I took a turn in the corridor, in the direction of a placid pond that glistened pale in the darkness behind a pine with finely shaped branches.
From a room nearby came the noise of an altercation that sounded both passionate and strangely muffled. All was stillness in a dim light that came half from the moon, half from the moonlight reflected by the haze. A great silence reigned, save for the splashing of fish in the pond. And those stifled sounds intruded on this calm, thus the quarrel stopped me. Intrigued, I tiptoed up to the sliding door, ready to deal blows if the arguing people turned out to be rascals.
XIII
The monkey Yoshihide found my approach too slow. Shrieking as if someone had been strangling its neck, the monkey ran around me three times and finally leapt onto my shoulder. I turned my head quickly to the side to avoid the tiny claws, and the monkey gripped my sleeve to hold on. Losing balance, I staggered back and bumped against the sliding door. Now I was forced to act. I threw the door open and was about to rush into the room, beyond the reach of the moonlight, when a young woman bolted out the doorway as if propelled by a spring. She almost bumped into me, stumbled and fell. Kneeling there, she gazed up at me, dishevelled, out of breath and trembling all over as though still under the impression of a dreadful sight.
I need not tell you I was in the presence of Yoshihide’s daughter. But that night she looked so different, so lively. Her eyes sparkled, large and bright; her cheeks glowed with a rosy blaze. In her untied nightgown, she was alluring, quite unlike her customary childish innocence. How could this attractive creature be the painter’s daughter, who was so fragile and modest?
Steadying myself against the door, I observed the beautiful girl in the moonlight.
Hurrying footfalls came from a masculine figure receding into the dark.
I pointed in the man’s direction and asked in a calm voice, ‘Who is this?’
The girl bit her lip and shook her head. She appeared to be much chagrined.
I stooped down and whispered into her ear, ‘Who was that man?’
She shook her head and pressed her lips together. Tears filled her long-lashed eyes.
On account of my inborn stupidity, I only understand what shines as clear as daylight under my nose. Not knowing what to say, I remained rooted to the spot as if I were trying to hear her thumping heart. For one thing, I did not wish to be harsh and prod her with more questions.
I do not know how long I remained stock still, saying nothing. Finally, I shut the door and turned to the girl, who seemed to have recovered a little. As gently as possible, I told her, ‘Now go back to your room.’
Tormented by the sensation of having witnessed something I was not supposed to see, and ashamed – of what, I do not know – I strode back to the place I had left to follow the monkey. Hardly had I taken ten steps than someone tugged timidly at the hem of my hakama from behind. In surprise, I glanced over my shoulder. Can you guess who it was?
The monkey Yoshihide gave little bows with its head, hands placed on the ground to express gratitude like a man. The gold bell at its neck tinkled.
XIV
Two weeks had passed when Yoshihide the painter showed himself at the palace without being requested and begged the Lord’s personal audience. He believed his wish would be granted, given the consideration in which the Lord held him in spite of his humble origins.
The Lord, who did not admit people in his presence easily, made an exception. The painter, sporting his customary orange hunting garment and floppy cap, and looking more sullen than usual, prostrated himself, bowing his head repeatedly. Raising his chin he said in a hoarse voice, ‘Concerning the screen Your Lordship was pleased to command, I would like to tell Your Lordship I have applied myself to the task night and day and have very nearly finished the work.’
‘Excellent. I am pleased to hear it.’ Nevertheless, the Lord’s voice lacked conviction.
‘No, my Lord.’ Yoshihide lowered his eyes, as though plagued with dissatisfaction. ‘It is almost finished but there is one detail I am unable to paint.’
‘What? Is there something in the world you cannot paint?’
‘Yes, my Lord. I cannot paint anything if I don’t see it with my own eyes. If I paint something I haven’t seen I cannot convince myself my rendering is exact. Isn’t it like being unable to paint?’
A scornful smile crept across the Lord’s face. ‘So, if you have to paint Hell, you mean you need to see it?’
‘Precisely. A few years ago, when there was a big fire, I saw a burning Hell. That’s why I was able to paint the scene of “Buddha unmoving among the flames.” Your Lordship must know that painting.’
‘What about the damned? Did you see them as well?’ The Lord put question upon question, as if he did not wish to hear Yoshihide’s answers.
‘I’ve seen a man bound in iron chains. I have made detailed sketches of one beleaguered by an ominous bird. So it can’t be said that I know nothing about the suffering of the damned subjected to various torments. As for the infernal torturers –’ Here Yoshihide paused, an enigmatic grin on his face. ‘Infernal torturers appeared to me in my dreams. Almost every day and night bull-headed, horse-headed, or three-faced, six-armed demons arrow and torment me, beckoning me to follow them and moving their silent lips. Those aren’t the things I cannot paint.’
Astonished by Yoshihide’s words, the Lord glared at Yoshihide for a moment and then, frowning, he cried, ‘Then what is it that you can’t paint?’
XV
‘In the central leaf of the screen, I would like to paint a nobleman’s carriage with a roof of palm leaves, falling from the sky,’ said Yoshihide, looking the Lord intensely in the eyes.
I had heard that when he spoke about his work, the painter would speak insanely. And in that moment, his gaze displayed madness. ‘In the vehicle, a splendid court lady writhes in the agony of death, her long black hair tossed by the wind. Her face, smothered by the smoke, should look upward to the carriage ceiling, her eyebrows furrowed. Trying to escape the sparks raining over her, she grips the mats with both hands. Around the carriage, a flock of ominous birds fly about, clicking their beaks…Oh, how can I ever paint a court lady in a burning carriage?’
‘Mmm…and…?’ The Lord urged Yoshihide to continue as if he found the painter’s words amusing for some reason.
‘I cannot paint it,’ Yoshihide repeated, entranced, his red-stained lips trembling as if he had a fever. Then he became animated and said in biting tones, ‘Please, my Lord, burn a nobleman’s carriage before my eyes. And, if possible…’
The Lord’s face darkened for an instant, but a second later he burst into laughter. ‘All your wishes shall be granted.’ Half choking in his merriment, he added, ‘Don’t worry.’
The Lord’s words struck me and a terrible premonition gripped my chest. The Lord seemed infected with Yoshihide’s madness. White froth gathered at the corners of his mouth and his eyebrows twitched. As he paused, his throat still vibrated with laughter.
‘Yes, I shall burn a carriage with a roof of palm leaves. A splendid girl dressed like a court lady of the highest station shall ride in the carriage. She shall perish in the carriage, tormented by the black smoke and consumed by the fire. Bravo. It is an excellent idea, worthy of the greatest painter in the whole country. I praise you. I praise you highly.’
Upon hearing these words, Yoshihide turned pale and tried to move his lips as if he were suffocating. But then he set his hands on the mat and bowed, saying, ‘I am grateful, my Lord,’ in a voice so low as to be hardly audible.
Perhaps the Lord’s words had illustrated the horror of the scheme Yoshihide himself had suggested, and the images must have flashed vividly in his mind. Only this once in my life did I take pity of the man.
XVI
A few days later, as promised, the High Lord summoned Yoshihide to witness the burning of a nobleman’s carriage right before his eyes, although this event did not take place on the grounds of the Lord’s mansion of Horik
awa. The carriage was burnt in the mountain mansion of Yukige, the ‘Limit of the Snow,’ where the Lord’s sister had once lived.
No one had inhabited the house for years and the vast garden was said to be in state of total neglect. In those days, many rumours concerned the fate of the High Lord’s late sister. Some said that on moonless nights, her crimson hakama could be seen moving along the corridors without touching the floor.
These rumours of gloomy apparitions stemmed from the lonely and desolate nature of the neighbourhood even in the daylight. After dark, the murmur of a torrent added a note of melancholy while night herons fluttered about in the starlight, like winged monsters.
In the pitch-black, moonless night, torches shed light on the Lord who, dressed in a yellow-green kimono and a brocaded purple hakama, sat cross-legged near the veranda, on a round white cushion hemmed with bicoloured silk. Five or six samurai encircled him in respectful poses. One stood out among them, a man solidly built who had eaten human flesh out of starvation after the battle of Michinogu and was now so strong he could break apart the horns of a living deer. Wearing armour under his kimono and clad in full dignity, he kept by the veranda, the tip of his sheathed katana pointed upward. The scene turned bright or dark according to the movements of the torches that flickered in the night breeze, blurring the boundaries of dream and reality, with a ghastly effect.
A carriage roofed with palm leaves was stationed in the garden, within a patch of darkness, with no oxen, its shafts resting on their supports, its gilded fittings glittering like stars. When we saw it, a chill came over us even though it was spring. Blue-green tasselled blinds trimmed with embroideries hid the interior. A few servants, serious-faced and stiff, stood near the carriage, carrying blazing torches, and worried about the smoke that drifted toward the veranda.
Yoshihide, the hero of this night, kneeled opposite the veranda, in his usual hunting attire and worn floppy cap. He looked even smaller and more miserable, as if the sky were weighing down on him. The man who squatted behind him, dressed in a similar fashion, was probably one of his disciples. As both of them knelt in the dark, the colours of their garments were not clearly discernible from my position inside the veranda.
XVII
The time was near midnight. In a silence so deep we could hear our breathing, darkness seemed to spy on us while the nocturnal breeze carried the sooty smell of burning torches in our direction. For a moment, the Lord gazed at the scene in silence. Then he leant forward on his cushion and called harshly, ‘Yoshihide!’
I am not sure Yoshihide answered because my ears caught only a moan.
‘Yoshihide, tonight I will set fire to the carriage as you wished.’ The Lord glanced sideways at his samurai. I had the impression he was exchanging a knowing smile with them, but perhaps it was only my imagination.
Yoshihide, very stiff, looked at the veranda in a reverent manner and said nothing.
‘Look at the carriage. It’s mine. You surely recognise it. I will set fire to the carriage and create a blazing Hell before your eyes but…’ The Lord exchanged another glance with his samurai and then resumed speaking in bitter tones. ‘In the carriage lies a sinful woman, bound in chains. As soon as the carriage will take fire, she will die in terrible agony. It is the perfect model to finish your painting. Watch closely as her snow-white skin burns and sparks braid her black hair.’
The Lord paused again, shaking his shoulders in silent laughter, and then he said, ‘A spectacle worthy of entering the chronicles. I will appreciate it as well. There, raise the blind and let Yoshihide see the woman inside the carriage.’
At his command, one of the attendants, holding his torch high, yanked the blind up. The red blazing light from his torch illuminated a woman cruelly bound in chains, reclining on the seat. Golden ornaments glittered in her black hair, which hung loose about her shoulders over a gorgeous Chinese gown of a cherry-blossom colour.
I very nearly cried out. Who could have mistaken her? The trim maidenly figure and the lovely melancholy profile belonged to Yoshihide’s daughter.
The samurai sitting opposite me rose and gave Yoshihide a sharp glance, his hand on the hilt of his katana. Mouth gaping, I pivoted to see Yoshihide, who had sprung to his feet like a madman and attempted to rush toward the carriage, arms extended in front of him.
As I already said, he was in the darkness, and I could not see the expression on his face. But soon he was running into the light as though pulled by an invisible string. At the same time, the Lord cried, ‘Set fire!’ The attendants threw their torches at the carriage with the girl inside. The carriage was engulfed in a pillar of raging flames.
XVIII
The flames enveloped the carriage in no time. As soon as the purple tassels hanging from the roof waved in the sudden wind, a vortex of smoke spiralled up against the black sky, and sparks exploded like sprays of water. Bamboo blinds, hangings and metal fittings burst into so many balls of fire, soaring into the night like celestial orbs spurting out of a fallen sun. A moment before I had nearly cried out. Now I was so dumbfounded I could do nothing but gape at this terrifying spectacle. But as for the father, Yoshihide…
The expression painted on Yoshihide’s face is still alive in my memory. The man, who on impulse had attempted to rush at the carriage, stopped before the roaring fire and, with his arms outstretched, fastened his gaze on the flames and the heavy smoke that enveloped the burning shape. Sparks fell around him, bathing his features in a lurid light so that his ugly wrinkled face was visible down to the tip of his beard.
His wide-open eyes, twisted lips and twitching cheeks, showed the terror, despair and astonishment that alternated in his heart. Neither the robbers about to be beheaded nor the most odious of sinners of ‘Ten Crimes and Five Faults’ dragged before the Ten Judge-Kings could have worn a more mournful expression. Even the herculean samurai paled and shot a furtive glance at his Lord.
The Lord, however, lips pressed together and wearing an enigmatic grin, kept his gaze fixed on the carriage. And inside the carriage…I lack the courage to convey a detailed description of the girl I saw in it: the paleness of her face tilted back and choked by the smoke, the length of her black hair intertwined with flames as she tried to shake off the spreading fire, the beauty of the cherry-blossom-coloured Chinese dress, which the flames were devouring by the minute – what a terrible and cruel scene. At one moment, the breeze blew the smoke to the other side, and among the red flames sprinkled with golden dust appeared the girl, biting on her gag and writhing to the point of breaking the chain that bounded her.
This atrocious torture resembled a genuine scene from Hell brought before our very eyes. Facing the spectacle, we all – even that samurai with supernatural strength – shuddered.
Then once again we thought that a gust of wind had blasted through the trees. Following the noise, something dark, hardly visible, shot across the black sky like a ball, without either touching the ground or flying through the air. From the roof of the mansion, the thing dived straight into the burning carriage. And through the crimson-lacquered chassis that was crumbling in pieces, among whirls of fire we saw something clasp the shoulders of the girl, who arched her body backwards. The thing gave a long and piercing screech out of the soaring smoke, a shriek like the tearing of silk. One more screech. And another. We could not help letting out a scream of surprise in unison. Against a red curtain of flames, the creature that was holding fast to the dying girl was the monkey nicknamed Yoshihide at the palace of Horikawa.
XIX
But, a second later, the monkey disappeared. When sparks shot into the night, glittering like a pear peel sprinkled with gold, girl and beast sank under a whirl of black smoke. In the middle of the garden, only the burning carriage was visible as it blazed away with terrifying crackles. ‘A pillar of fire’ might have been more appropriate than ‘burning carriage’ to describe the blaze that soared into the starry sky.
Before the pillar of fire, Yoshihide stood still, rooted to the grou
nd. What a strange transformation. The old wrinkled face, which only a minute before had expressed agony at the infernal spectacle, now radiated a blissful ecstasy. Arms tightly crossed on his chest, he seemed to have forgotten he was in the presence of the High Lord. His eyes did not mirror the girl’s atrocious agony any longer. Did the form of the thrashing body silhouetted by the wonderful red colour satisfy him?
The strangeness went beyond the sight of this father ecstatically watching his daughter’s agony. At that moment, Yoshihide incarnated a solemn exaltation elevated beyond the human condition, some supernatural dignity similar to the King Lion’s wrath in his nocturnal appearances. Even the uncountable, soulless night birds scattered by the flames seemed aware of the mysterious virtue that shone like a halo over Yoshihide’s worn cap.
If the birds were scared, so much more were we, the humans, down to the menials. We held our breath and, shivering, watched Yoshihide with the same wonderment we would have felt at the unveiling ceremony of a newly made Buddhist image. Those sputtering flames soaring, immense, into the sky, and Yoshihide who stood, petrified and absorbed in the tragic spectacle. Such greatness and joy.
But the Lord, who sat in the veranda, fairly removed from the great fire, was as pale as a spectre. White froth at the corners of his mouth, he gasped like a thirsty animal, grasping tightly his knee draped in the purple hakama – with both hands.
The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories Page 28