by I. J. Parker
Tora was after him in an instant. “Stop!” he cried, grabbing the other man’s shoulder. “Let’s have a look at you.”
The hood slipped back, and he caught a brief glimpse of a round, ugly face under bristly gray hair. Then the man seized his arm with both hands, twisted, and jerked. Pulled off balance, Tora released his hold and tried to recover. Too late. With another mighty shove in the back, he went sprawling, and when he scrambled to his feet, the hooded man had disappeared.
Cursing, Tora ran this way and that before giving up and returning to the gate. He decided to see how large the area was. A narrow path followed the wall toward the back. He had only taken a few steps along this track when it happened. A moment before the excruciating blow struck the back of his head, he had a dim impression of running steps. Then he pitched forward and passed out.
* * * *
TWENTY
A Hell of Ice
Yori disappeared the day of Tora’s adventures.
Because Harada’s condition had worsened, everyone in the Sugawara household was preoccupied with his care, and the boy was left to amuse himself. Yori’s absence was not noticed until the hour of the midday rice. At first it caused only mild concern, because Yori had wandered off before. But when time passed without his return and it grew colder outside, a search was organized, first of the house, gardens, and stable, then of the immediate neighborhood.
By midafternoon both Tamako and Akitada were pacing the floor. Unable to wait any longer, Akitada threw on an extra robe, put on his warm boots, and rushed out into the street. He knocked on every gate and personally questioned every resident of the surrounding streets, every passerby, every vendor, every beggar, and every passing servant, asking if they had seen the child. Nobody had.
Toward dusk, Akitada, now frantic with fear, picked up the first news at one of the mansions in the next quarter. A house-boy had passed the Sugawara mansion on an errand during the morning and noticed a small man with short bushy gray hair hovering by the open gate. The man had been gesturing to someone inside.
Then Saburo came rushing up with more news. In the next block, a cook’s children were playing in the alley when a hooded monk passed them, leading a small boy by the hand. They had stared because the boy had worn a very pretty red silk robe. It had to be Yori. And the hooded monk?
Akitada was seized with a sudden, gut-wrenching, irrational fear, but he told Saburo calmly, “I believe I know where he is. Tell your mistress that I have gone to bring him back and not to worry.”
Noami! It must have been Noami. The bushy hair, barely grown out; the children thinking of a monk, because Noami, dressed in monk’s robes, had probably covered his head against the cold. It did not explain why he had taken Akitada’s son.
Akitada set out for the painter’s home at a loping run, telling himself that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what had happened.
What was more likely than that Yori, bored and left out of his elders’ activities, had spied Noami passing the house? The boy, remembering the interrupted painting lesson, would have begged the artist for another one, and Noami, unwelcome in Akitada’s house, would have offered to teach Yori at his home.
The distance between Akitada’s house and Noami’s Bamboo Hermitage was nearly two miles, and Akitada kept to the most direct route. Rushing along, he attracted stares and soon began to perspire in spite of the freezing cold.
He was no longer accustomed to exercise and soon tired, but he kept up his pace until he reached the artist’s place. It was getting dark, and the narrow street was as deserted as it had been the last time. When he pounded on the gate, the dry leaves of the bamboo rustled mysteriously and he half expected to hear the raucous cry of the crow again. Instead there was the sound of someone shuffling through the fallen leaves inside. A wooden bar was pulled back and the gate swung slowly open.
Noami stood before him. A slow smile stretched the wide mouth, his large yellow teeth making him look more than ever like a grinning monkey.
Like the monkey that ate the plum, Akitada thought, and snapped, “Do you have my son here?”
“But certainly, my lord.” Noami bowed and threw the gate wide. “The youngster has enjoyed himself enormously. Please come in.”
Relief washed over Akitada and left him wordless. He followed Noami down the path to his studio. At the entrance they both removed their boots. Akitada said peevishly, “May I ask why you brought him here?”
“To paint.” Noami raised his brows in surprise. “I came by to see if he might like a lesson. The boy told me that you and your lady were busy, but that he might visit my studio. I was about to bring him back.”
It sounded plausible. Yori was very likely to have said such a thing if he wished to go. Still, Noami’s high-handed invitation had put them all to immense trouble and worry. Akitada said brusquely, “We did not know and have been searching for him since he left.”
“Oh, dear,” said the painter blandly. “I am so sorry. It is amazing what youngsters can get up to. Please come in.”
Yori sat on the floor, surrounded by pieces of paper and small containers of paints. Noami had removed his quilted red robe and given him a short cotton shirt which covered his full trousers and jacket. It was liberally stained with paint. Yori turned a smiling face to his father.
“Look at my paintings,” he cried.
The studio looked much like the last time, except that all the sliding doors were closed against the winter chill. Noami had lit a lamp near some cushions. A large brazier warmed the room.
“May I offer refreshments?” Noami asked.
“Please do not bother,” Akitada said quickly. He disliked the man intensely, but felt it would be boorish to express his feelings, when the painter had done no more than entertain Yori for an afternoon. “We must return immediately. His mother is anxious.”
“Yes, of course. I forgot. But let me get something to clean him up a little. Please do have some wine. You look chilled. Surely on such a cold night... ?”
Akitada saw a wine flask on the brazier. His fingers and ears felt nearly frozen, and the sweat was like ice against his skin. “Very well.” He seated himself. Noami poured and offered the wine with a bow, then hurried away.
Akitada warmed his frozen hands by holding them over the brazier. Yori was dipping his fingers into some yellow paint and making hand prints on the paper.
“Stop that!” his father snapped. “Why did you run away without permission?”
Yori turned round eyes to his father. “But I asked permission. You were reading some papers and nodded your head.”
Akitada did not remember. Seimei had been busy with the sick Harada, and Akitada had worked over the accounts himself. An unpleasant draft passed through the studio, chilling him to the bone but doing little to disperse the strong smell of paints and pigments which hung about the studio. He sipped a little of the spiced wine and found it strange but not unpleasant. Papers lay scattered about the floor, Yori’s handiwork. He remembered the last painting lesson and became angry again. “Wipe your hands and come here.”
Yori obeyed, using Noami’s shirt for the purpose. Picking up some of the papers, he brought them to his father. “Look!”
The boy had tried to draw people this time, strange creatures with large heads, open mouths, huge eyes, and missing hands or feet. Childish distortions because he had found them too difficult to draw? Akitada took another sip, letting the wine warm and settle his stomach, and rose to look at the other sheets. As he did so, he came across a drawing by Noami. This, too, was of a human being, a small boy, whose eyes were wide with fear and his mouth open in a scream. Akitada dropped the paper in sudden revulsion. This drawing also had only stumps where the hands and feet should have been. How dare the man show such things to a child!
Then two memories coalesced in Akitada’s mind: the bleeding wounds of the tortured souls on the hell screen and the maimed son of the poor woman in the market nearby. At first his mind refused a connec
tion too horrible to contemplate, but he sifted through the rest of the papers with frantic haste, turning up two more sketches of children with missing limbs. Remembering the rolls of drawings Noami had so angrily prevented him from seeing, Akitada took up the lamp, found the pile in the corner of the studio, and unrolled sketch after sketch, letting each fall from his trembling hands. Most were of women and children, though there were two frail old men. All of them poor weak creatures, and all of them horribly wounded or burned. Several sketches showed Yukiyo, her face slashed and her naked body bleeding from the breasts and abdomen. Akitada’s stomach turned, and the sour taste of wine rose to his mouth.
He thought too late of what might happen if Noami returned and found him so. Yori! He must get the boy away.
Akitada swayed, suddenly dizzy. With shaking hands he rolled up the papers and pushed them back in their corner. Then he staggered back to Yori. He was barely in time.
Noami came in, carrying a bowl of water and some towels. For a moment, Akitada could not focus. The room swam before his eyes.
Noami busied himself wiping paint off Yori’s face and hands.
“Papa saw my pictures.” Yori’s voice sounded a long way off, but quite cheerful. “I shall come back to paint the puppies soon.”
Noami put down the dirty towels and took off the stained shirt. “I shall look forward to it, young master,” he said in his grating voice. Yori ran to Akitada. Catching the child in his arms, Akitada stared at the painter. He must act naturally, or Noami would prevent their leaving.
“Are you quite well, my lord?” asked Noami. “You look very pale.”
“No, I’m... I’m fine. His coat? We must g... g ...” Yori was already struggling into his red coat.
“We must go home,” Akitada managed to say quite clearly. He felt strangely light-headed. Making an attempt to get to his feet, he found that his legs would not support him.
“Perhaps another cup of wine before your long walk back?” asked Noami, pressing the cup into his hand.
Anything to get to his feet. He must leave. He must take Yori. Akitada drank and staggered up. “Come, Yori,” he said, and bent to take his son’s hand. But he miscalculated, overbalanced, and fell to his hands and knees.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Noami. “Sit down and rest, my lord. Shall I get you some water?”
Akitada nodded. “Some water. Yes.”
The light was very poor, but the man seemed to be grinning as he left. For a moment, Akitada stared after him nervously. It seemed darker in the room. Then he realized that he had left the lamp in the corner with Noami’s drawings. The painter knew he had seen them. Almost at the same moment, another thought worked its way through the haze of his mind: the wine he had just drunk must have been drugged to make him so dizzy and weak.
Akitada made a superhuman effort. “Yori,” he mumbled, “you must run home now!”
Yori nodded. “We’ll run home, Papa. I’m hungry.”
“No. You must go home alone. Can you ...” Akitada’s tongue would not obey. “Alone. Now! Can you ... run alone?” He had meant to ask if the child could find the way. Silly question. “Get Genba... tell Genba...” No time! He raised his voice. “Run, Yori! Now! Run!”
The boy stood irresolute, staring at him wide-eyed. Outside, there were the returning steps of Noami.
“Please, Yori,” Akitada begged. “Please, hurry! And don’t look back!” He gave the child a little push toward the entrance.
His urgency must have registered, for Yori nodded and ran. In a moment, he was gone. Akitada staggered to his feet again, grabbing for a pillar to stay upright. He must prevent Noami from going after Yori. Pushing himself away from the pillar, he stumbled toward the rear of the studio and slid open the doors to the garden.
“What are you doing?” cried the painter.
Akitada staggered forward and fell headlong down some steps. The pain to his knees and the cold air cleared his head a little. Noami, a vague presence in Akitada’s confused state, attempted to lift him to his feet. Akitada mumbled, “Yori...”
“Where’s the boy? Did he run out?”
Akitada clutched the shoulders of the small man and nodded. “Li’l rascal was looking for the ... dogs,” he slurred.
“Let’s get you back in first,” said Noami. “Then I’ll go find the boy!”
He half supported, half dragged Akitada back into the studio and let him drop onto the cushion.
Waves of nausea washed over Akitada; the room spun and receded crazily; someone pressed a cup to his lips. He tried to shake his head, opened his mouth to say no, but the liquid poured between his teeth; he gagged and swallowed.
Before him hovered the broad, grinning face of Noami. “There, now,” he rasped. “That should put you to sleep.” His laughter sounded like a cracked bell. “I was right about you. I knew you’d come yourself and alone, my lord. Men like you are too arrogant to think common folk would dare lay a finger on them.”
Akitada lurched forward, his hands reaching for the man’s throat, but Noami pushed him back and laughed. The sound reverberated in Akitada’s ears as he lay helplessly on the floor and watched the painter’s disembodied head recede and fade on waves of mocking laughter.
Then he was alone.
As long as the walls kept whirling and the floor bucking like a wild horse, he despaired of making his escape, but something forced him to try. He got to his knees.
Concentrate! Move! Get away from here! If necessary, on all fours, or crawling like a snake, pulling himself along by his fingernails across the wooden floor, board by board. To the entrance and beyond. Yori must be well clear by now.
On that thought, Akitada passed out.
* * * *
When he regained consciousness, he was first aware of bitter cold. There were sounds of rustling and more faintly of someone moaning. It was very dark, and he could not see where the sounds came from. He was freezing. There was also pain, great pain in his wrists and shoulders. His arms were stretched above his head. He tried to move, and the moaning turned into an agonized groan. His- groan. His wrists were tied and attached to something above him. Most of the weight of his body depended from his wrists, because he was sagging. He straightened, and the pain eased a little.
He tried to shout, but something was stuffed in his mouth, a rag with the nauseating taste and smell of paints. He gagged and felt the bile rising in his throat. No! He must not vomit or he would suffocate. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on subduing his nausea. Finally the urge subsided.
His wrists were held together by a rope tied so tightly that he could not feel his hands. His feet were also tied at the ankles, but not so tightly. He could feel sharp gravel biting into the soles of his feet. But when he tried to move his legs, his shoulders, arms, and wrists were in agony. If only he could get some slack in the rope from which he was suspended. He attempted to pull on it, but another excruciating pain ran from his shoulders across his entire torso, and he desisted instantly. To ease the pain, he raised himself to his toes.
He balanced like this for a while, afraid to move until the waves of pain subsided a little. As he waited, it dawned on him that he was strung up in Noami’s garden and that he was alone.
The darkness was not impenetrable. A patch of starlit sky showed between the fronds of rustling bamboo and bare branches. He must be tied up to a tree. It was incredibly cold, and he realized that he was naked except for his loincloth.
The madman had stripped him of his clothes, tied him up to the tree, and left him to freeze in agony. It was a great deal of trouble to go to, in order to eliminate a witness. Why not kill him outright? What did Noami have in mind?
The memory of those sketches of bleeding bodies returned vividly. Perhaps he was about to be carved up while the monster busily sketched away. He, Akitada, would become a character on the hell screen. He had a sudden freakish image of lines of people passing by to stare at his writhing body. Would his friends or acquaintances recognize him? He giggled
at the thought of their faces, and then felt warm moisture running down his cheeks.
Oh, no! Dear heaven, no! He must not give the man the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Searching for something to distract his mind, he decided to concentrate on a scheme for freeing himself, impossible as that seemed.
For a while now his contracted leg muscles had protested against supporting his weight on the balls of his feet. They began to cramp in earnest, his ankles wobbled, and he dropped forward. The sudden jerk was agonizing to his already injured shoulder joints. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing: Inhale! Exhale! Inhale! Exhale! Over and over again, until he became inured to the pain in his shoulders and the cramping in his legs.
His head cleared a little, but breathing was difficult. In his present position, he could not catch deep breaths. The thought of not getting enough air panicked him. Noami had left him here to suffocate slowly.
