The Drowning God by James Kendley Page A

take our ancestors away on their little paper boats, and the candles would all go out as the boats went over the spillway into the river. That’s before they built the northern dam. Now, I suppose the paper boats would just collect down at the drainage pond by the plant. It’s all gone now, all those days are gone, and all that’s left is a canal full of rusted bicycles.”
    Rusted bicycles? “Doesn’t it get dredged?”
    â€œWhat, the canal? Sure. Sometimes.”
    â€œWho does it?”
    â€œThe Farmers’ Co-­op used to do it, but they’re all old men now. They used it as an excuse to get drunk, and they did a poor job. Now the village does it, barely. In a dry winter, the water level drops so much that you see things sticking out of the water. Bicycles, umbrellas, furniture, anything. When I was still strong, I pulled out a scooter. The registration number was scratched right off, but the sticker was from the city, downriver. I could tell by the color. Who would throw a whole scooter into the canal? I took it to the village police, and nobody claimed it. Now they don’t even bother to take them away. See those bicycles and scooters?” She made a vague motion toward the mound of bikes and scooters across from her house. “The village workers pull them out of the canal and just leave them right there.”
    â€œThis morning, when I was coming in, I saw that the boat docks were all rotting.”
    â€œOf course they are. Nobody uses them anymore. Some city ­people were building summer houses here a few years ago. Summer houses, here! Can you imagine? They all built new docks, and they tried to get the canals dredged properly. One summer here, and they never came back. In a few years, those new decks will be rotten, too.”
    â€œHow long ago did you stop getting around by boat?”
    â€œMe? I stuck to the shopping street. The old man took the boat everywhere until he got smart.”
    â€œWhy did he stop taking the boat?”
    She shook her head. “Maybe he didn’t swim so well anymore. You should be careful of the water, too. Only ­people who understand the canals very well travel freely by water.”
    â€œWho travels freely?”
    She struggled to her feet. “There are ­people in Oku Village who’ve always traveled freely in the canals. Find out who they are.”
    â€œWhy? What do you know?”
    â€œI don’t know anything. I never wanted to know. If I knew something, what would I do about it? Who would I tell?” She turned to go into her house. “Talk to Reverend Suzuki up at Eagle Peak Temple. He might know something that will help you.”
    T akuda met Officer Mori coming up the shopping street, and he slid into the backseat without a word. There was only one road out, the same hard straightaway that had brought them into the Naga River valley that morning.
    Near the top of the straightaway, Takuda had Mori pull over. He got out and looked back down the grade. Mori joined him.
    â€œNo lights here, just reflectors on the guardrails,” Takuda said. “Can you imagine riding a bicycle down this road after a night on the town?”
    Mori folded his hands behind him. “It would be suicide. Is that the explanation for all the abandoned bicycles and scooters? Stolen by drunken farmers and ridden back into the valley?”
    â€œI don’t know how they explain it away. The bikes and scooters started showing up after I left.”
    Mori pointed back up the hill. “Around the bend lies the real problem with that explanation. It would take Olympic athletes to pedal those rickety old bikes up those winding roads.”
    Takuda looked over the valley, already partially shadowed in the early afternoon. “Let’s get out of here.”
    Mori drove in silence, as if they had agreed not to speak. They crested the last of the foothills, and they were out of the Naga River valley and into