The soldier released him and turned to question someone else. Hirata continued on his way, pleased that the soldier had mistaken him for a masterless samurai. Where he intended to go, he would blend right in.

The sea’s fishy smell grew stronger, the screech of gulls louder. Sentries patrolled the beach. The harbor had been cleared of all craft except for the patrol barges and foreign ships. Wooden shacks cluttered the hills’ lowest reaches. Nets covered thatched roofs; buckets and ropes cluttered doorsteps and balconies. Interspersed between the shacks were tiny teahouses. Tattered blue curtains hung from the eaves, partially shielding patrons from streets thronged with fisher-folk. Hirata selected a teahouse at random.

Two patrons sat on the edge of the raised floor. Both were old men with wrinkled, weathered skin. Through eyes permanently narrowed against sun and wind, they peered at passersby while clutching sake cups in gnarled hands.

“Hello, Grandfathers.” Hirata bowed. “May I join you?”

They regarded him with lively interest. Heads bobbed on frail necks; grunts arose from scrawny chests as they moved over to make room. Hirata sat in the middle. The proprietor came up behind him.

“A round of sake,” Hirata said.

Eagerly the old men raised their cups, cackling, “Thank you, master.” The proprietor filled their cups, and one for Hirata. They drank. Then the man on Hirata’s left peered into his face. “Don’t recall seeing you before.” He had only three teeth, and his voice was too loud.

“I just arrived in Nagasaki today,” Hirata said.

“Eh?” The man cupped his hand around a hair-filled ear.

Hirata repeated his words, then said loudly, “I just met some soldiers who were looking for a missing barbarian.”

The man to Hirata’s right snorted. He was so stooped that his chin almost touched his knees. The pipe between his lips shook with the constant tremor of his body. “They’ll never find him.”

Hirata asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Let me tell you this, young stranger.” Pipe jabbed a bony elbow into Hirata’s side. “There’ve been some very odd things happening around Deshima.” He nodded sagely. “I’m not at all surprised that the barbarian disappeared.”

“What kind of odd things?” Hirata signaled the proprietor for more sake.

Everyone drank, then Pipe, speaking loudly enough for Deaf to hear, said, “Everyone in town knows about the mysterious lights around the island at night. They’re purple and green and white, and make a lot of smoke. They float over the water toward Deshima, blinking.” He sketched a slow, drifting movement, knotty fist opening and closing to simulate flashes. “And then they disappear.”

“What are these lights?” Hirata was intrigued.

“Ghosts.” Pipe emphasized the word with a large puff of smoke. “Spirits of Dutch barbarians who died on Deshima and have come back to haunt their countrymen.”

Superstitious peasant nonsense—or more? “Were the lights seen last night?” Hirata said, trying to relate them to the barbarian’s escape.