Chapter 41

2. The God in the Fire

As we descended the mountain, the sound of water reached our ears.

Through a gap in the bushes, a narrow stream could be seen flowing.

I wanted to plunge my head in and wash away the hallucination of fire clinging to my eyelids.

The sparkle of the water surface reflecting the sunlight looked like the glare of flames, and I turned my eyes away.

"Did you see something again?"

Kirima asked with a displeased look. I hesitated for a moment, but this guy always looked like he was at a funeral, no matter what was said. No need to be considerate.

"That old man's head just now... it looked like it was on fire."

"His head was on fire?"

"Yeah, like a candle. It started when he began praying toward the fire in the forest."

Kirima fell silent and made a thoughtful gesture.

"Not like this kind of thing is gonna help us."

"Whether it helps or not depends on what we do next. There have been times when what we thought were delusions turned out to be true."

"Oh right, you used to be a detective."

As expected, Kirima turned back to face forward with a gloomy expression and kicked a pebble on the roadside.

"Legwork is still the way of the job. Let's go ask around. I've already contacted the people involved."

I didn't care who the people involved were, but I hoped their heads weren't on fire. We were investigating a monstrous god, and I didn't even know what to pray to.

The place we headed to was an ordinary countryside house. The wooden nameplate read Kusakabe.

In front of the frosted glass sliding door sat a dried-out aloe pot and a rusted bicycle, giving off a gloomy vibe.

Kirima knocked several times with the back of his hand. He looked like a debt collector.

A timid voice responded, and a man who looked like a skinny college student came out. His pale face peeked out from under long bangs, and it reminded me of a graveyard candle. I even imagined his head igniting, but the man only gave a slight bow.

Kusakabe showed us into the entrance.

The moment we stepped in, the smell of sickness hit us. The floor was sticky, and the soles of the slippers we were offered clung to it. Tufts of hair like lint lay in the hallway corners, making it clear someone had been sick for a long time.

When we entered the living room, the smell intensified. Sure enough, through a gap in a torn sliding door, we saw a nursing bed. Beneath the open curtains, sunlight poured down in thick rays, and an old person who looked dried up probably lay there.

Kusakabe closed the sliding door, but the smell of urine and rose-scented air freshener continued to leak out.

"I heard your family has been in charge of the village festival for generations?"

Kirima sat in the offered chair, cleared his throat, and began. As usual, Kusakabe glanced curiously at me sitting beside him, then nodded vaguely.

"Yes, that's right. Though we stopped doing the festival during my grandfather's time..."

"What kind of festival was it?"

"Well... on the day of the festival, the whole village would light torches and keep them burning through the night, walking back and forth from the forest to the village to make it look like daytime."

"To make it look like daytime?"

"Yes. That way, the god would mistake it for daytime and come down even at night—or so the story went."

A sound like metal scraping came from beyond the sliding door. The old man must have groaned. Kusakabe looked awkward, so I deliberately made noise as I pulled the barley tea container in front of me.

"Ah, sorry. I should've been more thoughtful."

Kusakabe hurriedly lined up three glasses and poured the barley tea. Kirima stepped on my foot under the table. He was the one lacking consideration.

"So... when exactly was the festival day?"

Kirima grabbed a glass beaded with condensation.

"It changed every year, so there wasn't a set date. But I heard it was always on the day when the worst things came out."

Kirima frowned suspiciously.

"Worst things?"

"Yes. Apparently, the reason this village started worshiping the sun god was because of tales about lots of bad things appearing at night."

A phlegmy voice leaked from a hole in the yellowed sliding door.

"Grandpa, we have guests right now."

Kusakabe turned around and raised his voice.

"Now..."

"Yes, they're here now. Just wait a bit."

The old man coughed wetly.

"Sorry, he's a bit senile."

Kirima waved a hand to indicate it was fine.

"When you say worst things, what exactly do you mean?"

"That's the thing, I don't really know. Maybe things like earthbound spirits or animal spirits, like you see on those paranormal shows?"

Kusakabe touched his thin chin and fell into thought. Was this guy really from a family that managed the village festival? He was ridiculously uninformed.

"Isn't there any kind of record left?"

In response to Kirima's question, Kusakabe stood up and opened the sliding door to the next room, saying, "If it's an old album..."

"N-now..."

The old man on the bed trembled his hand. The backlight deepened his shadow, making him look like a charred doll.

"Not now, the living room. The guests are using it, so wait until they leave."

Kusakabe soothed the old man, tidied the bed, and returned.

In his hand was a thin album about the size of A4 paper. The kind you might get for free at a photo shop. I had no memory of taking family photos myself, but I knew about them.

He peeled apart the pages stuck with old glue and opened it, revealing a few sepia-toned photos.

"This is all?"

I said it without thinking and glanced at Kirima, who silently stared down at the album, seeming to agree.

There were few photos, and the quality was poor. Maybe because they were taken in darkness with a strong light source, the images were washed out, showing only the fingertips of people holding torches and outlines of forest thickets. Kusakabe's ancestors were terrible at photography.

That's what I thought—until a sudden unpleasant suspicion crossed my mind.

Kusakabe was too ignorant about the village's god and festival. Even the photos were barely preserved.

"Did they intentionally avoid leaving records...?"

"Ah, you catch on quick."

Kusakabe clapped his hands cheerfully. Kirima and I exchanged glances.

"Actually, after they stopped holding the festival, most of the photos and procedures were disposed of. Grandpa said he and the villagers burned them."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure, but they say gods will save you if you believe in them, right? Same with evil spirits—if people believe they exist, they cause harm. So it's better not to remember them."

Still a vague answer.

"Why did they stop the festival in the first place?"

"Apparently, it was no longer necessary."

Kusakabe pried open the album and pointed to the last page.

In the photo stood a slender person in a kimono, gender indiscernible. The location was in front of this house.

"That's my grandfather's sibling, who apparently had some medium-like abilities. They were the one who said it was okay to stop."

"And this person now?"

"Well, they apparently vanished long ago..."

Kusakabe looked down awkwardly.

"Maybe they got erased too."

I whispered to Kirima, bracing for a jab to my side or shin, but he only stayed silent with a serious face. I almost wanted him to hit me just to deny it.

"Is there anywhere else that might still have records?"

After a long pause, Kirima finally spoke.

"Maybe... the graveyard near the forest. I think there were some inscriptions on the grave markers or stone monuments. I'll guide you."

Kusakabe slapped on his slippers and hurriedly opened the door to the next room.

"Grandpa, I'm stepping out for a bit."

"Now..."

"I got it."

A blinding light shone through the window, and I instinctively looked up. Kusakabe's grandfather, whom he was putting to bed, had flames of orange fire engulfing his head.

As I nearly jumped from my chair, the old man looked at me over his grandson's shoulder. A hollow opened at the core of the flame and moved, but his voice was too hoarse to hear.

Accompanied by Kusakabe, who had slipped on his sandals, we left the house.

The sun was still fiercely hot as it tilted westward, and it wore me down. I felt like that fire was still clinging to me.

A siren wailed in the distance.

"It's close."

"It happens a lot in summer. The high number of elderly people is one reason."

Kusakabe trailed off and looked in the direction of the sound.

"Back when the festival was still held, there were even more of them, apparently."

"You mean deaths?"

This time, a heavy blow landed on my shin, and I glared at Kirima.

"Violent cop."

"It seems like even in our family, many people have died during the summer. Every few years, someone... Maybe that stopped because the evil spirits are gone."

Kusakabe gave a strained smile, his eyebrows lowered.

The slope leading to the cemetery in the forest gradually became steeper.

The thick, syrupy evening sun stretched our shadows long.

Amorphous shadows draped from both sides toward the center of the path. Looking closely, lantern-like lights stood half-buried in the bushes.

"These are the ones they lit during the festival."

Kusakabe pointed as he walked.

Shadows stretched from the unlit lanterns, staining the asphalt as if wet. The rustling of the trees was loud.

When I averted my eyes, a firefly-like light passed in front of me. I heard a faint popping sound.

As I watched the writhing shadows and a single spark, I remembered the old man's voice from the Kusakabe family.

Surely, now, isn't just the living room—it's now. Maybe the festival that was supposed to happen is actually today.