The Hell Screen (3 page)

His guide said, “Your horse has been stabled, my lord.”

Akitada stared at the old monk’s back. Had he spoken out loud, or was this monk a mind reader? And how much longer must he follow the shuffling footsteps?

“We are almost there,” said his guide, and opened another door.

They entered a very large, empty hall. One whole wall was covered with dark curtains, and a strange smell, part mineral and part resin, hung in the air. The monk reached for a rope to pull up the draperies. Akitada’s eye fell on one section where the fabric had parted first. He started back with a cry.

The lantern light shone on a gruesome image. A child, a small boy no more than five or six, was sitting there. His rounded features were distorted in agony and he held up two bleeding stumps where his hands had been.

His guide said reassuringly, “It’s very realistic, but it’s only a painting, sir. That’s the hell screen His Reverence wanted you to see. He is very proud of it. It isn’t finished yet, but we think it will be quite wonderful. The artist is Noami, a man who is most devout and meticulous. He has been painting the screen for the past year.”

Akitada nodded.

The monk held up his lantern to illuminate another section. “This is the hell of the slashing blades. It will be much clearer by daylight, of course, or when there are many candles burning in the hall.”

Akitada sincerely hoped not. Even given the fact that the people in it were not really life-sized, the realism of the details was painful. The horrors of the scenes before his eyes were quite shocking enough by the faint light of a single lantern. Hell screens were, of course, not uncommon in Buddhist temples, being an aid to teach people the penalties of their sinful lives. But this... this was beyond anything he had ever seen before. He saw nude men and women who were writhing in the clutches of black demonic creatures, while streams of blood poured from terrible wounds made by swords, pikes, and halberds. The mutilated child was one of many victims. Near him his mother clutched a halberd which had entered her stomach and protruded from her back, while a huge black-winged demon slit her throat, releasing a fountain of gore. More demons were slashing the face of a beautiful lady with sharp knives, and her handsome young lord had lost both legs and was crawling away on the ground, leaving a broad trail of blood behind him.

The monk said proudly, “It looks very real, doesn’t it? And look at the flames of the burning hell! It makes you feel hot just to look at it.”

It did indeed. Red, orange, and yellow flames filled a large area of the screen, and in the flames humans could be seen, writhing, their skin scorched and blistered, their mouths and eyes wide with screams of agony. Here, too, demons, black-skinned and long-haired, drove reluctant naked creatures into the flames with burning torches or tossed them into a river of glowing lava.

Akitada shuddered. What kind of faith was this that celebrated human suffering, and what sort of mind could call up such scenes of horror and agony?

“Noami has been working here tirelessly day and night, except when he goes home to make more sketches for the next scenes,” said Akitada’s guide. “I have seen some of them. He will paint the judge of the dead next. Emma will be right here, in the center, and his attendants will stand around him, and the soul of someone just dead will be kneeling here, with demons waiting to take him to the hells of fire or of ice. The rest of the screen is also blank, but it will depict the freezing hell. Noami says he cannot start that yet until winter gets here.”

Akitada blinked, “Until winter gets here?”

“Oh, yes. Noami always works from nature. I myself have seen him build a fire in the courtyard to paint the smoke you see there.”

Akitada looked respectfully at the bluish black clouds which rose from the flames of the burning hell. They looked real enough to choke him. “Let us go!” he said. “I am tired.”

The monk drew the curtain again. “It’s not much farther,” he said.

They left the hall of the hell screen and walked down another dim corridor. Turning the corner, the monk pushed open a sliding door. “Here we are. These rooms are reserved for official guests. It is much quieter here than in the visitors’ courtyard. Especially today. We have a group of traveling actors staying with us. They have given a performance of
bugaku
and are to travel on tomorrow. I am afraid they may be very noisy tonight. We do not allow wine in the temple grounds, but such people rarely abide by the rules.” He went to light an oil lamp on a tall stand in the corner.

“I am too tired to care,” said Akitada, hoping the chatty monk would get the message. The room was plain and perfectly empty except for a yellowed calligraphy scroll suspended on one wall.

“Someone will bring you food and bedding,” said the monk. “The bathhouse is at the end of the gallery to the right. I hope you will rest comfortably. May Amida bless you!”

Akitada murmured his thanks, and the old man bowed and shuffled off.

The air was stuffy from disuse. Akitada walked across the bare floor and threw open the shutters. Outside was a tiny courtyard, no more than a few square yards enclosed by high plaster walls. It was getting dark, and the two small shrubs growing in one corner next to a stone lantern were indistinct in the gloom. They were surrounded by a patch of moss, black with moisture and outlined by swirling patterns of raked gravel. The gravel glistened wetly in the light from Akitada’s room, but the rain had slowed to a drizzle and only trickles of water fell from the eaves above in a regular, soothing pattern of small sounds. Akitada breathed in the fresh, pine-scented mountain air gratefully. That hell screen had shaken him more than it should have. He had seen so much of violent death in his lifetime that a mere painting ought not to upset him to this degree. He shook his head. It must be his exhaustion. He decided to leave the shutters open to air out the room, and hoped the promised bedding would arrive soon. He needed sleep more than food.

His eye fell on the scroll. He carried the light closer to read the inscription: “Higher Truth and Common Truth are different and the two cannot be one, though they are known as the Twofold Truth.” He frowned. It made no sense. The abstract philosophies of the Buddhists struck him as irrational, mere conundrums to dazzle the ignorant. How much more humane and instructive were the teachings of Confucius, who had a useful lesson and practical virtue for every circumstance of life.

He replaced the lamp and decided to go in search of the bathhouse.

It was just where the old monk had said it would be. Mercifully, both the undressing room and the bath itself were empty except for the attendant, a young monk, naked apart from a loincloth and glistening with sweat and steam.

Relieved that the young man did not engage in chatter, Akitada stripped quickly, hanging his clothes on one of the hooks on the wall above the wooden benches, and walked naked into the bathing room. The attendant handed him a bucket filled with steaming water and a small cloth bag filled with rice bran. Akitada squatted near the drain and scrubbed himself down. The sudden warmth caused by the friction of the bran was pleasant. After sluicing off with the bucket of water, he climbed into the large wooden trough filled to the brim with almost unbearably hot water.

Gasping with the shock, he lowered himself gingerly to the submerged seat and let the water rise to his neck. Discomfort changed into a deep sense of well-being. With a sigh of relief, he relaxed, leaning his head back against the rim of the trough, and emptied his mind.

The attendant disappeared to the outside, and Akitada heard him stoking the firebox under the bath. He returned with considerately gentle movements and took his seat against the wall. The fire crackled softly, and the steam formed beads on Akitada’s face. It was too much trouble to brush them away. He closed his eyes and dozed off.

Male voices and laughter penetrated his slumber gradually but persistently until he returned to awareness of his surroundings. On the other side of the wall someone was pounding out a rhythm on a wooden surface. A man was chanting. The words were inaudible, but the sounds were pleasing. Akitada sighed and closed his eyes again. He allowed his mind to drift with the melody and thought of his flute. He wished he had brought it, but the urgency of his mother’s sickness had driven the matter from his mind. He wondered again how ill she was. His sister’s letter had sounded frantic. Serious illness usually meant death, and as a rule it came quickly. Perhaps he would be too late even for the funeral. He sighed again, the weight of his fears back on his shoulders.

Next door the music ceased abruptly. A great stomping ensued, accompanied by hoarse cries and shouts. Akitada turned his head to stare at the wall. Whoever had disrupted his peace, it was neither monks nor pilgrims.

Just then a woman’s shrill laughter made Akitada sit up in dismay Females in the monks’ bathhouse?

He cast a worried glance at the young attendant and saw that he was standing up, his eyes grown round with shock and his wet skin flushed all the way to his shaven head. What would he do if naked females invaded his celibate male space? Akitada was annoyed himself. All he needed after his miserable wet journey and the nerve-racking tour of the monastery was for some uncouth men and women to burst in on him in his bath.

The attendant gathered his courage and went into the changing room, closing the door behind him. The noise stopped instantly, there was a brief exchange, then the young monk returned, looking agitated. “My apologies, sir. It’s the players. They must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I told them that they were not permitted here, but they would not go away. I don’t think they will come in, but I shall run and fetch help.”

“Thank you.” Akitada closed his eyes again, wondering how long the players would linger. There was the matter of walking back out to get his clothes.

A door slammed behind the attendant. Then there were voices again, some sort of argument. A man kept saying, “Why?” A woman was pleading. Other male voices joined in. Akitada caught a few words. Her name appeared to be Ohisa and she had been dismissed. Ohisa sobbed, and someone shouted, “He can’t do that!” The voices grew louder and angrier. Akitada stood up and climbed out of the bath, his face thunderous.

Grabbing a towel from the rack, Akitada slung it around himself before flinging open the wooden door and glaring at the people in the undressing room.

He had a quick impression of startled eyes—four men and one woman, all fully dressed, the woman young and very pretty, the men of different ages—before they all gasped and rushed for the door in a panic, to disappear down the corridor. The scene was so funny that Akitada’s ill humor fled and he began to chuckle. His amusement increased when he was joined by four or five elderly monks and the attendant. The old monks were voluble in their outrage at having their privacy invaded by a woman and cast dubious glances at him. He became aware of his wetness and undid the towel to dry himself. After scandalized glances, all but the attendant withdrew rapidly.

Akitada hung the wet towel on one of the drying racks and put his clothes back on, then made his way, still smiling, back to his room.

Someone had come in his absence to leave a tray table with food and drink and to unroll his bedding. The fare was vegetarian—rice cakes stewed with wild mushrooms, fried bean curd, pickled eggplant, cucumber, and green soybeans, along with a dish of toasted millet mixed with honey. Akitada sampled cautiously. It was delicious, and he reflected gratefully on generations of monks who had devoted their ingenuity to making palatable the grains and plants they were allowed to eat. He was sitting near the open door to the small garden, breathing in the moist mountain air and eating everything on his tray. When the bowls were empty, he drank thirstily the fruit drink in the small flask. It tasted peculiar but not unpleasant. Outside, the rain slowed until there was only a soothing, steady, soft drip-drip from the gutters.

His body pleasantly relaxed and sated, Akitada’s eyes became heavy, and he crept into the quilts and went to sleep.

He slept very deeply, but soon he was troubled by a horrible dream. In it he was naked and pursued by blue demons who had flames spurting from their fangs and reached for him with curved claws. In his rush to escape them, he passed hundreds of other naked men and women, also running and screaming. He dashed toward a huge, steaming vat, thinking to hide behind it from his pursuers, but when he reached it, he found it filled with more screaming people. They were being boiled alive by two gigantic demons who were blowing their fiery breath against the sides of the vessel. The nearer demon scooped him up with a huge ladle, which he lifted over the bubbling cauldron. Akitada clutched the rim of the ladle, gauging his chances of jumping clear of the monstrous cauldron, and took a frantic leap into space. For a heart-stopping moment he hung suspended in the steam above the upturned faces of boiling souls; then he found himself landing on his feet in a courtroom.