The Hell Screen

by I. J. Parker

  “Yes. Very much like it,” said Akitada. He walked back to the screen and looked at it again. “You are to be commended for your skill with the brush.” Surely, he thought, he could transact his business quickly and leave this unpleasant place, hopefully never to return. “I expect my wife to join me soon,” he continued, “and would like to surprise her with something to remind her of her garden. She loves flowers. When I saw the screen you painted for my brother-in-law, Toshikage, I thought of it. Only, could you have the flowers growing in a garden? Perhaps different ones for every season on each panel. And some birds or small creatures that live in a garden? I like the crow and sparrows in this one.”

  The artist had come to join him. “Maybe.”

  Akitada looked at him with raised brows. “How do you mean?”

  “To paint all the seasons will take a full year, for I must study plants and animals in their proper time. It will therefore be expensive. Ten bars of silver for each panel.” His earlier vulgarity notwithstanding, Noami spoke like an educated man.

  “Ten bars of silver?” Forty bars altogether! That was four times what Toshikage had paid for Akiko’s screen. Akitada said so, and Noami explained coolly that Toshikage’s screen had been assembled from existing sketches. He seemed disinclined to accommodate a new customer.

  Seeing his long miserable errand wasted, Akitada said, “I had hoped to surprise my wife now. Do you have something ready which might please her? Then we could perhaps negotiate about the screen later?”

  Noami pursed his thin lips. “I have no flowers. Only a scroll with dogs.”

  They walked across the room. The painting was of a small boy playing with three black-and-white spotted puppies. The child, a little older than Yori, looked vaguely familiar and the entire scene was charming. Having agreed on a fairly reasonable price, Akitada paid.

  As Noami took down the scroll and rolled it up, Akitada asked, “How do you manage to find your subjects and have them hold still for sketching? That little boy with the dogs, for example?”

  The artist froze for a moment and stared at him blankly. Then he bent to tie the scroll, saying in a flat voice, “People are very poor around here. Most are outcasts. The children are willing to model all day for a copper and some food. The dogs are free for the taking.” He paused and his thin lips twisted. “It’s the getting rid of them that becomes a problem.”

  Akitada nodded. The artist’s willingness to employ the unemployable would bring with it the frustration of their importunities. The children, no doubt, interfered with his work as well as his paints. Akitada suddenly realized that this might be the man who had been a benefactor to the crippled boy in the temple courtyard. The big warden had spoken highly of him. Noami, a successful artist living in the midst of this slum, was in a rare position to do good to his poorer neighbors. Ashamed of his earlier dislike for the man, Akitada said more warmly, “I can see that the offer of payment and food is enough to fill your house with all sorts of needy creatures and provide you with useful models at the same time.”

  Noami stared at him again and then cast a glance around the room. “Why do you say that?” he asked sharply. “There is no one here but myself.”

  Again Akitada felt an irrational hostility in the man. He said soothingly, “1 merely meant that your neighbors surely appreciate your generosity to their children.”

  “My neighbors?” Noami’s voice rose shrilly. “They are all liars and thieves!”

  “Never mind.” Akitada extended his hand for the scroll, adding coldly, “My name is Sugawara Akitada. If you decide to accept a commission for a screen, you may come to see me. Lord Toshikage can tell you how to find my house. But I should like to see some sketches before I approve a commission of that size.”

  Noami bowed, and Akitada escaped the studio to the raucous cries of the crow.

  On the whole it had been one of the most unpleasant afternoons Akitada had spent in a long time. By comparison even home with his dying mother seemed preferable. Tired and footsore from walking, chilled to the bone, and irritated by his encounter with the eccentric artist, he took a shortcut through the Imperial City. The tall halls and groves of pines were some protection from the icy wind which whistled down the thoroughfares of the capital, and he was safe enough from acquaintances. At this time of day the bureaucrats were busily planning and wielding their brushes inside their offices.

  When he entered his half of the city, he found himself on Konoe again, but this time near the eastern prison. It was as good a way as any to take home and, miserably aware that his feet were so cold that they had lost all feeling and that his legs hurt abominably, he reflected that he was no longer used to walking such distances.

  There were more people about here. The prison gate, its flags snapping in the wind, was guarded by red-coated constables who jogged steadily back and forth to keep warm. Other constables, city clerks, and ordinary men passed in and out. The problem of Nagaoka’s brother nagged at him again and he promised himself to look into it as soon as his family was safely home. Perhaps some news from them was waiting for him even now. He sped up a little. Ahead a woman walked in the same direction, her head wrapped in a large kerchief against the cold, and a basket over her arm. He wondered idly if she had come from the prison, perhaps a constable’s wife who had taken her husband his dinner. For a moment there was something oddly familiar about the way she moved and held her head, then she disappeared around a corner.

  He thought of Tamako and Yori in this cold weather, wishing that he might find them waiting for him at home, hoping that there would be at least some message by now, and limped homeward at a steady pace.

  Saburo let him in, crushing his hopes quickly. They had not come and there was no news. Sick with worry, Akitada cursed under his breath and staggered to the house. Saburo watched his master’s stumbling progress across the courtyard with open-mouthed concern.

  “I’m home,” Akitada called out, sitting down in the entry to ease his swollen feet from the boots.

  Yoshiko appeared behind him. She was in her outdoor clothes and folded a scarf into a basket. “Welcome, Brother,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

  Akitada looked up at her and smiled in spite of his disappointment. Her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold air and she looked like the little sister of the past. “A bit, but mostly cold and footsore,” he said. “I have been all the way to the other end of the city to buy Tamako a painting.” He held up the scroll, then glanced at her basket. “Have you been out, too?”

  “Yes. Just to the market for some things for supper. Let me check on Mother first and then we can have some tea in your room and you can show me the picture.” She padded off softly on stockinged feet.

  Akitada stood up himself, groaned, rubbed his icy ears, and hobbled toward his room, wondering why his sister had claimed to have come from the market when her basket was empty.

  * * * *

  EIGHT

  Temple Bells

  In his room, neatly folded on his cushion, Akitada found an elegant court robe. He unfolded it reverently, marveling at the tiny stitches with which his sister had sewn together the panels of rich silk. Now he was ready for the summons from the palace, whenever it would arrive, and would not have to be ashamed before arrogant youngsters like the secretary in the controller’s office. He took off his quilted outdoor robe and slipped into the new garment. It fit comfortably, and he was looking for a sash to wind around his waist when Yoshiko came in.

  “Well?” she asked. “Do you like it? You look absolutely wonderful! Not even the chancellor will make a greater figure than you. I cannot wait to see you walking in the official procession to present New Year’s wishes to His Majesty.”

  His pleasure and her words momentarily wiped all doubts from his mind. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, choking a little with emotion. “It is beautifully sewn and must have taken you many long, weary hours. I am afraid it was too much for you, when you already have Mother to take care of.”

&nb
sp; She came closer, smiling, and gave his robe a little tuck here and there. “A sash,” she muttered, “it needs a sash, and I think I know just the fabric. The train of Father’s court robe is just the right shade of silver gray. It will look well with this dark blue.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Nothing of my father’s.” Seeing her startled eyes, he added lamely, “You can hardly mutilate his best robe. What would Mother say?”

  “Nonsense! It is already damaged by mildew. You cannot waste things for sentimental reasons. And Mother won’t know. I have made up my mind that we must decide our future from now on. You and I have endured far too long the will of parents who cared nothing for our happiness.”

  “Yoshiko!” Akitada stared down at his sister slack-jawed and shocked to the core. She, a woman and the youngest member of the family, had just rebelled against centuries of Confucian laws fixing immutably the duties of children toward their parents, and, for the first time in his hearing, voiced an outright criticism of their parents. Suddenly she seemed a stranger to him. What had happened to change her so?

  “Well?” she demanded, her chin pushed out stubbornly. “Am I wrong? Has either of them ever demonstrated any love or care for either of us? Our father threw you out of the house, and Mother forbade me to get married because she wished to keep me around as a cheap bond maid. It is a credit to you that you have succeeded anyway. As for me”—she turned away abruptly and her voice broke—”any hope of happiness has come too late.”

  His heart contracted at her despair. He put both hands on her shoulders to turn her toward him. “It is not too late. You shall have a fine dower and I will do my utmost to find a good husband for you. You will see, in another year you, too, may look forward to your first child.”

  “You are very kind, Akitada.” It was no more than a breath; then she moved away from him, saying brightly, “Now tell me about your day and show me Tamako’s picture!”

  He went to unroll the painting.

  Yoshiko clapped her hands. “Oh, Akitada! It is charming. The little boy is adorable! Just so must Yori look, I think. We must get your son a puppy.”

  “Yori is a little younger, but he is big for his age.” Akitada narrowed his eyes and made mental comparisons. “He has finer features, I think, and larger eyes. And his hair is quite thick so that the braids over his ears stick out more. But he has the same sturdy arms and legs—” He broke off. She looked at him, questioning, and he told her, “I am so worried that there has been no news from them that I can hardly think of anything else. Tomorrow I ride back to see what has become of them.”

  “Oh, but Akitada,” cried his sister. “What if... ?” She paused, her eyes large with concern.

  He misunderstood and said impatiently, “Mother has repeatedly refused to see me. She can hardly expect me to sit around at her door like those cursed monks. And if she should take it into her head to die while I am gone, it cannot be helped.”

  “Yes, of course. I was thinking of the palace. What if they send for you?”

  Her worried face made him smile. “I shall only be gone a day or so. Make my apologies and claim an urgent message has called me away.”

  * * * *

  The next day was cold and overcast, but the post horse was fresh and Akitada, warmly dressed in a thickly padded hunting robe and lined boots, set out at a smart pace.

  In the three weeks since he had passed this way, the colors of the mountains ahead had shifted from the golden bronze of late autumn foliage to a dull grayish brown of winter. Only the pines and cedars had kept their green, muted to a duller shade now under the cloudy sky. Nights of freezing cold had turned the roadside grasses sere, and the fallow rice fields looked nearly black.

  He soon reached the foothills and began the steady climb. Once he encountered a small caravan of travelers and stopped to ask about his family, but they had come from the south and had no news. He wondered how far he should go. All the way to Lake Biwa? He could not stay away too long without incurring imperial displeasure if he were called to report. If only his mother had not insisted that he go and announce his return!

  Eventually he came to the place where the road to the temple joined the highway. A wooden shack, boarded up and seemingly abandoned on his last visit, was now open, serving refreshments to travelers and pilgrims. With its shutters raised, Akitada saw a small wooden platform inside, with a woman in a blue and white scarf and gray apron sitting next to a tiny stove, an earthenware pitcher, and several bamboo baskets.

  He dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. The woman, young and deeply tanned, shot up and skipped down from the platform. “Welcome! Welcome!” she cried, running and bobbing bows every few steps. “Welcome to the Abode of Celestial Mountain Breezes, your honor! First-class accommodations! Refined wines and delicacies from the capital! Served hot to warm you on a chilly ride. Please enter and allow me to wait upon your honor.”

  With the end of her speech she came to a halt before him, bowing so deeply that he was looking down at her back and the nape of her neck, and so she remained in apparently rapt contemplation of his boots.

  “Thank you,” he said dryly. “I shall have a cup of wine before I go on.”

  She bobbed up, revealing briefly a round, smiling face with eyes so narrow that they were mere slits, before rushing back to her shack, where she busied herself with a cup and ladle, with which she dipped wine from a small container on the stove.

  Akitada followed more slowly and sat on the edge of the platform. The wine was cheap and rough, as he had expected, but it warmed his stomach in the chill mountain air. He peered into one of the baskets and decided to buy a dumpling. It was hardly capital fare, being a cold rice dumpling stuffed with chopped vegetables, but none the worse for that. He ate hungrily, complimented her, and asked for another.

  She had a pretty way of blushing and confided that she had started preparations the night before and risen well before sunrise to boil her dumplings before walking to this little shack with her food and wine supplies.

  He smiled at her. “You are strong as well as a good cook. I missed you when I passed this way a few weeks ago. But it was raining very hard.”

  “I remember the day,” she cried. “Did you go to see the temple dancers?”

  Akitada shook his head.

  “Oh, you missed a treat. I closed early that day and walked up to the temple with my husband. It was a fine show. The celestial fairies were so beautiful I thought I was in the Western Paradise.” She looked rapt, then added confidingly, “My husband says if business is good we’ll go to the plays in the capital. Have you ever seen those?”

  “No, but since you recommend them, I shall perhaps go this year. Did you hear about the murder at the temple?”

  “Yes. The next day. Horrible, wasn’t it? We missed all the excitement, my husband and I. We walked home in the rain right after the plays. Wet as drowned rats.” She laughed, then offered Akitada more wine.

  “Perhaps one more cup,” he said. “Do you happen to recall the name of the performers?”

  “They called themselves the Pure Land Dancers, but that name is just for temples. When they’re playing in the capital for ordinary people, they do more exciting stories about heroes and monsters, and there are acrobatics, and some things that’ll make you laugh. They call themselves Uemon’s Players then. That’s because the old man who runs the group is called Uemon, you see.”

  “Yes. I see.” Akitada nodded with a smile at her enthusiasm. He glanced up the narrow, stony road which led to the temple. Perhaps he could make a brief detour and still reach Lake Biwa before dark. Farther than the lake he dared not travel. He hoped to meet his family on the way, or at least pick up some news of them from passing travelers. “Will you be here for a few more hours?” he asked the woman.

  “Till dark,” she said with a sigh, glancing at her baskets. “Business picks up toward evening because travelers are trying to get to the capital before dark.”

  Akitada took a silver coin fro
m his sash and extended it to her. “For the food and a favor,” he said. “Would you keep an eye out for my family? My name is Sugawara and I expect my wife and three-year-old son, along with an elderly man and two strong young warriors on horseback and in wagons, with bearers and some mounted guards. If you see them, will you ask them to wait here for my return?”

  She promised eagerly, tucking the coin inside her robe.

  This time Akitada reached the temple quickly. It was nearly midday and cold, but the road was dry. The great roof of the gate where he had last seen Nagaoka’s wife and her brother-in-law still had silvery hoarfrost on its tiles. The colors of the vermilion columns and blue-tiled roofs were sharp and the gilded spire of the pagoda disappeared into the clouds above.

  The sound of his horse’s hooves brought the gatekeeper running out to greet him. By good fortune it was the same man who had offered Akitada a glance at the plan of the temple that other morning. They recognized each other instantly and with mutual pleasure.