Arita and Fukuoka - 2
"This is the home of a miko who inherited the traditional mediumship of the Kyushu region. She's different from the shrine maidens who simply work at shrines."
In Japan, a shamaness is called a miko.
From the Neolithic age onward, miko used astrology to divine the future and heal the sick.
Then, when the sun goddess Amaterasu's descendants became emperors and state Shinto rose to prominence, the miko lost much of their authority and standing. And once the era of military rule gave way to a power structure centered on the emperor, miko were reduced to guarding shrines and performing rituals—that was all.
But this place, apparently, was one where you could have your fortune told and buy talismans, much like a Korean mudang's shop.
Under the eaves, a red noren curtain swayed in the breeze, bearing the characters for Prayer. Talismans were plastered everywhere, and the smell of incense hung in the air. Shimenawa ropes and warding seals marked the boundaries in several places.
Something about the atmosphere was so sinister that crossing the threshold felt like being dragged into a forest seething with ghosts. A chill crawled up my spine.
I swallowed dryly and asked Tanaka, "Given that you call it traditional mediumship, I'm guessing the spirit possesses the miko's body directly."
"That's right. The miko serves the Inari god. She divines fortunes through the fox, which is the god's messenger."
The moment Tanaka finished, Abe shook his head.
"Master."
'Go on.'
"Inari is an agricultural deity who governs the abundance of the five grains—the guardian god of prosperous commerce, thriving business, and household safety. But the miko here seems to serve something else entirely."
'My point exactly.'
If an agricultural god presiding over bountiful harvests truly dwelled here, shouldn't the place feel warm and gentle? But the spectral energy pressing against me was one of bitter resentment—of fear, anguish, sorrow, and despair.
Worse, the energy radiating from the miko's house felt as though thousands of restless souls had gathered in one place.
Before I knew it, tension had gathered sweat in my palms. As I pulled out a handkerchief to wipe my hands and forehead, deep in thought, No. 1 poked his head out of the carrier.
"Hey boss, can I eat the ghosts here?"
'No. You may not.'
I tucked the handkerchief away and warned Abe, too, that he was absolutely not to attack the ghosts first.
'Even if they block my path or speak to me, leave them be. I have a pretty good idea what's going on here.'
"As in...?"
Abe seemed to catch my meaning. His wariness eased at once.
"Ah—yes, Master!"
"What? What is it? Why won't you tell me? What is it? Why do I always get left out?"
'Shut it. Keep whining and I'll make you live here forever.'
"Hup!"
No. 1 clapped a paw over his mouth with impressive speed.
I called Lee Ho-young first. The instant I heard the click of him picking up, I asked, "Are you all right? I'm standing in front of the miko's house right now—why on earth did you pick a place like this? You did your homework before choosing it, right?"
"They say she's the most gifted shaman in the area? And since coming here, nothing's been wrong—well, aside from feeling a bit sluggish."
So my hunch was right after all. Still, I figured I should confirm it and pressed on. "The Imari porcelain and the ancient manuscript have come under attack, haven't they."
"H-how did you know that?"
Lee Ho-young's voice jumped in alarm. "The porcelain started to crack, and the miko sealed it with talismans."
"So it hasn't shattered yet. That could be a good thing—or it might not be."
"I'm sorry, what do you mean?"
"I'll handle it from here. Looks like I have no choice but to face it head-on."
I had the information I wanted. I told him I'd see him shortly and hung up.
"Shall we go in, then?"
At my words, Tanaka nodded and slid open the wooden gate. It was the height of summer, the kind of day where sweat trickled down your back just standing still—yet a wave of cold air rushed through the opening. A damp, clammy presence undulated across the courtyard like heat haze in reverse.
"Master..."
"Boss, there are way too many ghosts here."
'Wait and see.'
The moment I stepped into the courtyard, the Underworld Gate unfolded behind me.
Dazzling light poured out, exhaling a chill far more overwhelming than the spectral energy of this place. With so many ghosts present, the gate seemed to swing open even wider.
Whoooom!
In an instant, the haze before my eyes vanished. The ghosts had fled—they wanted no part of being sucked into the underworld.
The sliding door through which the spirits had escaped rattled in its frame, then slowly slid open.
"Welcome. I've been expecting you."
A woman who looked to be in her fifties greeted us in fluent Korean, pressing her palms together and bowing her head. "Someone extraordinary has come. It is an honor to meet you."
It sounded as though she had seen straight through to the nature of my abilities.
And I, in turn, could tell at once that the miko standing before me was no money-grubbing charlatan who kept a pet ghost around to sling curses for cash. Though the miko here was less a ghost-handler than... a keeper of them. A warden, perhaps, was the better word.
And suddenly I understood why Professor Sato Genji had been content to stay in a place like this.
'This woman has Korean blood, too.'
Westerners might not be able to tell a Japanese face from a Korean one, but East Asians could—like recognizing a fellow Korean abroad without ever opening your mouth.
One glance was all I needed to know the miko was of Korean descent.
A guardian and keeper of ghosts. A warden of the dead. And blood of Joseon.
That alone was enough for me to know, without even seeing the Imari porcelain or the manuscript inside it, exactly what the vengeful spirit wanted. I could even see, plainly, what must have happened.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
The miko seemed to sense that I had read everything. With a serene smile, she bowed to me once more.
"This way, please."
I followed her guidance into the receiving room, where a low table sat alone in the center of a tatami-floored space. I could feel the spectral energy of the escaped ghosts seeping from the sliding door that connected to the next room, along with the thick scent of incense.
Sensing my gaze, the miko spoke. "The possessed porcelain and manuscript are sealed in that inner room."
"The ghosts with you tried to smash the porcelain, didn't they."
"You truly have perceived everything. Yes, that's correct."
Introducing herself as Chika, she began her story. "You've probably already realized, but I am of Joseon descent—my birth mother was Korean. I had a gift for shaping pottery and dreamed of running my own kiln, but instead I became a vessel for the gods."
"So you became the miko's disciple."
"Yes. This was where my teacher lived."
Chika gazed at the weathered wooden pillars for a moment before continuing. "The larger the vessel I became for the gods, the more the wandering spirits of Arita began to gather to me."
"And they were all Korean ghosts, weren't they."
"Yes. My own ancestors—the potters."
Quietly, Chika poured out the stories the spirits had told her.
Not every potter abducted from Joseon during the Imjin War had adapted to life in Japan. There were men like Yi Sam-pyeong, who made his name as a master potter and lived in comfort—but there were far more who died in misery.
Some perished aboard the ships to Japan, worn down by starvation and ceaseless seasickness. Those who survived the crossing arrived to find no food and no shelter from the wind; they had to dig into the mud with their bare hands and build a kiln before anything else.
"They had to make porcelain and sell it, or they couldn't survive. But even when their bellies were full, many wasted away and died longing for the families they'd left behind."
The pirates hadn't taken a potter's entire family when they dragged him across the sea. And so there were those who died yearning for daughters and sons left in Joseon—for wives and aged mothers they would never see again.
When Yi Sam-pyeong rose to official rank, records show that the domain employed a hundred and fifty potters on its registers. Which meant that beyond the hundred and fifty on paper, Arita was a place where the tears and sorrow, the regret and unhealed grudges of countless more potters had pooled like sediment.
"Some had a chance to return home but couldn't bring themselves to take it, fearing they'd be killed the moment they set foot in Joseon. Others had been treated like lowborn trash back home—told themselves they might as well live out their days here, and simply put down roots."
They'd clawed and scrambled simply to survive, and somehow life had gone on. Even if it was far from joyful, they endured and persevered, and shaped their porcelain.
"When those who had lived so hard and died so wearily came drifting through the nine underworlds searching for me, I couldn't turn them away. I could hold rites for them, comfort them—but I couldn't send them on to their final rest. That was beyond my power."
A medium who could summon spirits and speak with them, who could receive their aid—Chika seemed to possess middling ability at best.
"Then, through Representative Lee Ho-young, I heard that Professor Sato Genji was under attack by a vengeful spirit."
"So that's how it came about."
As I nodded along, Tanaka spoke up hesitantly. "Um—forgive me for asking, but the professor's granddaughter died after the manuscript inside the Imari porcelain was brought to his home. Doesn't that mean a Korean vengeful spirit is attached to the porcelain?"
Tanaka had apparently assumed that a Korean ghost had attacked a Japanese person.
I shook my head. "With the fine clay found around Arita, Yi Sam-pyeong created Japan's first flawless white porcelain. It turned the whole country upside down. Before that, Japanese pottery was little more than brown, mug-shaped vessels."
There was a story that when a Japanese envoy presented porcelain to the Joseon court, the king remarked that even a Joseon child making toys in play would do better than this.
That was how vast the gap in ceramic artistry had been.
"The Korean potters would have endured terrible oppression. Not that anyone could mistreat a man of high office like Yi Sam-pyeong—but the others were another matter."
At my words, Chika nodded. "That's right. Potters who ran the kilns were beaten by Japanese apprentices who came to steal their techniques. Some were abducted outright."
"And it wouldn't have ended there."
I turned my gaze toward the room where the Imari porcelain lay. "The Imari porcelain in that room may not have been made by a Joseon potter at all."
"I'm sorry—why would you think that?"
Tanaka was the one who had unearthed the Imari porcelain. He would have cleared away the earth with his own hands, lifted the piece out, and examined it meticulously through an archaeologist's eyes. He would have been certain of it—that this was the work of a Joseon potter.
And yet.
"If that porcelain in there were truly the work of a Joseon potter, the Korean spirits would never have tried to shatter it."
"Th-then... you're saying it was made by a Japanese person who learned Joseon techniques?"
"Yes. And through a very ugly method indeed—in order to produce porcelain that was perfectly, flawlessly white..."
I stopped mid-sentence. Some things were simply too foul to say aloud.
Chika finished it for me. "They made human sacrifices, trying to surpass the Joseon potters."
The reason Professor Sato Genji's granddaughter had died. The grudge the vengeful spirit carried. It all came down to human sacrifice.