THE TWINS OF KASHAL

BOOK ONE

THE ROYAL TWINS MYSTERY

TASHI JONES JAPANESE DETECTIVE

The Twins of Kashal Trilogy

The three novels in this trilogy would have made one 1300 page book, and the story flows from beginning to end, divided into three parts. It’s a unique and very exciting read. It’s part Science Fiction, part Metaphysical, part Wild Adventure, mostly taking part in Japan, but going all over the Upper Earth and into the Inner Earth. Throughout, it’s very much an enlightening Metaphor of the human experience. 

This book is subtitled The Royal Twins Mystery. It begins in the past which leads to the present time Twins of Kashal, sixteen year old Hawaiian twins Daioji and Leilani’s quest in Book Two. It also set up Tashi Jones as the narrator of the three book series. In Book One we meet many of the trilogies main character, including Tashi’s girlfriend Aiko.

All three novel can stand alone as outstanding reads, but Books Two and Three often refer back to episodes in Book One.  Book One has Tashi Jones on the cover because he’s the major character in the beginning story. Book Two has Daioji and Leilani since it’s about their adventures, which includes Tashi, and Book Three has Pualani, because the whole story leads up to where the twins mother enters for the conclusion.

This book is ready to be published

Tashi Jones was a character in the original Twins of Kashal books. In 2021 I decided to take him out and give him his own Mystery novel. In doing so I needed to identify all the characters in the Twins novels in a more profound way.

Story: Tashi is a Private Detective, and also a photographer. For years he has been fascinated with a certain crypt at Namu Ku, an ancient cemetery on Mt. Kurama, outside of Kyoto, Japan. One day while there, the crypt mysteriously opens and inside he finds the bodies of the 16th century Royal Twins, sitting perfectly preserved with their severed heads in their hands. They are looking at a book on a table between them. Tashi steals the book, and back home discovers it’s A LIVING STORY  (this book). In reality, the current Hawaiian twins, who just arrived in Kyoto, are the reincarnated Royal Twins. Their father, Kozo Kasai, hires Tashi to find a precious mask. It he has something to do with the whole Twins of Kashal story and the mystery of who now did what then.  

Read the First Three Chapters Here

CHAPTER 1

Standing under the weathered wooden torii gate about to enter the Name Ku cemetery, I paused to scan the remarkable beauty of this sacred resting place. Although obviously left untouched for many years, the gardens before me appear to have once been impeccably landscaped, with collapsed pagoda sitting areas, now dried up lotus ponds and impeccably laid, still perfectly good, moss-covered, stone pathways. The cemetery stands in humble grace as a nature refuge, a hidden sanctuary lying in state on the east side of Mt. Kurama, ten miles north of Kyoto’s urban sprawl. The reason I’m here today is to visit its only stone crypt; a most intriguing and fascinating structure located at the very far end of the cemetery, a good half mile uphill climb from where I’m standing, in the car park.

My name is Tashi Jones. I’m a detective; a part-time free-lance private eye and photographer, with a strange devotional fascination of ancient tombstones and crypts. Tombstone photography could be my full-time career, if only a rich patron who loves the dwellings of the dead as much as I do would fund me.

In Kyoto nobody, besides me, takes photos of crypts, and no one buys mine. Every tourist shop vendor shakes their head No. Kyoto’s ninety million yearly tourists buy photos of the colorful city temples, the lovely gardens and Fushimi Inari, the tunnels with 10,000 closely spaced red torii gates. I have no idea why no one finds my photos equally exquisite, eerily beautiful; why they can’t in any way appreciate my fascination with this historic art.

My graveyard photo obsession began ten years ago, when out of curiosity I stopped my car at a roadside cemetery and began taking photos. They turned out fabulous, and from then on I was compelled to stop at every cemetery and photograph this terribly under-valued burial art. I soon discovered that the early morning mist on the tombstones offered a surreal setting for the best graveyard shoots. In the years that followed, I ended up visiting almost every cemetery from Kyoto to Tokyo. My computer is now filled with thousands of wonderful graveyard photos, a hundred of which I was able to put into a coffee-table photo album, which of course nobody will buy.

Of the hundreds of tombs I’ve photographed, I’ve only felt an emotional attachment to two of them. One is the crypt of a powerful early 16^th century Shogun named Tashinami, in the ancient Buddhist cemetery in Koyasan. I was drawn to his name, like mine, and his story. The other is the crypt here on Mt. Kurama. The moment I first came upon the exquisite crypt ten years ago, with its authentic, classical 15^th century Japanese design, its modest two-level pagoda eaves carved right out of the granite mountainside, I was lost in intrigue. I noted how perfectly it was placed, facing directly East, securely cradled in a small grotto which overlooked Lake Biwa in the distance. From the moment I first saw it I was piqued not only by the grandeur of the structure, but by the engraving above the door,

The Royal Twins of Kashal

3-21-1499 – 3-28-1522

I figured the Royal Twins must refer to the children of the Emperor of Japan at that time, so long ago. I wasn’t a detective, but my compulsion to investigate this crypt was the reason I became one. And since I had always loved solving puzzles and mysteries, I figured why not get paid for it? That would come later. I just wanted to find out who these Royal Twins were and what Kashal meant, even though I could find no historical record of “Royal Twins” who lived from 1499 to 1522, or the word Kashal.

Regardless, I couldn’t stop wondering who the Royal Twins of Kashal were. And why would the Emperor of Japan keep the lives of his twin children a secret and then bury them together twenty-three years later in this architecturally stunning crypt? Why build it at a remote location on the side of a mountain, so far away from the traditional Kyoto Royal Palace burial grounds? Beyond that, I wondered how they ended up dying at the same time. Murder? There wasn’t one word written about them in the Royal Library; no references and yet, the crypt was there with their names and dates engraved above the entrance. I couldn’t accept that no historical records existed anywhere.

I had to find the answer to all these questions, even though I knew that alone wouldn’t satisfy my curiosity. I needed to see what was inside. For ten years, I continued to harbor a burning desire to go in and see for myself. If only I could find the crypt door key or a custodian, who had it.

As I entered this ancient cemetery this morning, a raven swept down from a tall pine and landed in front of me, chattering away. This curious bird had become my companion on my yearly trek up the mountain. I scattered a half bag of breadcrumbs on the ground and watched her peck away, comforted with her presence. “It’s strange, after all these years I’ve never given you a name,” I said to her. The raven looked up, answering back, “Ki-kaa,”

“Ki-kaa? I don’t think so.” I replied and smiled. I imagined her grin.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma of ancient forest air. As usual, I was alone in the auto park. It was so quiet, I could hear the whisperings of the spirits, buried here so long ago. As was my custom, I sent them a silent prayer and asked for their permission to enter.

Breaking the silence, the raven squawked, answering for a thousand ghosts, “come in,” as she flew up the path, inviting me to follow.

I fastened my backpack, in which I carried my new Canon Powershot SX70 camera and a lightweight tripod; to record this day’s adventure. In my pocket was my even-newer Pi Phone, for the compulsive shots I would inevitably take along the way.

Some might think my fixation with cemeteries would be a bit morbid, especially since I’m not related to anyone buried there. Not for me, since I don’t think about the underlying death and decay. I’m simply a connoisseur, an admirer of the graveyard architecture and art; an image collector. In this regard, every ancient burial site fascinates me; each peaceful setting, its ancient landscaping and stonework, the always present vivid green wild moss, and even how each tombstone poses, linked to the shadows caused by variations of light.

In Japan, the old-time villagers always keep their ancient stories alive, so I spent many hours in the village of Namu Ku interviewing just about everyone. It proved to be another dead-end. No one knew anything about Royal Twins, Kashal, or that this crypt even existed. It was almost like I was speaking of an alternate reality. And still, alone in my quest, with every passing year, I could hardly wait for March 21st, the day of their birth chiseled on the crypt, to arrive; to return once more.

This year, last night after one PM, I had a most unusual dream. A soft and calming voice, speaking as if embracing me in a gentle hug, filled my head. It said, “You must go to the crypt tomorrow, Tashi.”

I wanted to dismiss the voice, since it was only the 13th of March, a week before my yearly Spring Equinox trip. But when I woke at 5 AM this morning, the voice was still there, stronger than before, insisting that I go to the crypt “NOW!”

So, here I am, ready to head up the mountain.

CHAPTER 2

After locking my old 4Runner, shivering, stretching to acclimating to the seven AM icy spring air, I felt exhilarated and discouraged at the same time. I wondered if the confident voice in my dream was a sign, my spirit guide’s foretelling of a new revelation, or not. Looking up, I scanned the overcast morning sky, unsure if it would rain today, wondering if I was in my right mind to even be here. I tried to brush away my doubts, accepting that this year’s auspicious premature visit to the crypt at Namu Ku would indeed offer a sign, a new revelation, finally giving me my first clue about the Royal Twins.

I zipped my light-weight thermal jacket up to my chin and entered the deserted cemetery. Once past the torii gate, its peaceful ambiance quickly subdued the anxiety I had arrived with. Stepping onto the pathway, I began my walk past the hundreds of moss-covered tombstones, where the graves and tombs dated back to the Minamoto Dynasty. I instinctually, respectively, bowed to the colorful flowering smaller peach and cherry trees, the countless shrubs and flowers, and especially to the majestic pine, cypress and maples of the old-growth forest; the living warriors of nature, who surrounded and faithfully guarded the thousand-year-old Samurai moss covered graves.

Not far in, I stopped to snap several pictures of the fog shrouded headstones, which seemed to be floating under a vapor mist. On each side of the cobblestone path an occasional grave was adorned with weathered plastic flowers and fruits, and old soda pop cans. Farther on, the centuries older carved leaning lava and cement tombstones looked like crowded green teeth jammed in a dragon’s mouth, pushing at each other for one more inch of space.

Continuing up the path, through what also must have once been a formal landscaped garden, the wildness of Mother Nature had taken command. I was awed by the way She used her smaller warriors; the lichen, plume, spoon and pincushion mosses, maidenhair, royal and licorice ferns to protect the ancient relics; each accented with wild strawberry and dogwood flowers, to name a few. What a spectacular site this is, I thought to myself.

Farther up the trail, I reached a vantage point where curtains of fog ascended the steep cliff ahead, as if the graveyard ghosts, cloaked in their gossamer veils, were softening the mountain. I set up my tripod and took a series of photos, focusing through the gracefully draping clouds to where I could just barely see the roof of the crypt of my intrigue and fascination, protruding from the granite hillside, some seven hundred feet above sea level. I sighed at the grandeur of it all as I folded the tripod, stuck it back in my pack and began the more invigorating part of the climb. My raven, as always, led the way.

Fifteen minutes later, a bit short on breath, I arrived at the grotto landing, not far from my destination. A short walk brought me to the faded red slightly arched bridge, shrouded in its own personal fog. An uneven dirt path led to the crypt.

 Once in its leaf-strewed courtyard, around thirty feet from the crypt, I wiped off and settled on the granite bench, set beneath one of the two ancient juniper trees. A foreboding wind suddenly began whipping up and blowing leaves around me. Once again shivering, the wind and chill reminded me to pay attention and stay on guard. For what I thought, ghosts?

 Looking up, two mountain hawk-eagles circled high in the sky. An omen? My raven let out a few loud squawks and then settled on one of the crypt’s roof eaves. Birds. Ghosts. What about humans? After coming for ten years, even though it was far off the beaten path, I wondered why I hadn’t seen another person here. How could I be the only one interested in this fascinating crypt and the Royal Twins buried within it?

I began to slowly move towards the awesome ancient architecture, again wondering why it was the only crypt in this huge cemetery, a work of architectural spender, without a doubt. Its main twin front eaves rose at least sixteen feet above ground. The green-tiled roof, designed with a layered motif, went back about twenty feet before it disappeared into the mountain rock, giving the impression, at least to me, that these weren’t tiles at all, but resemblances carved right out of the mountain.

Closer to where the roof met the mountain was a large glass pyramid. I often wondered if they even made glass in Japan in the 15th century. Never-the-less, the pyramid seemed to stop the ragged mountain from totally devouring the front end of the building.

The second juniper, which had long ago woven into one side of the tomb, appeared to be holding it in a tender embrace, protecting it from any harm. These two ancient junipers, and the mountain itself, were the guardians of this exquisite hidden treasure, the subject of my unending intrigue.

With each cautious step, I kept looking up at my raven, who glistened blacker then black against the foggy gray background. Confidently perched high above on the left front peak of the crypt, our eyes locked as she stared back down on me. It was if we both knew that this day would be uniquely special. I had no idea how.

I projected my thought into her benevolent black eyes: Do you know why I’m here today, a week early? She dipped her beak and answered with a tiny “ki-kaaaa.” With that, the wind suddenly stopped. At the same instant, all other sounds were silenced too. I sensed danger, took a deep breath, and instinctively assumed the Aikido protective half-body stance, hanmi no kamae, as another, this time more foreboding, chill, quickly seeped into my bones.

Still in my Aikido stance, I had to remind myself that I was a second-degree black belt, who could accept anything nature and graveyards had to offer. While obviously spooked, I did my best to remind myself that strange and dark sensations were quite normal in cemeteries, especially one as old as this. And then, despite the cold that stiffened my fingers, and my creepier-than-normal feelings, I felt compelled to set up my tripod with the Canon turned on, pointed in my direction, with the auto click in hand. I would begin with a portrait of myself in remembrance of this day.

I also sensed that because of where I was, with the crypt’s spooky energy; a full sky of early morning darkening clouds, a sudden light drizzle, the hawk-eagles descending circling closer, my raven’s unflinching focus on me, her knowing silence, the gloomy lurking shadows as if a ghost was behind each one . . . that the stage was set for a most ideal photo shoot. Maybe this proved my madness being a graveyard photographer. Never-the-less, I was ready . . . for what this day had to offer.

Breathing deeply, letting the thick damp fill my lungs, I exhaled warm air on my fingers, and then like a deer in the headlights, suddenly my eyes opened wide, and my ears perked up. My heart raced down and hid behind my spleen. I stopped breathing. A foreign sound.

Faint footsteps on the stone steps, echoed clip-clop, I’m coming. I looked back down the entrance path. A hunched-over figure wearing a brown cloak with a hood covering its head, was hobbling towards me. This gnarled, bent over being, arm and cane shaking, slowly clambered over the red arched bridge. How did he get all the way up here? He looks like he’s a hundred years old, I thought, thinking he looked too feeble to cause me any harm. I resumed breathing watching as the old man approached, imagining each step was an effort to remain outside one of the ancient graves he walked past to get here. Or maybe he’s a ghost, I mused, who had just walked out of his grave.

As he came within ten feet, I noticed his rusty brown cloak was actually finely woven. A very large wizardly hat covered his eyes, shadowing his face, emphasizing his long white beard. Although the thought was preposterous, I was convinced he had to be one of the infamous mountain tengu, known to be long ago dead arrogant samurai, reborn as dogs or ravens, who could shape-shift into old monks with long noses, scaring away anyone who crosses their path. Was this a tengu trickster ready to haunt me for venturing into his territory? Holy shit.

While I was wondering who this man really was, I was a bit shocked seeing a swarm of little blue butterflies hovering around his head. This supernatural sight sent a cold shiver through every part of my body. It was like I was facing a mythical theatrical figure, right out of a 19th century butoh play, who had just materialized in front of me. When his mouth began moving, I strained to listen to the creaky words coming from it, “The one with the key,” he mumbled after I had pushed the audio button on my camera. “Will not let you flee, from what you’ll see.”

“What? Will not let me flee? From seeing that?” I pointed to the crypt. “I’m only here to take a few pictures.”

The old geezer came closer, within five feet of me. I could see that his cloak was embroidered with butterflies; most likely woven from the finest silk. With my camera aimed directly at us, I was ready to take the man’s picture, but I couldn’t get my finger to push the button. It was like my fingers were momentarily paralyzed. He opened his mouth and while saying “As you do what’s right. Follow your bird in flight,” the equivalent kanji symbols began floating out of his mouth. Kanji coming out of his mouth! What!!?? Am I dreaming? Do what’s right? Follow my raven?

After the old man said these words, I looked up at my raven, who was loudly squawking. He stepped right in front of me, less than a stretched hand away, pointing at the bird to stop. In the sudden silence, he appeared to be pixelating, as if he were a hologram. How could this be possible? Between the brim covering his eyes and his white mustache, his long bulbous nose flashed back to a regular nose, and then long again. A shapeshifter? What? How? I bent my head down to try to get a look into his eyes, only seeing stardust flowing out of them. The very second this impossibility drew me in; he tapped my third eye. And whacked with his cane.

With that one touch, and hit, I felt myself losing consciousness, my legs crumbling. The last words I heard were, “Your reason for being here will soon become clear.” The audio had still been recording and now my once paralyzed finger instinctively pushed the camera button, right before my head hit the cold, wet ground. Click. Click. Click.

CHAPTER 3

Regaining consciousness, I reached up and touched the side of my throbbing head, feeling a tender lump. I was sore all over, a bit confused, shocked and chilled to the bone, since it rained some while I was out. I carefully stood up, knowing I didn’t have the luxury of remaining dizzy and dazed. I wanted to confront my assailant, if he was anywhere nearby. While recovering my wits, I wasn’t sure if ten seconds, ten minutes, or an hour had passed. I can’t believe that old man whacked me over the head. With all my Aikido training, I should have been able to dodge him. How could he have been that fast? How could one swing of his cane knock me out?

I looked around for the old man. He was gone. I checked the time. I had lost about a half hour. My raven was still on the eave, squawking wildly. When I glanced up at her, she immediately stopped. She then flew down and landed on the top step, in front of the heavy stone doors. There was an odd shadow at the door. Is it open?  I had probably looked at that door a hundred times. What was that shadow?

I shook my head, wondering if I had a concussion or was hallucinating. I told myself that I was fine, and then slowly approached the iron gate to get a closer look. The crypt door appeared to be just slightly opened. The raven flew over to a branch of the juniper and watched intently, nodding her head as I prepared to enter the crypt’s small courtyard. The temperature seemed to have dropped another ten degrees.

What if the old dude is in the crypt waiting to whack me again? I thought. “Hello! Are you in there?” I called into the courtyard. Silence. I cautiously opened the old iron gate, walked into the courtyard, and stood eight feet away from the usually finely sealed iron-framed double crypt doors, made of stone. I looked up at the simple yet intricately carved kanji calligraphy, which had stimulated my imagination for the past ten years.

The Royal Twins of Kashal

3-21 1499 – 3-28 1522

Dead leaves and branches crunched beneath my feet as I crossed the small courtyard and then climbed up three stone steps to the small landing. The heavy stone doors obviously were no longer locked, so I pulled one of them towards me with both hands, and then cautiously peered in.

A pair of intense blue-green dragon eyes took me by surprise, causing me to jump back. I regained my balance, keeping myself from stumbling down the stairs. I took a deep breath and peered inside the door once more. What had startled me was an elaborate gate-keeper dragon, embroidered on a noren curtain, which passively blocked the way. Okay, you can calm down, I thought to myself. I gently moved the curtain aside and stepped into the antechamber.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. My nostrils were greeted with the heavenly smell of angels, a sweet etheric scent that instantly dissipated my fears. The sensation was like I’d suddenly ascended ten miles up into the Himalayas, into a sacred temple at Shambala, where everything was pure and holy. I took a few steps forward and stopped. I closed my eyes, focusing for a moment on my breathing, adjusting to the rarefied, perfumed, atmosphere.

When I reopened my eyes, I looked down at the red illuminated forked tongue I was standing on. Following this tongue, I was led down a step and into the snarling open mouth of an awesomely fierce-looking blue/green dragon. Now in the main room, I looked up for the source of light. I was surprised to see a large pyramid skylight, which capped the main interior of the crypt. This light enabled me to see the full tile mosaic dragon, which covered the entire floor of the main interior chamber. I followed the dragon’s legs to its five-taloned claws up the walls, which were also covered with cryptic symbols. Because everything I had seen so far was made with superior craftsmanship, possibly impossible to duplicate in present time, I had to kept reminding myself to breathe. I studied the wall symbols without recognition. My gaze progressed to the rear of the crypt.

It was then that I saw them. The reason for the crypt.

My fascination was crypts and tombstones extended to the symbols and references of death: crosses, skulls, crossbones, and such. I had pretty much gotten over being spooked by what I saw in cemeteries. But there in front of me was something I could never have imagined or prepared myself for. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt my breath rush out of my body as my head started reeling. I slumped against the wall, refusing with all my might the urge to faint. Even though I wanted not to look, my eyes opened even wider.

On a large, elevated stone slab at the back end of the crypt, two figures sat on exquisitely carved throne-like red velvet cushioned chairs, opposite each other. I inched across the dragon moving closer to the bodies.

There poised, facing each other as if they were just about to have tea, sat two well-dressed torsos, without heads.

Headless bodies!

A force drew me towards them, up one of the two steps, on my knees, eye-level with the heads, which sat perfectly balanced in their upturned hands. My mind was doing its best to convince me that I wasn’t outside on the ground still knocked out, dreaming this. Dream or not, what I was seeing was two perfectly preserved bodies holding two perfectly preserved heads, sitting where five-hundred-year-old bones should be. This is impossible!

My logical mind then concluded that I wasn’t dreaming, but they had to be wax carvings; professionally crafted manikins like in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. How could they be real? How could they be authentic impeccably preserved corpses, sitting there in an immortal state of perpetual perfection? As I moved closer to study the girl’s face, her flesh had a fresh luminescence, which appeared to be angelically alive. That wouldn’t be the case if she was made of wax. My mind was reeling with being blown.

The bodies were wearing the clothing of royalty: fine layers of exquisite silk, embroidered with exotic-colored flowers.  Someone had taken considerable effort in dressing these Royal Twins and placing them just so.

As I carefully continued examining the bodies and severed heads, the young man and young woman, twenty-three-years-old as inscribed above the door, I couldn’t help but notice that, although the blood at the neck had long ago dried, their faces and hands were eerily pink, as if they were well nourished, in the best of health, and alive! Their eyes were wide open, and both sat serenely with Mona Lisa smiles which, I probably just imagined, seemed to broaden the longer that I lingered there.

I followed their gaze to the large leather-bound book which sat on the small, also intricately carved, wooden table between them. The book’s cover was embossed with a five-taloned, blue/green dragon, just like the one inlaid on the floor. Standing over the book, I took a picture. The title was “The Royal Twins – A Living Story.”

Still dealing with my blown mind, I closed my eyes to just be with the serenity of the crypt. The silence was as profound as the heavenly scent. The ancient book and the disjointed heads with lovely faces both overwhelmed my senses. I realized in that moment; I was in a most holy place, which I never seriously considered cemeteries to be. Peaceful, serene, hauntingly beautiful yes, but not holy. To me cemeteries were photographically captivating depositories for the dearly departed. Where they went next was probably holy, but not the site of their decaying bodies.

Except for ones with open walls, I had never entered a crypt before. I couldn’t help but think that no other crypt interior on earth would be this mind-blowing. Who wouldn’t be moved by this other-worldly beauty of the exterior and the interior or even the loveliness of the headless bodies? Opening my eyes, I was compelled to take pictures with my tripod and Canon but instead decided on my PiPhone. I stepped back several feet, focusing on the two severed heads staring directly at the book. I snapped off several shots.

I then felt compelled to touch the book. As my hands were about three inches away, I could feel Ki Energy intensely radiating out from it. Although I was concerned it might crumble in my hands, that didn’t stop me from touching the rich embossed leather. Hesitating, thinking maybe I shouldn’t, I went ahead and cautiously picked it up.

 At that very moment a huge wave, like a golden tsunami, rushed through my whole body. It sucked the air out of my lungs, causing my whole body to spasm. I gasped for air. At the same time, a high-pitched tone raced through my brain. It was painful and blissful all in one quick wave.

And then it was over. With the book clenched to my chest, I experienced an overwhelming sense of peace. But only for a second . . . until my raven swooped into the crypt loudly squawking, “Leave! Leave! Leave!” She frantically pecked on my sleeve and then started darted back and forth between me and the crypt doors. Suddenly, I intuited what all her commotion was about. Yes, leave! Now! Although I couldn’t see the entrance door, from the altar, a shock of danger shot up my spine and knowing there wasn’t a second to lose, the book still secured near my heart, I ran toward the front of the crypt. With the raven leading the way, I catapulted out the door just in time, barely escaping my entombment. Safely outside, I turned to hear the chillingly hollow “ka-chunk,” as the doors locked, sealing the crypt for maybe another five hundred years.

I ran back and then sat on the stone bench, collecting my breath. I almost died. I thought as I looked at the book now on my lap. Was that a dream or did it really happen? I wanted to think not but I knew it did. I have proof, right here in my hands. At that moment an iridescent blue butterfly landed on the book, assuring me that I was now out of danger.

I looked for my raven, who was now perched on a branch of the nearby juniper. Thank you, I said to her, for coming in and warning me. You saved my life. She nodded knowingly as the blue butterfly left the book and gently brushed by my cheek before disappearing into the woods.

“Ka-kaaaaa,” the raven squawked a kindly you’re welcomed. I thought about what the old tengu had said before he whacked me. “The one with the key is the one who’s not free,” made absolutely no sense but “The time is not right. Watch the bird in its flight,” halfway did. I wondered how he could have possibly known the raven would fly into the crypt to warn me, and I also had no idea what he meant by the time is not right. Would I return to the crypt again when the time was right? With this ancient book in my arms, I felt there was a big mystery that was waiting to be solved, by the detective Tashi Jones.

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