The Old Men of Omi

Chapter Three

They almost arrested old man Juro the next day. That was after they found Wakiya dead in the woods. He had been battered so viciously that he had died in a pool of blood. Animals had gathered to lap up this blood, and crows were waiting in the trees, ready to swoop down for their meal.

But he was found early by his daughter-in-law who had expected him to be lying drunk in a ditch. She had carried the broom with her, intending to make him pay for the inconvenience. Instead, she found his corpse.

The local headman had arrived with his assistant to study the corpse and listen to the daughter-in-law’s complaints about the drunkard’s lack of consideration for his family. She wanted to know who would pay for the funeral and was there perhaps a chance to collect some blood money?

The headman grunted and sent her for a ladder. They put the corpse on this and carried it back into the village. By then, they knew most of the story of Wakiya’s celebration and paid a visit to Juro.

Juro was thunderstruck. “He was going straight home,” he said. “He was fine.” Then he frowned. “But he was really afraid of that daughter-in-law of his. He said she’d beat him. Did she do this? ”

The headman considered. “Don’t think so. She was shocked. She thinks you had a fight and you killed him.”

Juro was lucky. His old lady had woken when the two friends had staggered homeward, singing at the top of their voices. She had watched Wakiya weaving off toward his own house after Juro had come in to face her wrath.

The headman and his people left, none the wiser about Wakiya’s killer. This did not trouble them unduly, however. After a decent wait of a day and a night in case someone volunteered information or the killer decided to confess, they let Wakiya’s daughter-in-law arrange for his funeral.

It was a poor enough affair, even after she had made the rounds asking for donations from his friends. Juro had sacrificed his drinking money for the week. After all, poor old Wakiya had been his best pal for onward of twenty years or more. They had both worked for the same landowner, doing much of the heavy work like cutting trees, plowing, and digging irrigation ditches. It had paid off in the end; they could both stop working and farm their own plot of land.

Juro would miss Wakiya.

But he wasn’t one to refuse a cup of wine after the funeral, especially not when he had donated his drinking funds to the pathetic affair the two monks had provided. And so it was only days after his drinking bout with his dead friend that Juro found himself tipsy again.

Halfway home, the thought crossed his fuzzy mind that there was a killer loose and that it was night again, and that he was walking the same road again. He came to halt and considered. The sky was moonless, being clouded over. He was still on the outskirts of the village and looked anxiously about him. All seemed quiet and peaceful. Here and there lights glimmered from a house, but no one was out and about.

Still, better safe than sorry, reasoned Juro. He would take another path home, one that he rarely used because it skirted a rocky gorge. In rainy months it was treacherous, because the water could wash away parts of it. But it was spring and had been dry. Besides he would be careful.

Whistling softly to give himself courage, he turned off the road and followed the path. When he got close to the gorge, he could hear the stream gurgling below. He stopped whistling and slowed down. The ground beneath his feet was rock and loose stones, and he walked close to the hillside.

Somewhere along the way, he thought he heard some stones fall. He stopped and listened. There was not a sound, except the rushing water below. Perhaps an animal had crossed the path, he thought, and started up again, moving a little faster, anxious to get home now.

Just before the blow fell, he heard another sound behind him, but by then it was already too late. A blinding pain exploded in his head, and he tumbled forward.