The tiny village of Fujikoto is unremarkable in almost every way, but neither Mr. Noburu or his wife Noriko have ever found any solid reason to move away from it, even after their three sons had grown up and all decided to. Noburu-san, although officially retired from farming, still rises early every day to help out with the livestock on his neighbour's property, but once his daily work is done he enjoys nothing more than a leisurely stroll into the village to catch up on the local news from his good friend Koso Ichi who runs the store. The store – although filled with a comprehensive range of goods and household supplies – is less a shop than it is a meeting place for the older locals of the area who no longer have work to bring them together. Which, most people accept, makes verbose, self-important Ichi-san their official unelected chairman, a role he inhabits with a great deal of enthusiasm. Greeting every visitor to his store with the same cheery, overly-loud "Irasshaimase!", Ichi-san revels in the act of doling out the local gossip in delicious, bitesize chunks, always allowing each piece of information to settle in the stomach before offering the next.
It was in this way that Noburu first heard about the two men who were moving into the small mountain house closest to his own. Ichi-san's information was scant, but it was he, and he alone, who had put the German gentleman in touch with Tanaka-san when he had first called to enquire if Ichi knew of a rental property local to the the center of the national park. And it was he alone who had been asked to give the convoluted directions to the village from the station and on to the house, before instead offering to collect him and his friend and take them there himself. Neither had spoken much during the journey, but Ichi-san had found them both most interesting and cordial, and was happy to reassure Noburu that he and his wife had just become the lucky recipients of two most pleasant – albeit gaijin – new neighbours.
As the months have passed, and both Noburu-san and Noriko have met them occasionally on the road and in town, they have been pleased to be able to agree with Ichi-san's assessment. The dark haired one - the Canadian - is an excellent fisherman, and sometimes stops in on his way back from the river to share his catch. The grey-haired German is quieter and more reserved, but Mrs. Noburu was recently both surprised and touched by his gift of six exquisite prepared 'kohada', which she had to admit with some chagrin were even better than her mother's.
Respectful, pleasant but obviously very private people, the two men walked down into the village only two or three times a month for supplies and never seem to receive any visitors, other than the Yuubin'ya with an occasional parcel. So it was with some surprise that Mrs. Noburu noted the slow progress of a police car up the winding track towards the house one Saturday afternoon, as she was hanging out her washing.
Stopping the car at the Noburu's gate, a young male police officer exited and came towards her with a polite, deferential bow. Noriko recognised him immediately as an old classmate and friend of her eldest's son - Akio Yamata - and gave him a warm, welcoming smile.
"Good afternoon Akio-chan."
The young man's cheeks pinked slightly at the familiar greeting, and he straightened his shoulders.
"Good afternoon Mrs. Noburu. Excuse me for disturbing your day, but I have a Detective Inspector from Aomori with me in the car. He wants to speak with the Canadian gentleman who is living up in the cabin, if that is possible?"
Frowning slightly, Mrs. Noburu nodded her head.
"You should leave the car here then. The track has a lot of fallen branches and some big holes, you'll break your axel if you try to drive up."
"Sure, sure. I wanted to ask if that is what we might do," the young policeman gave a grateful nod, "Thank you Mrs. Noburu. It's not too far to walk then?"
"A mile and a half, maybe two. They don't have a telephone up there, or I could call ahead and let them know you're coming."
"But they are definitely at home?"
"They should be. And if they aren't in the house, they won't be far away. The Canadian gentleman is in the woods a great deal I think."
Nodding to her again, the young policeman politely requested she send his greetings to her son, and then returned to the car. Mrs. Noburu watched him as he bent and spoke briefly to the figure inside. Stepping out of the vehicle, the older man straightened his back, looked towards the track and then glanced down at his shoes. As they started to walk to the head of the trail, Mrs. Noburu frowned again and called out to them.
"Hey! It's a muddy walk in those good shoes. Are you sure you wouldn't like some galoshes?"
But the two men were already out of earshot. Returning to her clothesline, the old woman stared after them, unable to understand why she felt suddenly uneasy. There could be no doubt that the two gentlemen at the cabin were good people, but there was something about the German that occasionally unsettled her. He had a kind of lazy, sharp-eyed watchfulness that reminded her of a fox, or more specifically a kitsune-yokai: a fox spirit. And something told her that, despite all appearances, the two pleasant, polite men who lived alone in the mountain cabin were not the kind of people who would pleasantly and politely welcome unexpected guests.
山
For most of the time that they had been living on the mountain, Will found that he had no idea what day of the week it was. Not that that was of any real importance. They rarely ventured down to the village more than once every couple of weeks, and when they did the small store - run by the garrulous, mustached Mr. Ichi - was almost certainly guaranteed to be open. Will did not dislike these rare and necessary interactions with humans other than Hannibal, but over time he realized that lack of practice was making them increasingly difficult to navigate. Living with someone who understood his every thought before he'd expressed it had made him lazy, and even with the lack of language as an excuse, he was aware that his manner likely came off as borderline autistic.
"Ichi-san thinks I'm weird," he says one evening as he's setting the table, and Hannibal pauses in the act of miso-making to give him a quizzical look.
"What makes you say that?"
"Kare wa kimyona otokodesu."
Hannibal's lips quirk, and he turns back to his soup.
"Strictly speaking, he thinks you are strange. And strange does not mean the same thing to the Japanese as it does Americans," he tests the soup, "Strange is just…unusual. Beautiful even. Onibi are strange."
Will comes to stand alongside him. Hannibal has sliced a dazzling array of vegetables, and without asking for permission he selects one from the arrangement. Bites into it with a crack. Hannibal's irritation is the faintest flicker of a candle, but Will registers it never the less, and crunches his prize with open amusement.
"Onibi? That's like willo-the-wisps right?" he moves to take a baby carrot, but is stopped in his tracks by a low-level glare.
"Is it not possible to wait until we're at the table, Will?"
A new layer of playfulness seems to have emerged between them since Hannibal's unexplained absence and his return, and Will is surprised at how much he is enjoying it. In the three days since they shared a bed, there has been no mention of the night's events from either of them, and yet the words that Will spoke still hang in the air, fully exposed and accepted as truth. Now it seems that, rather than demanding anything further, Hannibal is content to simply circle him with quiet anticipation of his next move. Or perhaps it is he who is circling Hannibal. Will finds that he is never entirely clear about these things.
The hot miso sends a graceful curl of steam into the November air and, setting it down in front of him, Hannibal takes his seat opposite.
"Could we have some music?" Will asks, and Hannibal blinks.
"While we're eating?"
Will grins at his expression. There is such withering disapproval being directed at him, but he refuses to be shamed.
"You have music at your dinner parties."
Hannibal lifts the spoon to his lips and blows delicately across the soup.
"This is not a party Will."
Will's eyebrows lift fractionally. He blows on his own soup.
"It could turn into one."
The miso is delicious, a clear, rich, round taste that seems to Will like distilled autumn. Lost in its aroma, savouring the tiny chunks of silken tofu and scallions, he barely notices at first that Hannibal has stopped eating, and has stilled completely. Laying down his spoon, he listens.
Through the partially open doorway, the faintest of sounds can be heard in the distance, a crack of twigs and then, drifting on the early evening air, just the suggestion of voices. His eyes move to the corner of the room, where the crossbow that he uses for hunting is kept. There is a bolt already notched, and with an unhurried movement, he pushes back his chair, stands and walks over to it.
"Go and see who it is," he says, and as he steps through the backdoor, Will flips on the radio.
As he walks around the back of the house, he can hear the voices more clearly. A young man, unmistakably eager, and then an older deeper voice that sounds slightly out of breath. Both are native Japanese, both speak at a normal, casual level and after a few more seconds pass Will hears the younger voice call out a formal-sounding hail. The chatter from the radio inside dissolves into music, and through a narrow gap in the screen window, Will can see that Hannibal has moved to the open doorway.
"Konbanwa, shinshi."
The sun is just beginning to set, so the light in the thick surrounding forest is already dimming. Sliding his back along the side of building, Will moves around the angles of the small tacked-on bath-house, until he can see along the front porch. The house has a low, traditional veranda that runs around two sides, and he can see that the men have already reached it. He can also see that they are policemen.
Looking down the rough track that leads to their home, Will realizes that the men must have come most of the way on foot, probably leaving their car at the Noburu house, which means they might have seen the old couple or asked directions. Mr. Noburu was not often home before sunset, but Mrs. Noburu rarely strayed from their house. She would have seen them, and what's more she would be curious.
Hannibal's soft, perfectly accented Japanese was impossible for Will to understand, but it was obvious from where he stood in the doorway that he was on high alert. Nevertheless, he was unsurprised when his friend stepped to one side and welcomed the two policemen into their home with a warm smile. Seconds after the door slid shut behind them, Will heard the sound of the kettle being filled and the faint clink of pottery. Of course. Hannibal was making them tea. Moving along the building again, Will slid up alongside the window which looked into the main living space. The frame was open a few millimeters, enough to allow him to see inside, and breathing evenly he brought his eye up to the gap.
The two men were seated at the table now, while Hannibal stood sideways to them in the kitchen area, pouring hot water into the teapot. Unable to define more than a few words, Will could only guess at what was being said, although when Hannibal offered the word 'peony' as the answer to one question, he assumed the conversation was largely revolving around tea. Frowning slightly, he wondered what the motives of these two policemen might be. They seemed content just to sit, the older one only occasionally checking his watch, while Hannibal made what seemed very much like polite but seemingly banal chit-chat. Several more minutes passed before Will realized that the only explanation was that they were waiting for him.
"Ah James! Good, you're back at last!"
Hannibal didn't rise from his seat, only straightened with a pleasant smile.
"These two gentlemen are policemen. This very smart young man is Yamata-san, an officer from our very own village, and this other gentleman is Inspector Nakamori, a police detective from Aomori City."
Raising his eyebrows in studied surprise, Will slipped the crossbow strap from his shoulder and calmly replaced the weapon in the corner he'd taken it from minutes before.
"Mr. Phillips is a most excellent hunter," Hannibal offered with another smile, "It is a very rare thing that we have to buy meat. James provides us with a nearly constant supply. Although nothing today I fear."
Realising that their guests seemed to understand English, Will inclined his head with a slight smile as the older Inspector got to his feet.
"No, nothing today. Hajima-mashite Inspector. I'm sorry, but I don't speak much Japanese."
"That is no problem Mr. Phillips. No problem."
The older man's face was florid, and from more than just the walk Will suspected. As he took his hand, he noted the familiar slight tremor and dampness of palm that always reminded him of his father. An elderly police detective with a drinking problem, how delightfully cliché. Walking around the table, Will seated himself alongside Hannibal, who took a cup and poured him some tea. Their soup bowls were nowhere to be seen, and Will realised that he must have cleared the table before opening the door, so as to avoid any suggestion that their visitors might be anything other than welcome guests. He smiled as he sipped the tea. It was delicious.
"So please, how can we be of service to the police, Nakamori-san?"
The story was a complex one, and when the Inspector's English began to fail him, they all had to express their gratitude for the presence of Herr Faulques and his extensive vocabulary. Patiently translating the Inspector's words, Hannibal relayed the catalogue of events that had led up to the journey to seek his counsel; a man he understood to be a most respected expert in many species of insects, and specifically in the habits of a certain type of burrowing moth larvae. At some point Will must have started to protest, but was immediately silenced by the look on Hannibal's face. Professor James N. Phillips of Nelson, British Columbia had written an extensive monograph on sesiidae larvae in 2007, perhaps even the definitive work on the subject, and whether Will liked it or not he sensed he had some tap-dancing to do if he was to satisfy their guests.
"Gentlemen, Inspector. Although I'm very flattered that you've sought me out, I'm unsure how my knowledge of moth larvae can be of any use to you. The particular species of sesiidae I think you're referring to originates in Eastern America, it's not one usually found in this part of the world, so I have to say I'm struggling to understand why it is you're here, or why the police are concerning themselves with insects."
The old inspector's forehead creased in a deep frown as Hannibal translated his words, and then after a moment or two, he seemed to come to some kind of decision. Reaching into his leather briefcase, he retrieved a thick sheaf of papers, among them several dozen large glossy photographs. Spreading these out on the table in front of them all, he bowed his head briefly in apology.
"Excuse me," he muttered, "Excuse me, Mr. Phillips. Mr. Faulques. These are…very bad pictures. Very…ugly pictures. I am sorry."
And all the sounds in the room seemed to stop, all but the hard distinct tick of the old wall clock that Hannibal wound religiously every day. That, Will could hear. Its slow rhythmic tick suddenly drowning out every other noise around them.
The pictures were of girls.
Four girls.
Initially Will thought they might even be the same girl, but then his eyes moved from each one to the next, taking in every detail. The neat, moon-shaped incisions in their throats were nearly identical. Nearly, but not quite. Without even asking the question he knew which one had been first, which had been second, and who was the latest. The hair of the first girl was a tumbled mass around her heart-shaped, milk-white face, whereas each progressive kill improved on that, improved, perfected, refined. Will wanted to reach into the pictures and touch them, to move the earlier bodies. Make it right.
See how it should be? That's what I wanted to do. But I was in a hurry wasn't I? So next time, I made sure I had plenty of time.
For a moment he thinks he's said the words out loud, but then realizes that no. It's just a voice in his head, although maybe not just his own. Glancing at Hannibal, it's as if every thought he's just had has been viewed by him on a high-definition widescreen, approved of and deeply delighted in. He knows that it would be so, so inappropriate to smile at this moment, so Will frowns instead and tries very hard to remember what horrified people are supposed to look like.
"Oh my Lord. These are…terrible. What happened to these girls?"
"They were all killed by the same man. A…maniac." The inspector shakes his head, his face filled with a kind of uncomprehending despair. "A maniac…who fills them with these."
The last four photos he slides out from underneath the others. Four near identical pictures again, but of something incredible. Inside the flat, teenage belly of each girl - apparently hidden by a door made of their own skin - a perfect rectangular wooden box sits. Lined with fine linen, spotless and carefully labelled, a specimen case has been inserted with a degree of precision and attention to detail that Will has only seen maybe once before in his life.
The glass covers of the cases are so clean and clear that at first Will can't even see them, but of course they're there. They have to be there, to preserve the precious contents for display. Because inside each case, inside every single belly, are four perfectly and methodically presented examples of the life stages of Hemaris Thysbe: The Hummingbird Clearwing Moth
