Chapter 7 — Blood of a Tengu, Blood of a Fool (Part 2)

The earth in the dim space beneath the floorboards of Kinchō Shrine was honeycombed with tanuki tunnels.

The girl transformed into a tanuki, put Yajirō on her back, and dived into a large hole. After clambering in a ways, the tunnel expanded into a large burrow reinforced with brick walls, and eventually they saw the light from old-fashioned oil lanterns and emerged into a large wooden-floored corridor.

“Here we are, the Kinchō burrow!”

Taking on human forms, the girl and Yajiro walked down the corridor.

The zigzagging hallway continued on a very long way, with many rooms connected to it on each side. As they passed each room, the tanuki rolling inside would shout hallos affably to the girl. Some rooms were full of tanuki dressed in pilgrims’ garb, while in others whole families sat happily at round dining tables. Each room had a veranda facing onto a garden, and though you could see white walls at the far ends of the gardens, the skies in each room were all different: some had towering mid-summer thunderheads, and others hard driving rain pelting down beyond the closed shutters.

“All of these rooms belong to Lord Sagamibō of Shiramine,” the girl informed Yajirō as she walked briskly along. “The clan only rents them from him.”

“How many are there?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe how many there are, just thinking about it makes me tired. And this hallway is always changing too. Lord Sagamibō comes and takes rooms away, or adds new ones on. There’s a great kerfuffle every time, what with all the tanuki having to move around.”

Finally they came to a great room as wide as a banquet hall.

Here lay a pleasant early summer sky, and handkerchiefs of many colors fluttered in the breeze on drying racks in the garden. In the middle of the room was a neat collection of old cameras, which two men were peering at.

One of the men wore a white yukata with thick black stripes, and a gourd hung from his neck, dangling over his shock of luxurious, manly chest hair. He wore a thick beard, and his body was quite round. Though he was in a human form, he clearly did not deign to hide his tanukiness. This was the head of the clan, 18th of the Kinchō name.

The large man kneeling beside him smiled. His glasses glinted in the light, and his kimono was impeccably neat. This was the famed counselor of the Kinchō, Fujinoki-dera-no-Tonbi.

The two tanuki paused in their discussion of the cameras, and glanced questioningly at Yajirō.

The head of the daughter introduced Yajirō, then said, “Good-bye!” and skipped out of the room.

Yajirō proceeded to Kinchō and knelt on the ground, bowing his head low to the floor. “It is an honor to see you once more. I am Yajirō, second son of Shimogamo Sōichirō. I am glad to see you well.”

“Well, well, a Shimogamo.” Kinchō and Tonbi exchanged flustered glances, then bowed their heads to Yajirō.

Yajirō noticed then that there was one more tanuki in the room. on a dirty futon in the corner of the room lay a man snoring loudly, his head shaved like that of a monk. His round stomach was exposed, and in his right hand he clutched a half-eaten ongiri. Clearly he wasn’t too concerned about hiding his tanukiness, either.

“Must be a guest of Kinchō,” Yajirō thought. “Not much for manners, obviously.”

Yajirō told Kinchō and his counselor of the recent happenings in Kyoto, that Yasaka Heitarō would soon be retiring from his post to be replaced by Yaichirō, that the new Trick Magister would be visiting soon to greet them in person, and that he hoped to continue the strong relationship established by their fathers before them.

Kinchō smiled with gratification. “The Trick Magister...Yaichirō has grown strong. If there’s aught I can do, aught I can do at all, you need only ask. The son of Shimogamo Sōichirō will always have a friend in the Kinchō clan!”

“Ah, but how sorrowful was the fate of Sōichirō!” Fujinoki-dera-no-Tonbo said mournfully.

“Indeed, indeed,” sighed Kinchō, his round body quivering with sorrow, and the gourd around his neck sloshing quietly with it.

Yajirō lowered his voice and spoke of the machinations of Ebisugawa Sōun which had been brought to light the previous year. When Kinchō heard of how Sōun had made Father into stew, his face clouded.

“An infamous tale!”

“But Uncle has passed away, and the rift between the Shimogamo and the Ebisugawa clans has been mended.

“Then, who now heads the Ebisugawa Clan?”

“It is my pleasure to inform you that Sōun’s eldest son, Ebisugawa Kureichirō, has returned to Kyoto.”

At these words Kinchō and Tonbo were astonished.

“How very queer,” Tonbo murmured, gazing astern. “For Ebisugawa Kureichirō is at this very moment staying in this house.”

It was Yajirō’s turn to be astonished. “Truly?”

“Indeed, it has been over a year now,” replied Kinchō. “He disciplines himself, and he does not; he is enlightened, and he is not; a very strange sort of monk, to be sure. He claimed that he had seen the light at Cape Muroto, only to realize that it had only been his imagination. He eats enough for fourteen tanuki, and he sleeps sometimes for three days and three nights. I find him quite impossible to understand.”

“Interesting discussion you’ve all been having,” came a voice.

“Ah, Kureichirō. Awake at last?” called Kinchō.

The monk who had been snoring so uproariously now sat up. The nibbled onigiri rolled off his chest, and hastily he grabbed it and stuffed it into his mouth.

“You may call this tanuki in Kyoto ‘Kureichirō’ if you please,” said the monk, staring at Yajirō and rubbing his bald pate. “But in that case, who am I?”

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At 3 in the afternoon, Yaichirō’s procession set out from the Tōka Saikan with great pomp and circumstance.

Trailing behind Yaichirō down Shijō Avenue were the other tanuki from the party. According to Nanzenji Seijirō, Yaichirō already gave off the regal air of a Trick Magister.

The elders had gathered at the Heir’s mansion. When Yaichirō and his party arrived in front of the ground floor of the building, waiting for them at the entrance were Yasaka Heitarō and other heavyweights of the tanuki world, dressed up in formal kimono.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all for this day,” said Yaichirō, bowing his head.

The tanuki fearfully climbed the stairs up to the roof. The sun was already setting, and a butt-chilling winter wind was blowing.

The Heir greeted them by the gas lamp at the garden gate.

“Welcome, gentlecreatures.”

He had redecorated his residence for the conclave. His meticulously arranged furniture had been moved to the back wall of the sitting room and piled up one on top of the other with exacting precision. At the very apex of the stack, almost touching the ceiling, was the Heir’s favorite sofa, perfectly balanced in tengu fashion. From the ceiling hung a chandelier, shimmering like a fortress made of glass, and on the floor was a Persian rug that looked as if it could seat a hundred tanuki on a magic carpet ride.

“I will observe the proceedings here,” said the Heir, floating up through the air to rest on the sofa and lighting up a pipe.

Cushions were put out on the carpet, and the elders were installed in their seats.

With Yasaka Heitarō at the fore, the tanuki all bowed to the Heir.

“On behalf of all the tanuki, I humbly offer our gratitude for your gracious hosting of our conclave. I must disclose that this conclave may not be resolved for some time, and I beg your indulgence.”

“Very well, Yasaka Heitarō. Carry on.” The Heir looked around and frowned. “By the way, I don’t seem to see Yasaburō here?”

“Owing to having incurred the wrath of Lady Benten he is currently on the run.”

“Dear me, he certainly does get around.”

Atop that magnificent Persian rug, the elders’ conclave began. It was a decidedly unhurried affair. The elders whispered amongst themselves, their voices soft as bursting bubbles, and they fell asleep and woke up as they pleased, hovering on the boundary between life and death. People said that they flitted between both sides of that boundary, considering matters both of this world and the next, but the truth was no one was quite sure.

While this was going on Nanzenji Gyokuran sat at the rear, awaiting the outcome of the conclave. She watched with great interest the Heir up in his perch near the ceiling. He was sitting with one long leg crossed over the other, sending out clouds of smoke from his pipe to float around the exquisite chandelier.

Do tengu find it funny for tanuki to hold conclaves? Gyokuran wondered, looking around the solemn faces in the crowd.

Something odd struck her then.

Ebisugawa Kureichirō was nowhere to be seen.

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At the same time, Mother was worrying herself sick in the Tadasu Forest.

At around 3 in the afternoon the winter sun began to go down, and the first shadows of evening crept into the trees. Dry leaves tumbled over the ground, blown by a chill wind.

The more she thought by herself, the more seeds of doubt sprouted in her mind. Normally Mother had more pluck in her body than all of us brothers combined, but today was the anniversary of Father’s death in that stewpot, and her mind was filled with swirling misgivings.

“Sō, oh Sō. Watch over those boys.” Mother prayed to Father on the other side, that her children would come to no harm.

Engrossed in her anxiety, Mother nearly jumped out of her skin when her phone suddenly rang. She retrieved her phone from her bed and answered, to hear the sobbing, very out-of-sorts voice of Yashirō on the other end.

“I’m in trouble, Mother! I caused a big accident!”

“What accident?”

“The lab is all blown up, and Kinkaku and Ginkaku are really mad at me! But I don’t know how it even happened!”

“Calm down. Stay put until I get there.”

Mother transformed into the Prince in Black and flew out of her bed, dashing like the wind down the shrine road and across the horseriding ground onto Shimogamo Boulevard. Jumping into a cab, she shouted, “To the Ebisugawa power plant, stat!”

Fifteen minutes later, Mother came hurtling through the gates of the Faux Denki Bran distillery. Around the ivy-entwined black-tiled buildings and the warehouses the air was strangely silent. The slanting sunlight glowed orange in the smudged windows of the distillery. In front of the entrance to the distillery was parked the Ebisugawas’ private fire truck, its lights flashing red.

Going up the stairs and down the long corridor, Mother began to pick up the sounds of a great hullabaloo.

A firehose was stretched in front of Yashirō’s laboratory, and the Ebisugawa Guard Corps were hard at work clad in firefighting gear. In their midst Yashirō huddled by the wall despondently, his tail on full display. Mother ran up to him and peeked into the lab, where she was met by a shocking sight.

The interior of the lab looked as if the wind god Fūjin had just howled through, a perfect cataclysm of smashed machinery and smouldering cinders. Finally comprehending just how big the accident had been, Mother became afraid, patting Yashirō’s face and tugging on his ears and making sure that his tail wasn’t on fire and that he was all right.

“I’m okay,” Yashirō groaned.

“You certainly don’t look okay! What’s going on?”

Kinkaku came striding out from the mass of firefighters, looking smug in a glittering golden firefighter’s coat. “A catastrophe, that’s what!”

According to him, one of the machines that Yashirō had been using to develop his Faux Denki Bran had run amok, an unexpected chemical reaction chaining into a massive explosion. Luckily, Yashirō had been away taking a breather at the time, which was why he was unharmed.

“I would certainly like to know how the Shimogamo clan is educating its children! Never before has an explosion of such historical proportions happened here at the Faux Denki Bran distillery. I was in my own room when I heard the boom. It was so loud my tail popped out!”

“That can’t be right. Nothing could have exploded!”

“Poppycock. What would an amateur inventor know? I had always feared that such an incident would occur. Our brother Kureichirō lent you this laboratory out of the kindness of his own heart. A fine way to repay him! No good deed goes unpunished, I say!”

“I’m gonna do a full investigation—”

As Yashirō tried to enter the lab, Kinkaku jumped in his way and eyed him menacingly. “Don’t even think about destroying any evidence! This crime scene is under our jurisdiction!”

“Wait, Kinkaku,” coaxed Mother. “I am truly very sorry that this happened, but isn’t it a little early to jump to conclusions? You heard what Yashirō said, there must be some mistake.”

“A mistake, you say? Look at the evidence before you, madam!”

“Don’t you call me madam!” Mother snapped testily.

“...In any case, thanks to the explosion that has occurred in this laboratory, our electrical systems have been disrupted, and the production line has had to be shut down. Bigly damages of historical proportions! Rest assured that we will be billing you for recompense. We’ll sue for every last hair on your tails!”

“Where is Kaisei? I’d like to talk to her.”

“Kaisei has locked herself in her room. She’s been removed from management of the distillery, and so she is sulking. Girls her age are very difficult to deal with!”

“Sulking in her room during an accident like this? That’s not the Kaisei I know.”

“I must insist you leave her alone. Merely entering her room is grounds to be called all manner of uncouth names. Hairy turd, overgrown amoeba...ooh, my sensitive soul is permanently scarred, I tell you.”

Hearing that Kaisei refused to appear, Mother’s suspicion was raised. “What are you Ebisugawas planning?” she demanded, drawing Yashirō into her arms.

At that moment, Ginkaku came out of the ashen laboratory wearing a silvery coat. “Kinkaku! Look at what I’ve found!” he said, handing a shiny long golden object to Kinkaku.

Kinkaku waved that horrible invention in front of Yashirō’s nose. “And what would this be doing in your laboratory?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it!”

“This is the German air rifle that the Heir has been looking for, the very same one that took the life of our poor old father at the Arima hot springs!” Kinkaku accused, glaring at Mother and Yashirō. “What is it doing in your laboratory!?”

Mother was shocked, her arms wrapped around Yashirō.

“What is the meaning of this?” said a voice from behind them.

They turned around to see Ebisugawa Kureichirō standing there, a stern expression on his face.

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Not once did the thought that anything like this might be occurring cross Yajirō’s mind as he boarded the Nankai Ferry and set sail across the Kii Channel. He stood on the deck breathing the smell of the sea deep into his lungs, watching as Tokushima Port receded into the distance. In no time at all the warehouses, the cement factory, and the red and white smokestacks shrank into nothingness. The ferry plied its way across the channel towards Wakayama as the sun set over the waves.

“I wouldn’t have minded doing a little more traveling,” he sighed, leaning over the handrail and bidding farewell to the old province of Awa disappearing over the horizon. The tanuki of Kinchō had been most accommodating, and seeing Yajirō’s shock at having come across him Kureichirō had suggested that they return to Kyoto and take stock of things. Crawling through the burrow and exiting the tunnel beneath the floorboards of Kinchō Shrine, they had come across Kinchō’s daughter, in the middle of devoting herself to her art. “Hopping on home already?” she chirped, but despite her look of surprise, she’d already been informed of the situation by Kinchō, and had a car ready in which to drive them to the port.

The world is so full of kind tanuki, Yajirō reflected.

Kureichirō approached him, slurping up cup noodles. “How quickly recedes the land of Awa,” he said, watching the port recede.

Even inside the car Kureichirō had been stuffing his cheeks with a steamed bun, and had browsed the stores at the port right until the last moment before the ferry’s departure, making Yajirō rather anxious. “My apologies,” Kureichirō remarked. “I’ve been sleeping so long that I find myself quite famished.”

Yajirō kept sneaking glances at his former schoolmate, but he simply could not reconcile the sacrilegious monk who stood before him with the pious tanuki cub who had stood reading scriptures under the trees all day. The Kureichirō who was already in Kyoto bore a much closer resemblance to the Kureichirō of old.

“You must have done a lot of training, Kureichirō.”

“He who boasts of having trained is yet far from enlightenment.”

“And are you enlightened?”

“Not at all, not at all. Ah, he who remains unenlightened deserves an empty belly.” He slurped up another mouthful of noodles.

Yajirō told him of everything that had happened in his absence. Kureichirō never raised an eyebrow the whole time, not even when heard that his father had dishonoured his legacy with the foul deed of killing another tanuki, nor when he was informed that Sōun had been sent off to the next life by human hands.

“A not unexpected end for my father.”

“Don’t you feel sad?”

“That is how Father lived. How a single tanuki lives, how it dies, it makes little difference to the universe. Yet every furball has his part to play. A wicked tanuki he may have been, yet even Father had his own sort of dignity. Now that he is dead, I cannot help but think that it is not such a bad thing for such a tanuki to come into this world now and then.”

Suddenly Kureichirō looked at Yajirō with curiously limpid eyes. “Forgive me. To you he is your father’s murderer. I ask pardon, Yajirō.”

“Don’t sweat it,” said Yajirō, who even now felt no anger.

“Now, who is it who is masquerading as me?” Kureichirō wondered, sounding amused.

“To me, at least, he looked like the real you.”

“I look forward to returning to Kyoto and seeing this imposter face to face. If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him—if you meet yourself on the road... And while I’m there, I suppose I shall read a sutra before my father’s grave, one fit for a fool.”

Shivering in the chilly wind, they stared out at the broad sky and the wide sea.

“Once things have been cleared up, I’m thinking of crossing back to Shikoku,” Yajirō mentioned.

“Very good,” grinned Kureichirō. “I’m sure Kinchō’s daughter will be delighted.”

“What’re you laughing about, Kureichirō?”

“I’m not laughing about anything, Yajirō.”

Yajirō recalled his parting with Kinchō’s daughter on the dock at the port. There she stood, not a care in the world for the passersby staring at her bare feet, telling him, “Come again, and next time take me on that train again to Cape Misaki!” As Yajirō and Kureichirō made their way up the gangplank, she raised herself up on tippy toes as high as she could go, waving her hands and shouting, “Bon voyage!” He already missed her sparkling eyes.

“What was her name again?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Kureichirō’s eyes were round with surprise. “Shabbier than I expected of you. Her name is Seiran. It means ‘wave of stars’.”

“That’s a nice name, reminds me of space. Bit like Kaisei, don’t you think?”

“It would, I should think,” smiled Kureichirō. “‘Twas the Trick Magister Shimogamo Sōichirō who gave Seiran her name.”

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When I regained my senses, I wasn’t sure where I was. My head was unpleasantly fuzzy, and the world was swaying something terrible. I lifted my nose a bit and touched the cold metal bar of a cage. The cage was wrapped with a purple cloth so that I couldn’t see anything outside it.

“They got me good. Guess I’m headed straight for the Friday Fellows’ stewpot.”

Kaisei was curled up in a warm ball beside me, sleeping. Her face looked peaceful, as if she was dreaming of a giant onsen-manjū, and though the cage swayed and shook she showed no signs of stirring from her slumber. My nose tickled by her fur, I gave a little sneeze, kerchoo.

That same instant, the swaying cage suddenly stopped and was lowered to the ground with a rattle. I hurriedly feigned sleep, while Tenmaya undid the cloth and peered inside. He was clothed in a hideous fur coat, like some moneyed old crone; a golden bracelet hung on the wrist of the hand with which he was rattling the cage, while his fingers were adorned with numerous garish rings. He was all decked out in the vulgar wear of the nouveau riche, but on his white puffing breath I detected the faintest scent of Jintan breath mints.

Outside the cage was a bustling thoroughfare which I seemed to recognize. We must have been taken from Lake Biwa back to the streets of Kyoto. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the sky, which was tinged in pink.

“Right-o, then,” said Tenmaya, bundling the cloth over the cage and setting off once more.

After about ten minutes of swaying, I heard the sound of a door being slid open, and everything went dark.

“Good evening. It is I, Tenmaya.”

“Tenmaya, well done.” I heard from far away the voice of an old man, like a voice from the heavens.

Through the purple cloth I smelled aged wood, tatami mats, moist earth, incense, the scents all melding into one harmonious perfume. We seemed to be in the inner courtyard of a traditional house. At long last Tenmaya undid the knot and pulled away the cloth.

“I’ve come to deliver the tanuki.”

We were in a dim, chilly 6-tatami room. Jurōjin, the head of the Friday Fellows, was sitting in the middle of the room, his back to the alcove. Beside him was a painted tanuki statue carved from elephant ivory, which he was stroking in lieu of an armrest. In the alcove was a hanging scroll depicting a tanuki looking at the moon. Jurōjin narrowed his eyes, peering at me as I feigned unconsciousness.

“Excellent work, Tenmaya. Now we shall be able to have our stew.”

“...So, you will be striking the new guy, Yasaburō?”

“Benten recommended him, but be that as it may we cannot accept someone who fails to bring a tanuki to our year-end banquet. It seems Benten misread him.”

“I thought he was a pretty interesting lad. A real shame, that.”

“That is not of your concern.”

“I must say, drawing the short straw ain’t to my liking. I’m the great Tenmaya! Having to clean up other folks’ messes is beneath me.” Tenmaya placed the rifle he had been concealing on the tatami. “All it took was one shot from this gun, blammo! It was just a sleeping dart, so it’s still as fresh as they come. It’ll be dreaming blissfully until it’s sliding into the pot, I reckon.”

“Where did you get it?” asked Jurōjin.

“In the garden of that artist, Ayameike. Our good friend Ebisugawa was kind enough to clue me in. Told me that there was a tanuki living there, and all I’d have to do was sneak up and knock it on the head. And what do I see when I get there, not one but two tanuki having a little tryst. Talk about a stroke of luck! Beautiful sight, how they were cozying up to each other. Horny little bastards, aren’t they!”

“How pitiable, that their tryst will have to be continued in the pot.”

“They do say that stews are better shared with a friend!”

Damn that scummy monk, selling a tanuki to the likes of Tenmaya! I doubted that he’d expected Kaisei, who’d snuck out from the distillery, to be caught up in it. Kureichirō had finally shown his true colors, not that I was in a position to do anything about it.

“My 120th birthday approaches; this tanuki stew will be just the nourishment I require.” Jurōjin stood up and slid open the paper door, walking out along the corridor that encircled the dim courtyard. Tenmaya picked up the cage and followed behind. Passing out the rear of the house and through an even darker storehouse, we came to an open space surrounded by a wall topped with barbed wire.

There, Jurōjin’s beloved three-storied train towered into the air.

At the front of the train on the first floor was the driver’s compartment. Jurōjin went inside, and with a flick of a switch, lights twinkled on all over the train. Installed next to the driver’s seat was Master Akadama’s chagama engine. With this tengu’s toy in his possession, it seemed that Jurōjin had in mind to take the skies over Kyoto for his own.

Jurōjin seated himself at his desk in the study and eyed Tenmaya. “I must say, you do seem to have come into a good amount of money.”

“Heh, money makes the world go around, and it’s all coming into my pockets. Ebisugawa wanted my pretty little air rifle here something fierce, so I sold it to him for a pret-ty penny.”

“Yet you have it in your possession.”

“...Oh, so it is. I wonder how that happened?”

“You deceived him.” Jurōjin narrowed his eyes.

“Now that doesn’t sound respectable. Call me a seller of dreams.”

“You are wicked, Tenmaya. One day you will certainly fall into Hell.”

As Jurōjin said those words, a foul wind emanated from the diptych standing in the corner of the study, rippling the pages of the bound books on Jurōjin’s desk and the scrolls hanging from the ceiling. An uneasy grimace came to Tenmaya’s face, and he took a step back.

“The winds of Hell blow today,” smiled Jurōjin behind the desk. “Perhaps they will come for you before too long.”

“Don’t say things like that, yer honour. I’m fond of this life, at least twice as much more than your average person.”

At that moment the foul wind rose to a howl, and someone whooshed out of the diptych. Tenmaya let out a panicked squawk and tossed away the cage, backing up against the windows. But rather than a sergeant of Hell, it was Benten who emerged.

“Oh, Tenmaya,” she said, dusting off tongues of flames from her dress. “I thought something smelled in here.”

“That’s not very nice of you,” grumbled Tenmaya. “And anyways, wasn’t it your ass I had to cover for getting this tanuki, since Yasaburō’s run off and all?”

“I’d rather be toasted over the flames of Hell than let your hands anywhere near my behind.”

“All that effort and not a word of thanks. Gives me the chills, it does.”

“Why should I have to thank someone who’s so far below my league?”

Benten leaned down and looked at me and Kaisei inside the cage. The dragonstone hanging from her neck clinked against the cage.

There was a silence, and then I felt a warm, salty droplet fall on my nose. I wasn’t sure if Benten had noticed that I was still only pretending to be asleep.

“Hah. So even demons cry,” observed Tenmaya.

“I feel sorry that you’re going to end up in my stomach,” Benten whispered to me, putting her arms around the cage. “But I’m going to eat you just the same.”

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Daylight was fading outside the French doors of the Heir’s villa, and the chandelier blazed now as if it illuminated a gilded ball attended by the cream of society. Utterly bored by the proceedings, the Heir was stretched out on his sofa, as motionless as if he was asleep.

The elders began to all shuffle back into this world, their long discussion reaching its end, and soft murmurs of “Very well, very well…” began to bubble up. With his moment of glory drawing nigh, Yaichirō drew himself up regally, when all of a sudden the French doors burst open.

“Stop the vote!”

“What is the meaning of this, Kinkaku!” Yasaka Heitarō’s voice was wroth. “How dare you shout out in such a manner in the midst of the elders’ conclave! And in front of the Heir, to boot!”

“You can scold me later, Mr. Yasaka!” Kinkaku looked elated as he shoved aside perplexed tanuki and led a troop of the Ebisugawa Guard Corps to the front. Ebisugawa Kureichirō appeared at the open doorway and swept inside, his expression stormy.

Kinkaku turned around and said to Kureichirō, “You’ll let me handle this, won’t you?”

He beamed like a celebrity prosecutor who’s just pinned down his prey, and taking the German air rifle from one of the guardsmen triumphantly held it up for all to see.

“This was discovered at the Faux Denki Bran distillery in the laboratory of one Shimogamo Yashirō!” he announced, looking around at the tanuki. “There is no question, this is the very air rifle which took the life of our father Ebisugawa Sōun. That rank _amateur _Yashirō caused an explosion at the lab, you see, and in the course of our investigation of the scene we discovered this rifle. I was utterly shocked! Why would Yashirō be hiding such a thing in his laboratory? How very suspicious! I find it highly suspect!”

The elders went still, while an uproar broke out among the rest of the tanuki. Kinkaku waved the air rifle around, and wherever the muzzle pointed the crowd flattened itself to the ground in terror.

“Surely not!” Yasaka Heitarō’s lip trembled.

Kinkaku smirked at Yaichirō. “Yashirō and your mother are at the distillery. Ginkaku is questioning them for information. I’m sure it won’t take long for Yashirō to spill the beans!”

“You have no right to detain Mother. Release her at once!” Yaichirō rose up to his knees. “This is a conspiracy! It’s an Ebisugawa plot!”

“Yet here lies the cold evidence before you. Why were you concealing it? Why else, but because you were the ones who used it to kill our father! You murderer!” Kinkaku aimed the rifle at Yaichirō. “No doubt you put that loose cannon Yasaburō up to it. And isn’t it true that Yasaburō was the only one to witness Father’s death at Arima? Being the wise tanuki that I am, it struck me immediately. I have seen through all your schemes! You ordered Yasaburō to assassinate Father, and made Yashirō conceal the evidence. Then you would become Trick Magister, all the while feigning knowledge of the whole affair, and when things had quieted down you would return the murderous instrument to the Heir! A fine connivance! A veritable confederacy of brotherly love!”

Ebisugawa Kureichirō sank to his knees and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with a bandaged arm. “I did not want to believe it. To think that Yaichirō, of all tanuki, would have assassinated Father. A life for a life, an endless cycle of death—”

“Your scheme to become Trick Magister is at an end!” crowed Kinkaku.

The murder conspiracy theory that had been making the rounds during autumn now seemed to be hanging over the room like a dark cloud once more. The elders were silent, as were the gathered bigwigs. Yasaka Heitarō asked for opinions, but all he got were mumbled prevarications about how they couldn’t possibly be up to the challenge of such a weighty decision, that they had no knowledge of the matter, that they wholly agreed with the opinion of their neighbour, and so on and so forth.

The shock of the accusation was so great that Yaichirō could only sit there stunned, as if he was under a spell.

Just as the gas lamp flickered on in the gloom of the front garden, a member of the Ebisugawa Guard Corps scampered into its circle of light coming toward the villa. Panting for breath, the tanuki rushed inside. “Shimogamo Yasaburō’s been caught by the Friday Fellows!” he yelled. “He’s probably been cooked up by now!”

“...Yasaburō?” Yaichirō sucked in his breath and stood up.

A vague sort of resignation pervaded the room. Yaichirō could clearly see that most of the assembled tanuki were thinking, that Yasaburō always was too bold for his own good. Fury gripped him. Yasaburō had risked his neck and courted Benten’s anger for the good of the tanuki world. Now Yasaburō had been caught, and all they were doing was standing around?

Looking at Kureichirō’s calm, composed expression, Yaichirō suddenly realized that this trap must have been set in motion by this furball of a monk. He was the true mastermind behind it all. How could you not have seen the evil he was hiding, you utter, damned fool!

Suddenly Gyokuran was beside him, gripping his hand tightly. She said nothing, only standing by him and waiting for his decision.

Yaichirō’s blood came to a boil then, and a laugh welled up from the bottom of his belly.

Yasaburō was his little brother. His little brother.

And if his little brother was in peril, there was nothing left to think about.

Yaichirō’s fur ruffled out into the striped hide of a tiger. He took a step onto the Persian carpet and howled. “Damn the tradition, damn the tanuki world, and damn the Trick Magistership!”

The venue shook.

“All according to plan,” said Kinkaku, a grin spreading across his face. “We heard it from your own mouth. And in front of the elders, no less!”

But Yaichirō did not flinch or falter. Solemnly he declared, “I am Yaichirō, first son of Shimogamo Sōichirō: none other than him who was said to have squandered the great inheritance of his father’s blood. But in me, too, runs the blood of a fool. Though my path lead me to the bottom of a stewpot, still I shall rescue my brother. You all may play at your own games as you please!”

As Yaichirō finished his thunderous address, Gyokuran hopped nimbly onto his back.

Yaichirō stared straight at Kureichirō. “If you covet the Trick Magistership so, you may have it!”

Leaving the thunderstruck tanuki behind, Yaichirō leaped out onto the rooftops with Gyokuran on his back. The day was ending, and streetlights were beginning to come on. It was the perfect wintry evening for a hot pot.

As he galloped over the rooftops, Yaichirō shook with excitement. “I’m sorry, Gyokuran. I suppose in the end, I am nothing but a fool.”

“I know,” Gyokuran laughed, clinging to Yaichirō’s neck. “Why do you think I’m here?”