The Hell Screen

On his way back to the capital city of Heian Kyo (now Kyoto), Lord Sugawara Akitada, a government official with a knack for stumbling into crime, stops at a monastery to shake off the cold and get a few hours sleep. Other guests of the Buddhist monks include a well-dressed woman and her companion, a troupe of actors and a renowned artist. After Akitada views the artist's work-in-progress, aptly called the "Hell Screen," his sleep is filled with nightmarish images and a bloodcurdling scream. Not sure whether he was dreaming, Akitada wanders around the monastery but finds nothing amiss. After an early morning departure, Akitada arrives at his ancestral home to visit his dying mother and soon learns of a heinous murder. Realizing the crime took place at the monastery where he slept, Akitada can't resist investigating.

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The Hell Screen

[Sugawara Akitada 02]

By I. J. Parker

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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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

* * * *

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.