"Wake up, Master," said Tora, shaking him gently by the shoulder. It did not do to offend one familiar with demons and spells.

"What do you want?" quavered the old one.

Tora explained his errand, and the old man nodded. "Wise precaution," he muttered, searching through his basket. "Last man went there after dark met a hungry ghost and had to give up his whole right arm to get away."

Tora shuddered.

The old man produced a wooden tablet with the crudely drawn image of the god Fudo. He threaded a string through its hole and knotted it. Next to this he laid a handful of rice. Finally he fished a sheet of cheap paper with some poorly written lines from the breast of his patched cotton robe and added this to the other two items. "Fifty coppers," he announced.

Tora blanched. He felt in his sleeve. "Do I need all that?" he asked.

The old man sighed. "The amulet you hold up before you if you encounter a demon. Fudo will strike the demon for you. The rice is to toss into a room before you enter; it drives hungry ghosts away. The paper contains the magical incantation of the virtues of Sonsho, who's Buddha's incarnation and protector against malevolent spirits. When you recite it, you will be safe even in Rashomon."

"I can't read," confessed Tora.

The old man sighed again. Taking the paper back, he said, "I'll read it; you repeat it."

The incantation was long and referred to some peculiar Indian names and terms, but Tora tried. The old man corrected him, sighed, corrected again, sighed, and finally nodded. "You got it! Practice it on the way."

"How much without the paper?" asked Tora.

The old man glared at him. "Fifty coppers," he said. "I should charge extra for the instruction!"

Tora bowed, mumbling his thanks for the generous price, turned over all but five coppers of his month's salary, and proceeded, only slightly fortified in mind, to Rashomon.

When his lagging steps finally brought him to the great gate, he found it nearly deserted. Only the hardiest, the most foolish or the most desperate of souls remained here after dark. A couple of beggars sat on the steps, hoping against hope for some late travellers entering or leaving the city. Inside, under the roofs of the vast structure, a few vagrants had taken shelter for the night. Tora surveyed them carefully.

An elderly couple in rags huddled against the base of a pillar, asleep and snoring. Near them an itinerant monk leaned against the wall, his straw hat covering his face, and his staff and bowl lying by his side. Monks of this type were a familiar sight on highways. They were not attached to any particular monastery and spent their lives travelling. This monk looked to be strong and healthy; at least he had muscular legs and large feet. Vagrant monks could be very unpleasant adversaries. Too often, they were wanted criminals in disguise. Tora watched him carefully, but decided that he, too, was fast asleep.

The sound of voices and laughter drew Tora to the other side of the gate. There, on the steps leading down to the highway, sat a group of men, engaged in a game of dice by lantern light. They looked like common laborers, their short-sleeved cotton shirts tucked into loose cotton trousers and their heads covered with knotted pieces of cloth. All chattered happily until one of them looked up and saw Tora in his neat blue robe and black cap. "An inspector!" he cried, and they all scrambled up and dispersed.

Tora chuckled. He had been mistaken before for one of the city officials who checked up on travellers. Since none of the men had fit the street woman's description of Spike or Nail, he would have to find the body himself. Tora turned back to enter the interior of Rashomon.

That was when he first noticed the armed man. He sat just inside the doorway leading into the building. His arms rested on his knees, and he had laid his head on them and gone to sleep. A big, brawny fellow, he had a sword slung over one shoulder and a bow and quiver of arrows over the other. Tora recognized the type. They were soldiers who served no master, but travelled from town to town looking for work which required the use of their weapons. If no such work was available, some became highway men, lying in wait for wealthy and unarmed travellers. This one was cautious enough not to take off his weapons even while he slept.

Suddenly, as if he felt Tora's scrutiny, the man raised his head slowly and looked at him. He was still young, about Tora's age, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and cold steady eyes. They exchanged measuring looks. The armed man looked away first, spitting and scratching his topknot in a gesture of contempt.

Tora wished he had worn his old clothes and decided it was safer to avoid the armed man. He took the door on the opposite side instead.

It led into a large but empty guard room. Briefly, weak moonlight came through the door and a window, but a cloud extinguished even this. Tora lit his lantern; by its light he could barely make out the wooden stairs which ascended into the blackness of the second floor. A pervasive smell of dirt, rotten food, sweaty rags and, faintly, of decomposing flesh, hung in the dry, still air. From upstairs came soft rustling sounds. Hungry rats or angry spirits?

Tora shivered and touched the amulet tied around his neck. Murmuring a line from his protective spell, he started up the stairs slowly. When he was halfway up, a faint, flickering light appeared above, shifting weirdly across the dark beamed ceiling. A peculiar humming sound accompanied the light. Tora paused, feeling for the grains of rice in his sash. Suddenly a gigantic, grotesque shadow moved across the ceiling of the floor above. It belonged to a monstrous creature, misshapen and hunchbacked, with a clawlike hand that reached across the entire space, withdrew, and reappeared with a huge knife in it. Every hair on his head bristling, Tora tried to recite his spell, but his mind had become a complete blank. He tried to throw the rice, but spilled it on the steps. Then the knife above slashed downward, and Tora jerked back. Feet slipping on the spilled rice, he crashed down the stairway with a great clatter.

Above a woman's voice cursed loudly and with gusto.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Tora picked himself up. He could deal with low class females of the living variety. He rushed up the steps. When he reached the top, the light went out. At the same moment, a draft caught the candle in his own lantern, and all became dark.

Tora took a couple of steps forward into utter blackness and stumbled over a bundle, nearly falling flat on his face.

An eerie cackle from somewhere near his knee assailed his ears, and he smelled the stench of rotting gums. Whoever it was, he or she was right beside him. Tora moved aside quickly and promptly stepped on something soft and squishy. The cackle turned into a warning screech.

"Here! Watch what you're doin'! She won't holler, but you near put your big foot on me!"

"Sorry!"

He found his flint and relit his lantern. In its light, an old crone peered up at Tora. She was dressed in many layers of filthy rags, her long white hair draped crazily over hunched shoulders. In this light, her face looked like an animated skull. Gray skin clung to sharp bones, eyes disappeared in dark hollows, and a toothless mouth gaped in the rictus of a grin. She was cowering near the corpse of a naked female. Tora retreated with a curse when he realized that he had just stepped on the dead woman's arm.

The crone cackled again. "What's the matter? Afraid of the dead? Look hard, pretty boy! That's what your sweetheart'll look like soon enough!"

Tora had seen bodies before and glanced at the corpse. She was young and very slender except for her bloated face and abdomen. Short-haired and thin, she bore no resemblance to Michiko, whose every limb was plump and whose hair reached past her waist. The dead woman's eyes were open, turned up and showing only yellow-tinged whites. As Tora looked, a sluggish fly emerged from between the cracked lips. If the sweetish smell of corruption had not warned him that this one had been left here at the last possible moment, the purple discoloration in irregular splotches on the yellowing skin would have told him that she had been dead for a day or two. He shuddered and sighed.