Heian Shrine

Kyoto, Japan

December 25, 2001

The winter wind bites cold and hard in Kyoto; this late afternoon is no exception.

I gather the collar of my wool coat up close to my neck, readjust the small bundle I carry under my arm, and continue my brisk walk through the immense gates of Heian jingu.

My eyes scan the scattered pockets of people for my contact. A bustling little crowd of tourists, dutifully following the upraised flag of a tired-looking tour guide...a pair of maiko, tying the white papers of their fortunes to a nearby tree branch...

And then I see him. Morudaa-san.

He sits alone on a far bench, absently watching the distant figures. As I approach, his world-weary eyes meet mine in a moment of tentative recognition. I nod slightly; he rises and extends his hand. I grasp it in my own, unsure - as always - how to perform this ritual, and shake it with a slight bow.

"Morudaa-san?" I confirm, too late.

He nods and says, "Mulder. Yes."

We sit down together on the narrow wooden bench, and I proffer my small, paper-wrapped parcel. He takes it between slender fingers and looks down at it distastefully, a sharp glint of anger rising in his nearly lifeless eyes.

"Ishimaru's notes?" he asks quietly.

I nod and reply, in broken English, "Yes. I find these in the old storeroom, Morudaa-san. Not many left."

He nods silently, his eyes never leaving the package.

I've read the notes, of course. They describe...unspeakable things; acts that no one - human or otherwise - should ever be made to endure.

Now it occurs to me - again, too late - that I have no way of knowing if this is actually Morudaa. That I have reason to trust him with the documents I've just handed over. I groan inwardly and belatedly watch him for any hint of deceit.

Yet...it's in his clear, strange eyes. They reflect the light of the setting sun, taking in its melancholy and making it his. This man's got no agendas. I see it; yet, I can't help wonder why it is he wants this information. I've been told almost nothing.

"Morudaa-san," I begin, rousing him from his troubled contemplation. He looks up quickly. "My friend...he say you want Ishimaru notes?"

Morudaa nods, a question in his glance.

"I..." I search for the right words. I've never been very good at English.

"I...my friend? Trust...my friend. His friend..."

Morudaa nods, and I find myself hoping he really does understand what I'm trying to say.

"Your friend? My friend...trust, yes?"

He nods slowly.

"Yes...you trust your friend...your friend trusts mine...mine trusts me. So you trust me? Is that right?"

I nod vigorously.

"I give you this Ishimaru notes, but I don't...why you want this?"

Moruda considers my question for a moment; long enough that I worry I've perhaps made a mistake. That he's not the man I've been looking for. Yet, when he speaks, his words assuage my fears.

"The things in here? What they did?"

I nod, encouraging him to continue. Assuring him I understand.

"They...they should never have happened."

Another nod, with more conviction this time. "I think so too, Morudaa-san."

His lips purse tightly, and he returns my gesture.

"Right now..." he pauses, his eyes clouding slightly. He looks away; an icy gust of wind blows against us, and I pull my coat close. Moruda bites his lip...he looks like he's fighting back tears. The cold can have that effect.

When he continues, his voice is slightly hoarse.

"I think these things in here?" he pats the package resting on his lap. "I think they're happening now."

I don't so much hear his statement as feel it, an unpleasant jolt of electricity gripping my heart. It must show on my face, because Moruda nods slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

I can only whisper, "In...America?"

Moruda shakes his head.

"I think...everywhere."

"Usoo..." I utter my disbelief in Japanese, and Morudaa eyes me quizzically. "It can't be true..." I translate.

Morudaa looks away again. He's quiet for a long moment; when he turns back to me, he replies simply, "I think it is."

We fall silent, each of us perhaps praying for the future as we sit in this consecrated space.

Our reverie is broken by the sound of a child - my son - calling out from across the wide, now-deserted courtyard.

"Papa! Papa!" He begins running towards me, my wife following him up in more relaxed steps. The sight of him brings a smile to my face; but now, for the first time since his birth, that smile is touched with fear.

I wave my hand. "Ooi! Takashi! Kotchi da yo!"

I turn to face Morudaa, and find him looking on with an enigmatically crooked smile. I point and explain, "My son, Takashi. My wife."

He nods, and I unthinkingly ask, "You have a family?"

Morudaa's eyes fill now; he quickly brings a hand to his face...pinches the bridge of his nose behind tightly closed eyes, quietly struggling for control. I instantly regret my words. I've been told so little...I have no idea what makes him like this.

I spy the shiny, almost-new gold band on his left hand, and my question is answered.

"I have a son..." he begins. "A...a wife."

I don't know what to say, and look towards my own wife in supplication. She's still off in the distance - too far away to help me know how to respond to this man's pain. My eyes take her in...her soft lines. Her sweet face. I don't tell her often enough, but it occurs to me now, again, how much I love her.

Glancing down at her package-laden hands, I see the cake box bulging the sides of a large plastic bag. Suddenly, I remember.

Christmas.

It means little to us; we buy the usual Christmas cake, open the champagne - the non-alcoholic kind, meant for kids - all for Takashi. He's seen it all on television, and there's no way we can avoid these little commercial trappings. He loves it, and so we celebrate for him.

But...I remember now. This is one of the biggest celebrations of the year in the West. In America...the year I spent there in college taught me this much, and I suddenly understand Morudaa's inconsolable melancholy. I don't need English to know that he's alone, separated from his family, on a holy day.

Takashi runs up to me and hurls himself heavily at my legs. I utter an "oof" and grab him, grateful for the chance to do so. He's suddenly so precious to me. Moruda laughs suddenly - a loud, hearty thing - and I look over to him with a worried smile.

I needn't be concerned. His eyes share my amusement at my son's impulsiveness, and he laughs again. Takashi steps back slightly, warily eyeing this unusual stranger, and Moruda laughs even harder under his childishly piercing gaze.

"He is shy," I explain, and Morudaa nods.

Naomi comes up, and we both rise. Morudaa holds out a broad palm at the same time that Naomi bows; embarrassed, he returns her motion with the exaggerated bow of a foreigner.

"My wife," I repeat, and Morudaa shyly murmurs, "Hello." Naomi smiles. She's beautiful, even after all these years.

Takashi begins tugging on my arm, pulling me away. He's been ready for Christmas cake for a month now, and the light is finally at the end of the tunnel. I begin to bow to Morudaa, trying to excuse my son's behavior with an apologetic glance down. He seems to understand, holding out his hand one last time.

I take his hand in mine, gripping hard.

"Thank you," he says. "Thank you for your help."

I shake my head.

"It's nothing."

We start to walk away as Morudaa takes his seat again. The cold air has grown icy in the time we've been here, and I can scarcely believe he wants to stay.

Naomi looks back over her shoulder at him, and then places a soft, gloved hand on my arm.

"Anata," she begins, and I glance down at her. "Ano hito...samishiso jya nai desu ka? Kawaiso desu yo. Ie ni yobimasho yo. Kurisumasu paati ni. Ne?"

Takashi begins hopping up and down in excitement; his shyness seems to have worn off. I nod to Naomi, who smiles back, satisfied. Taking Takashi's little hand, we return to Morudaa.

"If you like..." I begin tentatively, "We have a Christmas party. Cake...you come too? To my house" I point in the general direction of our neighborhood, nodding.

Morudaa looks as though he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Christmas cake?" he asks, and Takashi answers, "So da yo! Kurisumasu keeki da yo! Tabeyo yo!"

He takes Morudaa's hand in his, pulling desperately. Morudaa looks down at this impromptu handshake and smiles. Maybe he sees his own son, I don't know. All I know is he stands and lifts Takashi over his head in one fluid movement. Takashi screams in delight.

"Papa, Papa, mite! Sugoooi!"

I laugh and clap Morudaa on the arm. He smiles back at me, and we join Naomi, waiting for us with an indulgent smile on her face.

We head for home; tonight, Morudaa-san is one of us.