Akitada came upright with a strangled shout. It was dark and he gasped for breath, flinging out his arms against the nightmare. Realization came slowly. He wiped the sweat from his face and pushed back his bedclothes. The cool night air felt good on his perspiration-drenched skin. He could not recall ever feeling a greater sense of horror and blamed the dream on his exhaustion and fear for his mother. The extraordinary sights he had seen the previous evening had then produced the particular phantasms which still haunted his mind, their very sounds lingering vividly in his memory. He listened.

But all was quiet and peaceful in his room. Outside, only an occasional drop of water broke the stillness.

Then, suddenly: a single high-pitched scream—stifled instantly.

TWO

Scattered Leaves

Akitada rushed into the corridor and from there to the nearest courtyard. It was empty. He had no idea where he was or where the scream had come from, but he listened for several minutes. The night remained dark and silent. All around him rose the temple halls, mysterious shapes looming against the night. Galleries led off to other courtyards and more halls. After walking briefly this way and that, Akitada gave up. He felt a little foolish now, no longer certain of what he had heard. Perhaps it had been an owl. Or a couple of lovers, the girl teasing an overeager admirer, and both long since gone, afraid of being caught.

With some difficulty he found his way to his own room and crept back into his bedding. After a long time he fell asleep again, dreamlessly this time, until faint bells calling to morning service woke him before dawn.

He dressed quickly and walked out into the courtyard. It was barely light. Heavy fog shrouded the temple buildings, muffling the tinkling of bells and somber chants. Akitada looked at the fog with dismay. It was common in the mountains, especially after a rain, and would stay until midmorning, slowing him down on the steep and hazardous mountain track.

After collecting his horse at the stables, he rode to the main gate. A different gatekeeper greeted him. They exchanged comments on the fog and the road down the mountain, and Akitada presented the monk with some silver, a donation to the temple in return for its hospitality. The gatekeeper hoped that the gentleman had had a restful night. Akitada said, “I was woken by some brief noise once. Did anyone else report a disturbance?”

“No, sir. Oh, I do hope it wasn’t those noisy actors.”

Akitada recalled the scene in the bathhouse the evening before, but shook his head. “No. But I thought I heard someone cry out in an adjoining courtyard.” A thought occurred to him. The gatehouses of most major temples kept simple diagrams of the location of various buildings handy for visitors. He asked, “Do you have a plan of the temple here?”

The monk opened a cupboard and produced a wrinkled piece of paper. Together they bent over it and located Akitada’s room.

“Whoever cried out must have been just there,” Akitada said, pointing to an area between several long, narrow buildings.

The monk pondered. “It can’t have been there. That’s a storage yard,” he said. “Only the monks assigned to kitchen or housekeeping use it, and never at night. Visitors’ quarters are in this courtyard.” He pointed to the opposite corner of the compound.

“Oh, well,” said Akitada. “It probably was nothing. I’ll be on my way.”

The road was drier than the day before, but the downward slope made the journey difficult for horse and rider. Every rock and loose pebble seemed bent on starting a small avalanche. Fog shrouded all but the closest trees, and it was impossible to see the next turn ahead of time. They moved at a snail’s pace.

In spite of his frustrations, Akitada thought the scenery quite beautiful. It was already the Frost Month and in the north winter would already have smothered the world in blankets of snow, but here autumn lingered. The unseen sun gradually illuminated wisps of mist until they looked like fairies dancing in silver and gold veils among the trees. The whole forest resembled something seen in a dream of the Western Paradise. Lit from within, its graceful branches released rainbow-sparkling jewels which fell soundlessly on cushions of green moss. Here and there the path was strewn with rich blankets of fallen leaves: orange, red, pale yellow, and deep russet. Above Akitada’s head, a few crimson maple leaves mingled with the cobalt green of Sawara cypress and the deep emerald of cryptomerias.

The only sounds were made by the horse, hooves clinking against rocks, an occasional snort and puff of breath, the creaking of the saddle leather, and the soft slapping of the reins against his neck when he shook his head. But there were birds in the forest. Akitada saw them flitting across the path ahead of him, indistinct like silent moths. Once a rabbit appeared, sat up to eye them, and dove back into the undergrowth. Horse and man moved companionably through a misty cloud forest.

In time, imperceptibly almost, the fog lifted, the road leveled, sights and sounds became clearer, and Akitada caught glimpses of hazy mountaintops covered with a patchwork of fading autumn colors.

When he reached the place where the road to the temple branched off from the highway and an abandoned shack stood deserted near some pines, the world was as still and empty as the mountain had been.

But he turned his horse toward home, and soon the smell of wood fires announced small hamlets where cheerful men and women smiled at him and bowed.

He was making better time now and with the speed he felt a renewed sense of urgency. Every moment brought him closer to the real world of the living—or dying, as the case might be. For days now the specter of his mother’s imminent death had driven him. Riding hard and long, changing horses at road stations when they went lame or flagged, he had been sore, hungry, and fearful of what he was rushing toward. Even now the enforced stay at the temple filled him with guilt. His nightmare of the hellish trial stayed with him, though common sense told him that it had been the result of an overactive and sickly imagination brought about by anxiety, exhaustion, and the sight of that extraordinary screen.

Then Akitada caught the first view of the capital. With the fog gone, the day turned out to be one of those perfect early winter days, with a limpid, cloudless sky and a brisk freshness in the air. In the clear morning light, Heian Kyo, the seat of government and residence of the emperor, lay spread across the wide plain, along the sparkling Kamo River. It welcomed him home after four long years of absence. Akitada stopped his horse and looked his fill, tears slowly running down his cheeks. How beautiful it was, his city, the heart of his country, the place he had dreamed of in the long winter months of the far north. Heian Kyo was the golden jewel in the palm of Buddha, the promised end of the dark journey, his home.

But he entered it almost shyly, by Rashomon, the two-storied red-pillared gateway with its curving blue tile roofs ending in gilded dolphin finials. As a provisional governor returning from official assignment, Akitada was entitled to travel with an impressive retinue of servants and bearers. Such an arrival attracted crowds and turned into something of a progress, even in a city like Heian Kyo, which saw such events on a regular basis. Not a man who had ever bothered much with consequence or protocol, Akitada had nevertheless pictured such a homecoming fondly. But his mother’s illness had spoiled the thrill, and he crept in through Rashomon as unnoticed as any ordinary farmer or hunter.

Making his way quickly along Suzaku Avenue, the broad main street crossing the city from north to south, he saw that it was paved in molten gold with the scattered leaves of its willow trees. He paused at its end in front of the gate to the Imperial Palace. Normally he would enter to report his return before going on to his home. But today was different. He must see his mother first.