The Hell Screen

by I. J. Parker

  “When you have taken that brazier,” Akitada ordered, “come back for another. The room is very cold.”

  The maid goggled at him. “I can’t. The old mistress won’t allow more than one brazier, sir,” she protested.

  “I am the master here now,” Akitada corrected her with a flash of anger, “and from now on you do what I say, or what my wife tells you to do. Do you understand?” He directed a quelling glance at the gaping cook and added, “Both of you.” Then he extended his hand for the teapot. “Get busy with the morning rice,” he told the cook. “There are many mouths to feed.”

  The cook wailed, “There’s not enough food for the rest of the day.”

  He almost cursed. But it was not, after all, the woman’s fault. “Get more and do the best you can!”

  Carrying the pot of hot water, he preceded the big maid with her brazier to his room, where he found Tamako admiring Noami’s scroll painting and her maidservant unpacking a clothes box someone had brought in. Piles of gowns lay strewn about the room, and mirrors and cosmetics cases covered his desk. He sighed inwardly, but said only, “The scroll is a present for you. Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I don’t think I have ever seen anything so lifelike. You can see every whisker on the puppies and every hair in their tails, and the little boy is charming. Wherever did you find this?”

  The maid had placed the brazier next to his desk and left. Akitada poured hot water and brought Tamako her cup of tea. “Akiko’s husband Toshikage found the artist. He commissioned a screen for her room. When I saw the screen, I knew I wanted you to have one, too, but the painter is a very strange creature, not at all pleasant even if he is very skilled. He insisted that he would have to observe the flowers for a whole year to paint a screen of plants for all seasons.”

  “How odd! I would like to meet the man sometime. How is Akiko? Yoshiko told me she is expecting a child.”

  “Yes. She seems in excellent health and very happy.” He decided not to mention Toshikage’s troubles and said only, “I like her husband, and he seems to dote on her.”

  Tamako studied his face. “Good! I shall look forward to meeting him.”

  The door opened, admitting Tora and Genba with more boxes. When they had gone, the second brazier appeared.

  Akitada put down his empty cup. “There is much to do. I forgot to let Akiko know about your arrival. And I suppose I had better speak to Seimei about finding me other accommodations. And then I will lend a hand to the stable repairs. The place is not in good condition, I am afraid.”

  Tamako smiled at him. “Never mind! It will all come right now.”

  Akitada encountered Seimei in the hallway leading to his father’s room. The elderly man was lugging a heavy box of documents.

  “Wait,” cried Akitada, rushing up to relieve him of the load. “You should not be doing this,” he scolded. “It is much too heavy. Tora or Genba can carry the boxes and trunks. Where are you going with it?” He recognized his own writing set and personal seals among the items in the box.

  “To your father’s room,” said Seimei. “It is fitting that you should be there now.”

  Akitada stopped abruptly. “No! Not there!”

  Seimei looked up at him, his eyes sympathetic in the heavily lined face. “Ah! Old wounds are painful.”

  “You should know better than anyone,” Akitada said harshly, “why I cannot work in a room filled with such memories.”

  The old man sighed. “You are the master now. And your father’s room is the largest and best room in the house. It is expected that you should occupy it.”

  The thought crossed Akitada’s mind that Tamako had assumed the same thing, but he simply could not face the prospect. “Some other room will do for the time being. Until we get my father’s things cleaned out,” he promised lamely.

  “They have been put away already,” Seimei informed him, and headed down the corridor. “There will be talk if you do not assume your father’s position in this house. A man does not forget what is owed to either his home, his family, or himself.”

  His master followed dazedly with the box. When Seimei flung back the lacquered doors to his father’s study, Akitada made one last desperate appeal. “My father did his best to prevent my taking his place. No doubt he will haunt this room if I use it.”

  At this Seimei chuckled. “Now you sound like Tora. I do not believe you. In any case, remember that patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. I have dreamed for many years of this day, hoping to live long enough to see you installed in your father’s place.”

  Akitada looked at Seimei in astonishment. The old man had been with him all his life, doing his best to protect the child and youngster against his father’s anger and his mother’s resentment, but he had done so without ever committing the offense of criticizing, either. His loyalty to the Sugawara family had been exceeded only by his love for young Akitada. Akitada was more deeply touched than he cared to admit and gave up his resistance.

  “Oh, very well,” he said, and lugged the box into the room. Then he looked around. The light was dim, with the doors to the garden closed against the weather. The air smelled stale and musty.

  There were the familiar shelves against one wall, but his father’s books and document boxes were gone. Gone also were the calligraphy scrolls with the Chinese cautionary precepts and the terrifying painting of Emma, the king of the underworld, judging the souls of the dead. This picture in particular had always instilled a special terror in young Akitada when he had crept into his father’s room, expecting punishment. The resemblance between his father and the scowling judge had been striking, and Akitada had always suspected that that was the reason the painting held such a prominent place in the room.

  The broad black-lacquered desk was also bare of his father’s writing utensils and his special brazier and lamp. Only the atmosphere of stern and unforgiving judgment lingered. Akitada shuddered at the thought of receiving his own son in this room.

  Seimei opened the doors to the veranda. Fresh, cold air came in. There was a private garden outside, with a narrow path leading to a fishpond, now covered with floating leaves. As a boy, Akitada had never been allowed to play here. Seimei tut-tutted at the state of the shrubbery, but Akitada stepped outside, glad to escape the room, and went to peer into the black water of the pond. Down in the depths he could make out some large glistening shapes, moving sullenly in the cold water. He picked up a small stick and tossed it in, and one by one the koi rose to the surface looking for food. They were red, gold, and silver, spotted and plain, and they looked up at their visitor curiously. Yori would like this place.

  “Perhaps,” said Akitada, “with some changes, the room might do.”

  Seimei, who had waited on the veranda, watching his master anxiously, gave a sigh of relief. “Her ladyship has directed which screens, cushions, and hangings are to be brought here. And, of course, there will be your own brushes and your books, your mementos from the north country, your tea things, your mirror and clothes rack, and your sword.”

  “Hmm. Yes. Well, make sure your own desk is placed near mine,” said Akitada, giving the old man a fond smile, “for I refuse to work here without you.”

  Seimei bowed. “It shall be so” There was a suspicion of moisture in his eyes as he turned to go back into the room.

  Akitada followed, saying with a pretense of briskness, “I must go see about the horses and will send Tora to you. But could you dispatch a message to my brother-in-law Toshikage’s, letting them know that the family has arrived?”

  “I took the liberty to do this earlier, sir.”

  “I should have known.” Akitada touched the old man’s shoulder with affection, painfully aware how frail it had become. “I shall always think of you as my real father, Seimei,” he said, tears rising to his own eyes.

  Seimei looked up at him. His lips moved, but no words came. Instead he touched Akitada’s hand on his shoulder with his own.

  * * *
*

  It was not until the afternoon that Akitada was free to help with the stables. A good part of the building had been torn down years ago, when he was a child. The Sugawara finances had made the keeping of horses and oxen impractical when there were neither grooms for their care nor money for their fodder. Since then a part of the remaining section had lost its roof, and piles of wet leaves covered the rotten boards where once horses had stood.

  He found Tora and Genba busy erecting a rough wall between the roofed area and the stalls that were open to the elements. In this freezing weather, you could not leave animals unprotected. Akitada’s four horses and the pair of oxen which had drawn the carts were crammed together in the most sheltered part, where they had dry flooring covered with fresh straw.

  The big gray stallion, a gift from a grateful lord, turned its handsome head to look at Akitada and whinnied. He went to the animal, running his hands over its body and down the slender, muscular legs, then did the same with the other three, a bay and two dark brown geldings. They had made the long journey in good condition. The bay was smaller than the others, but finely made and belonged to Tamako. They would be able to take rides into the countryside together. And soon, he thought contentedly, he would have to buy a horse for his son.

  Protecting his horses was more important to Akitada than arranging his books. He worked companionably with his two retainers. Genba, a very big man, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, had once been a wrestler. It was a sport he still engaged in at odd times, but he had, with great difficulty, lost much of the weight he used to carry and was perpetually hungry or fantasizing about foods.

  Tora was willing enough to put his hand to a bit of rough carpentry when there were no pretty young women around to distract him. He had joined the household during Akitada’s first assignment, when his master had taken a chance on the ex-soldier and saved him from a murder charge.

  It got much colder when darkness fell, but the efforts of lugging about boards and climbing up and down ladders kept them warm enough, and the exchange of news passed the time.

  Genba and Tora listened spellbound to his account of the events at the mountain temple. But when Akitada spoke of the hell screen and the painter’s studio near the Temple of Boundless Mercy, Tora stopped hammering nails and stared at him.

  “That place is haunted!” he announced. “Hungry ghosts are thick as flies there and every morning the outcaste sweepers find parts of human bodies.”

  Working side by side in the flickering light of torches while the animals quietly munched their hay and moved about in the straw went a long way toward laying the ghosts haunting Akitada’s mind. Tora’s imaginings were so far-fetched that both Akitada and Genba laughed at some of the details.

  “Not a bad job,” remarked Genba when they were done, and had looked over the makeshift wall. “I think I’ve earned an extra helping of the evening rice. I meant to ask you, sir, how’s the cook? Not too stingy with fish in her soups and stews, is she?”

  “She is from the country and cooks hearty meals, but you were not expected. There may not be enough food in the house.”

  Comically, Genba’s face first fell, then brightened again. “I could run out and get some of those vegetable-stuffed dumplings, and maybe some soba noodles. Yori likes those.”

  Akitada was putting on his robe. “Very well,” he said with a smile. “But don’t buy more than we can eat.”

  Tora hooted. “That’s like telling the cat not to eat the fish.” As Genba headed out the door grinning, Tora turned to Akitada. “I’m ready to get started on that temple murder tomorrow.”

  Akitada had planned to speak to Kobe as soon as possible, but now there were other things to be done. It would have to wait. He told Tora, “First we must get the family settled.”

  Tora waved a dismissive hand as they headed out of the stable. “Done in no time!”

  It was nearly dark outside. Akitada glanced across the dim courtyard at the looming shapes of the residence and felt another pang of regret that in his absence little had been done to take care of it. “There are also the repairs to the house and gardens.”

  Tora’s eyes opened wide. “But winter is coming, sir. It’ll be best to wait until spring.”

  They walked to the well to wash their hands. The water in the bucket was icy, and the night air bit their wet skin painfully.

  “Well,” said Akitada, grimacing as he hurriedly dried his hands on the fabric of his trousers, “if you do have some spare time, you might ask around about those actors. They seem to have roamed all over the monastery that night. One of them may have seen something. And try to find out if any of their women were outside around the hour of the rat. They call themselves the Dragon Dancers and work for an old man by the name of Uemon.”

  “The easiest thing in the world,” cried Tora, rubbing his hands. “A man like myself knows all the wine shops along the river where the actors usually spend their money—” He broke off as Seimei joined them.

  “Beware of letting the tiger loose in the market,” Seimei said to Akitada, with a meaningful nod toward the grinning Tora. Tora meant “tiger” and he had lived up nobly to the name since he adopted it. But he fancied himself as an assistant investigator of crimes, and he had had some success, though his methods involved copious drinking bouts and bedding material witnesses, much to the disapproval of Seimei.

  “Thank you, Seimei. The advice is well taken.” Akitada chuckled. “But you did not come for that, I am sure.”

  “Oh, no. Lord Toshikage and his lady have arrived. They are in her ladyship’s room.”

  Akitada hesitated. He had no wish to see his mother. But Seimei corrected himself. “I meant your lady’s room, sir.” After another moment’s confusion, Akitada realized that Seimei referred to his own room, or rather his former room.

  Shaking his head at the changes wrought in a few hours, he headed that way. Yori’s giggles and women’s laughter came from behind the door, and he braced himself for a scene of chaos, with the women excitedly digging through Tamako’s wardrobe, which would be flowing from innumerable trunks and covering every available surface, while his son romped about freely amid the general upheaval. He opened the door, hoping to extricate his brother-in-law from the chatter of women and children, but found to his surprise a tidy room with a happy family seated decorously on cushions around his desk.

  All the trunks were closed and placed neatly against the walls, and a small painted screen and several handsome curtain stands stood around the gathering to protect them from the cold air coming from the doors. The faces turned toward him shone with laughter and good cheer in the light of candles. Tamako sat near the teapot; Yoshiko was holding Yori on her lap; Akiko, all smiles, had placed a hand protectively on her stomach; and Toshikage, next to his wife, rose to greet him. It suddenly struck Akitada that an extraordinary change had come over this house which, until most recently, had been filled with nothing but the mournful chants of the monks and nervous whispers of servants in the corridors.

  The most profound change had nothing to do with his mother’s illness. He could not recall ever hearing laughter in this house, or the shouts of children, or indeed seeing a happy gathering of family all under one roof. Feeling a surge of gladness, he greeted Toshikage with a hearty embrace.

  The women were drinking tea, but Toshikage had a flask of warm wine, and Akitada accepted a cup of that, warming his frozen fingers on the bowl before letting the warm liquid spread a glow through his stomach. The two braziers, together with the screens, kept the chill at bay, and he relaxed into blissful leisure. Tamako informed him that she had entertained everyone with stories of the far north, and that now it was his turn. He obliged, and as they listened, asked questions, and chattered, they passed a giggling Yori from hand to hand. It was a more pleasurable time than Akitada could have imagined.

  It was Akiko who broke the happy mood. “By the way, Mother looks dreadful,” she suddenly informed him in a tone which was almost accusatory, though
whether she held him accountable for his mother’s decline or blamed him for her unpleasant experience was not immediately clear to him. “She cannot last the night. You had better think of the arrangements, Brother.”

  He sighed. “Don’t worry. The arrangements have been made. How are you feeling, Akiko?”

  This distracted her. She gave Toshikage a coy smile and patted her stomach. “We are very well, my son and I,” she said proudly. “And Toshikage is quite charmed with your Yori, so he will take enormous care of us. Won’t you, Honorable Husband and Father of our Son?”

  Toshikage smiled broadly and bowed to her. “The most tender care, my Beloved Wife and Mother of our Child.” He turned to Akitada and said, “You are blessed with a delightful family, my Brother, and I count myself the luckiest man alive to be a part of it.”

  Akitada was touched and made a suitable and affectionate reply, but thought privately of that unhappy young man who was Toshikage’s oldest son. These thoughts led inescapably to the problem of the thefts from the Imperial Treasury, and he would have taken Toshikage aside to discuss the matter if the door had not opened to admit Tamako’s maid with the evening rice.