am a tanuki.”

“Then I will rephrase. I don’t like being indebted to tanuki.”

“I’ll be honest with you, I’m planning on collecting on this debt in a big way someday. A couple of gold coins wouldn’t nearly be enough. I’m so busy these days I don’t have time to go tsuchinoko hunting anymore.”

“Lo, the trick is revealed. I suppose if I took my eyes off you for a second I’d be robbed blind.”

“Being rich enough to be able to consider that possibility without batting an eye must be quite wonderful.”

“Touché. Is that a pearl of tanuki wisdom, perchance?” The Heir smiled ruefully, but I still refused to take the coin.

Of all his possessions, the Heir was most eager to recover a German-made air rifle. It was crafted in the 19th century, and used a powerful pneumatic pump to compress air and shoot lead pellets. It had been brought over to England from the Continent, passed down as a prized heirloom of a noble house for many years before being bought by the Heir. In the picture I saw it was quite beautiful, almost like some kind of brass instrument. When I heard the term “air rifle”, I imagined in my head some sort of peashooter.

“It’s nothing so benign as that,” the Heir laughed. It was rumored to have been used to assassinate a government minister in some faraway country, so any tanuki unfortunate enough to be shot by this weapon would find himself on a one-way trip to the afterlife.

“I would have assumed that your furry brethren wouldn’t be fond of rifles.”

“Of course not. It’s just that I’ve never actually seen a real one before.”

“I would be most appreciative if you found it as soon as possible. I would hate for it to be used for some ill purpose.”

This whole time I was making these frequent social calls, Master Akadama remained blissfully unaware of the Heir’s return. No tanuki wanted to be on the receiving end of his wrath, and besides, the fact that he was cooped up in his apartment meant there was hardly any opportunity for him to find out. When I visited once to bring him a bento, I found him hunched over the low table in the middle of the room, writing a love letter to send to Benten.

How pitiable indeed, that only the Master remained unaware.

As this thought passed through my head, the Master suddenly swiveled his glare towards me. “Yasaburō.”

“Yes?”

“You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be silly,” I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as I could. “You know I’ve got more secrets than you could shake a stick at.”

The Master snorted, then turned back to his letter.

“Very well. I’m sure it’s of no consequence, anyhow.”