by I. J. Parker
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The Hell Screen
[Sugawara Akitada 02]
By I. J. Parker
Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU
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* * * *
Characters
The Hero and His Household:
Sugawara Akitada An eleventh-century nobleman, returning from government assignment
Tamako His wife
Yorinaga (Yori) His young son
Lady Sugawara The widowed matriarch
Akiko The older of, Akitada’s sisters, married to Toshikage
Toshikage Nobleman, secretary of the Bureau of Palace
Storehouses
Takenori His oldest son and assistant
Tadamine His second son, captain in the army
Yoshiko The younger of Akitada s sisters, unmarried
Tora Akitada’s retainer, former soldier
Genba Akitada’s retainer, former wrestler
Seimei Akitada’s elderly secretary
Saburo Old servant belonging to Tamako s family
Characters Involved in the Murder Cases:
Nagaoka A merchant dealing in antiques
Nobuko His wife
Kojiro His younger brother, a landowner
Uemon Master of an actors’ troupe
Kobe Superintendent of metropolitan police
Dr. Masayoshi Coroner
Abbot Genshin Head of the Eastern Mountain Temple
Eikan and Ancho Two monks
Noami A painter
Yasaburo Retired professor, father-in-law of Nagaoka
Harada The drunken bookkeeper of Yasaburo
Danjuro An actor with Uemon’s troupe
Gold An acrobat
Miss Plumblossom Retired acrobat
Yukiyo Her maid
* * * *
The
Hell
Screen
* * * *
Prologue
The snoring behind her changed to an unintelligible mumbling, and she turned her head sharply. But it was nothing, part of a drunken stupor. She returned her attention to the dark, wet courtyard outside. In a moment the snoring resumed. Men were such weak-minded animals!
Surely enough time had passed. It must be done by now. She shivered and pulled her silk gown more closely around her shoulders.
Earlier, when she had entered this room—a place of rest and prayer for generations of pilgrims—she had read with amusement some of the inscriptions they had left behind on its walls. One was accompanied by a drawing of a seated Buddha and the judge of the dead, King Emma. Smiling and praying figures surrounded the smiling Buddha, but in front of the glowering king, a fierce demon was spearing screaming people to put them in a vat boiling over a fire. The unknown artist had taken pains and achieved a certain gruesome realism. The inscription said, “Release me, Amida, from desire! Save me from eternal torment!”
She was intimately acquainted with desire, but fortunately she was not superstitious. No, she had no time for the foolishness of the religious.
Stiffening, she leaned forward intently. Had that been the sound of a door closing? This was the most dangerous time. A careless move by the one she was waiting for, some guest on his way to relieve himself, or a monk bent on predawn austerities, and all would be lost. But the courtyard lay silent again among the trees. Strangely, there were not even the cries of night birds or the stealthy rustlings of fox or badger. Perhaps the rain had spoiled their hunting.
There! This time she was certain. Another faint sound, closer this time, of gravel crunching underfoot. She closed the door a little farther, peering through a narrow crack.
The faint glow of the lantern at the end of the gallery was momentarily blotted out. Some large shape had moved across it. The loose board of the veranda steps creaked.
Her heart beating in her throat, she called out softly, “Is someone there?”
A grunt. “It’s me. Open up! Quick!”
She jumped up and threw the door wide.
A man, dressed in a monk’s robe, entered, bent under a large burden. She closed the door behind him and shot the latch. In the darkness, his rasping breath made a counterpoint to the snores of the sleeper. She groped for the candle and lit it.
The flickering light revealed the small, simple room, and the bowed figure of the visitor. He let his load roll off his shoulder onto the floor. It fell heavily, like all dead weights. The girl lay on her back, her eyes staring at nothing and her tongue protruding slightly between swollen lips. A hemp rope was still knotted about her throat.
The man sat down abruptly and buried his face in his hands.
“You took your time!” said the woman, giving him an irritated look. Then, turning her back to him, she started to undress. “Did you have any difficulties?” she asked.
He grunted something, staring at her, then nodded toward the sleeper. “What about him? What if he wakes up?”
“He won’t! He’s never had a head for strong drink and this time he won’t wake until morning. And by then it will be much too late.” She giggled, dropping her underrobe. He devoured her nakedness with hot eyes as she was bending over the dead girl.
“Here! Hold her up for me!” When he did not move immediately, she added impatiently, “Why are men so useless?”
He got to his feet meekly, averting his eyes from her breasts and groin. “I wish you’d put on some clothes!” he muttered.
“What?” She looked up, then smiled. “In a moment, my precious stallion.”
His hands trembled as they worked, and when they were done, she came to him, passionately, pushing him back onto the floor, possessing his body with her own urgency, and bringing them both to gasping orgasm. When they had finished, she rose and dressed, grimacing with distaste, while he turned away abruptly and buried his head in his arms.
“Now what’s the matter?” she asked. “Come! We’re almost done. Don’t get weak-kneed now! You know what must be done next.” She went to a traveling box and picked up the sword which lay on its top.
“I can’t,” he muttered, watching her, his handsome face distorted with fear. “I can’t look at her. You do it!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! In her condition she won’t feel a thing! You would think a man with your background wouldn’t balk at using a sword!” She pulled it from its scabbard and extended it to him.
He shuddered. “We shouldn’t have done it here! The spirits won’t like it.”
Coward, she thought, and cursed under her breath. She turned to draw the sharp blade across the dead girl’s throat. It bit deeply, nearly severing the head from the body, but there was very little blood. Then she said softly to him, “Please get up!”
When he stood, she came to him, the bloodied sword in hand, and looked up into his eyes pleadingly. She knew he could not resist her. “Come, my love! I have made a start. You are strong, and must do the rest. Just do this one last thing, and we can put the past behind us and live like princes the rest of our lives.”
His eyes wavered before hers. He nodded. She pressed the grip of the sword into his limp right hand and gave him a little push. He took the few steps to the corpse, raised the blade high, and brought it down. The bright steel flashed in the candlelight. Again and again he slashed, in a kind of frenzy, until the blade was black with blood and the girl’s face was no more.
She stopped him then, and took the dripping sword over to the sleeping man, to wipe the blade on his clothes before placing it into his limp right hand. “There!” she said with a nod. “It looks well! Now quick, back to your quarters! I’ll join you at dawn.”
He gulped, his eyes on the horror he had made of the girl’s head.
Opening the door cautiously, she listened, then waved to him.
When
he had left, she glanced once more around the room, pushed the bloody head a little closer to the body with her foot, then extinguished the candle. Moving to the door, she raised the latch, listened, and slipped out.
The moist, chill night received her. Her nostrils flared with the excitement of this moment. It was done! She was free. Then she pulled the door shut behind her, tried it, and, when she found it still unlocked, slammed it more sharply. This time, the latch dropped into place with a click.
For a moment she stood undecided. The distant light caught her beautiful face, moist lips smiling, but the eyes hard and bright—the mountain lioness returning from a nocturnal hunt, her bloodlust slaked, but every sense alert to danger. Then she slipped away into the shadows quickly, gracefully.
Silence hung over the night-shrouded roofs until, faintly from a distant courtyard, the high, clear note of a temple bell called to morning prayer.
* * * *
ONE
The Mountain Temple
The path was rocky and the horse’s hooves slipped on the wet stones. Rain hung in the air like a thick mist. In a gully a miniature waterfall had formed, its muddy current splashing and gurgling downhill. Patches of wet fog hung between the sagging branches of tall cryptomerias like giant jeweled cobwebs.
The tall rider sat hunched forward in the steady downpour, his big sedge hat joining seamlessly with the straw rain cape covering his body. At a turn in the path he straightened and peered ahead. Ah, finally! The curving blue-tiled roof and the red-lacquered columns of the main gate to the temple lay just ahead. Beyond the plaster walls, dimly seen in the grayness of mist and rain, rose a graceful five-storied pagoda and the many roofs of temple halls and monastic outbuildings.
The tired horse smelled stables and shook his head, releasing a shower of water. Its rider was Sugawara Akitada, returning to the capital from one of the far northern provinces. Akitada was still young, in his mid-thirties, and physically strong, but days of forced riding had worn him out. The steady cold rain had made this particular day’s journey across the mountains especially wearying, and now, in the fading light of early evening, he was forced to seek the temple’s hospitality: a simple room, a hot bath, and a vegetarian supper.
Two other travelers had reached the gate ahead of him. The man had already dismounted and was solicitously helping a lady from her horse. They both wore rain gear similar to Akitada’s, but the woman’s broad-rimmed hat was also covered by a thick veil, sagging with moisture. She rearranged it impatiently and walked up the steps to the gateway, the lavishly embroidered hem of her gown sweeping through the mud behind her.
As Akitada stopped to dismount, her companion struck the bronze bell at the gate. Its high clear metallic sound broke the peaceful splash and drizzle of the rain. Almost immediately the gate opened and an elderly monk appeared, looking uncertainly from the couple to the tall rider waiting behind them.
The woman’s companion, unaware of Akitada, explained, “We are traveling to Otsu and cannot go any farther today. Can you give us shelter?”
The monk hesitated. “Is the other gentleman with you?”
They both turned then to look in surprise at Akitada, who looked back calmly. Though he could not see the lady’s face behind all that wet veiling, he knew she was young, for she moved quickly and with studied grace. The man was stocky, well-built, and in his late twenties. He wore traveling clothes of good quality and, like Akitada, had a sword stuck through his sash. A gentleman, perhaps. Certainly a member of the affluent class. His face was not handsome, but open and friendly, and he bowed politely to Akitada before telling the monk, “Oh, no. There are just the two of us. This gentleman is a stranger to my sister-in-law and myself.”
The woman moved impatiently, extending a smooth white arm from under her rain cape to gesture to her companion to hurry. Multiple layers of fine silk, in shades from russet to lavender, peeked out from under the cream-colored satin sleeve of her robe. The embroidery on the sleeve and hem was of autumn leaves and chrysanthemums.
A very rich lady indeed, thought Akitada, who was tying his horse next to their mounts and noting the costly saddles. Bowing deeply to her, he hoped she would remove the veil so he could see her face. But he was disappointed, for she abruptly turned her back to him. He told the monk, “Please accommodate your guests first. I shall wait for your return.”
The lady ignored Akitada’s courtesy, but her companion bowed his acknowledgment.
“Are there many visitors here tonight?” the lady asked, slipping off her wet rain cape for the young man to pick up.
“Oh, yes, madam,” the monk replied.
“And what sort of people might they be?”
“Oh, mostly ordinary,” said the old man, turning to shuffle barefooted down the long covered corridor to the right. They followed him. Akitada stepped up under the gateway to watch them walk away.
“Ordinary?” she asked, her voice rising a little. “What do you mean?”
“Mostly pilgrims, madam. And a group of players who put on bugaku dances for the local people. But don’t worry. They are in a different building.”
She pursued the topic, but Akitada could no longer make out the words. He slipped out of his wet rain cape and took off the sedge hat, chuckling at the lady’s fears that she might have to rub shoulders with the common people. He reflected ruefully that she had evidently not approved of him, either, when she saw him in his cheap rain gear and on a hired horse. Underneath the straw cape he wore a sober brown hunting robe over fawn-colored silk trousers which he had tucked into his leather riding boots. A long sword was pushed through his wide leather belt. His slender, deeply tanned face with the heavy eyebrows might have belonged to a scholar or a warrior, but was to his mind ordinary. And he thought his narrow straight back and waist and broad shoulders lacked both grace and muscular bulk.
He laid his wet straw cape and hat on the railing of the balustrade and looked out across the large courtyard toward the main temple hall. Memories stirred of visits to this place back in the days of his childhood. He had been accompanied by his imperious mother and two younger sisters, along with nursemaids and servants. How would he find them now? Was his mother still alive? The message of her severe illness had reached them two weeks earlier, on their homeward journey, and Akitada had pushed ahead alone, leaving his wife and small son to follow more slowly with the luggage and servants.
Now he was only a short day’s ride from the capital and worried about what he would find. Akiko, the elder of his two sisters, had married an official during his absence and moved away, but Yoshiko was still at home. He tried to imagine his mother ill, her fierce strength gone, and only the bitterness remaining. He sighed.
Steady streams of water descended along the chains suspended from the monstrous snouts of rain spouts above him and splashed with a great din into pebble troughs. Across the courtyard the tall pagoda rose into the mist, its top lost above the clouds. The scent of pines hung in the air and mingled with the sweetish odor of wet straw and sedge. But for this miserable rain he would have made better time and arrived home this very night. Instead, he and his horse were near physical collapse after hours of trudging through deep mud and roaring torrents.
The gatekeeper returned, his soles whispering softly on the smooth boards of the gallery. “Forgive the delay, sir,” he said, glancing at Akitada’s clothing and sword. “Has your honor come to worship or for lodging?”
“Lodging only, I’m afraid.” Akitada produced a visiting card and handed it to the monk, who peered at it and bowed deeply.
“A great honor, my lord,” he said. “May I conduct you to the abbot?”
Akitada suppressed a sigh. He was bone tired and in no mood for courtesies over fruit juice, but the visit was obligatory for men of his rank..
This time the monk turned to the left and led the way to the inner courts of the temple and its monastery. After an eternity of galleries and corridors, he paused before an unadorned door made of beautifully polished w
ood. It was opened by an acolyte, a boy of ten or eleven. In the room behind him sat a very old man on a small dais.
“His Reverence, Genshin,” murmured the monk.
Genshin was frail, almost skeletal, and his skin stretched like yellowed paper across his shaven skull. He wore a dark silk robe and a very beautiful stole patched from many-colored pieces of brocade. A string of amber beads slid slowly through fingers thin as the claws of a bird. His eyes were closed, the lids almost transparent, and the thin, pursed lips moved silently.
