Rashomon Gate Page 22

  Tora nodded. "It could be. These friends? Do you know where I might find them?"

  She laughed. "They're poor folk, like me. We don't have a regular place to go home to like you." She gave Tora's neat outfit an envious glance. "People like us live and sleep in the streets, or maybe in the western city in some shed or old ruin. But mostly we keep moving." She eyed Tora speculatively. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a bit of pleasure?"

  "Another time. I'm on duty."

  She nodded in resignation and turned away.

  "Wait! If you can describe the men who took the body away, there's ten coppers in it for you."

  "Ten coppers?" She flushed with pleasure. "I can do better than that! It was Spike and Nail got the dead guy. Spike's a big brute. He lost a hand and put a metal spike in its place. His buddy's a thin little feller. Get it? Spike and Nail! Heh, heh. Anyway, I guess they knew what they'd find, 'cause they'd brought along a monk to say a few prayers."

  Tora stared at her. The story sounded weird, but there might be something in it. "Thanks," he said and counted the promised coppers into her dirty hand.

  She looked at the money, then closed her fingers tightly around it. Nodding towards a dirty alley behind her, she offered, "If you like, I could twirl your stem for you." She grinned and passed an agile tongue across her lips. "It won't cost you nothing."

  Tora blushed. "No, thank you. I'm in a hurry to find out what happened to the old man." He turned to walk away.

  "Bet they took him to Rashomon," she called after him.

  Rashomon!

  Tora shuddered. Of course. Everyone knew that the poor who could not afford a funeral left their corpses there for the authorities to gather and cremate on a common pyre. That was why nobody but cutthroats went to Rashomon after dark— and the light was fading rapidly.

  Actually Rashomon was the great southern gateway of the capital. An impressive two-storied structure with immense red columns, blue tile roofs, and whitewashed plaster walls, it had been built as a fitting welcome for visitors to the imperial capital. As soon as they passed through its massive structure, they saw before them Suzaku Avenue, immensely wide and long, bisected by water and lined with willows, leading straight as an arrow to Suzakumon in the far distance, the entrance to the imperial city itself. And if you were leaving the capital, you walked through Rashomon and found yourself on the great southern highway which led to Kyushu and exotic foreign ports.

  But Rashomon had fallen on hard times as, indeed, had the capital itself. The gate was rarely guarded nowadays and had become a hangout for vagrants, crooks and undesirables from the surrounding provinces. After dark, ordinary people avoided the place, making it a safe haven for criminals. The police turned a blind eye, except that twice a week, in the pre-dawn hours, the city authorities sent crews to gather the corpses.

  Tora dreaded a visit to the upper floor of Rashomon, where bodies were generally left, about as much as an interview with the king of hell himself, but the prostitute's story had to be checked out and his master expected results. It was not the first time since he had entered Akitada's service that Tora had faced what he feared most, the supernatural.

  In this case his immediate decision was to postpone the inevitable. He went to the umbrella maker's house first. Omaki's father was in. Hishiya was in his late fifties, thin, balding and prematurely bent, with the gnarled and scarred hands of his profession. He smiled and bowed deeply, expressing his gratitude for Tora's interest in his poor daughter. To his further credit, in Tora's eyes, he made no mention of blood money. Unfortunately he seemed to know nothing of his daughter's friends.

  When patient probing had produced no more than protestations of shock and puzzlement, Tora exclaimed in frustration, "But you're her father! How could you not care that she slept with men or who the father of her unborn child was?"

  The elderly man bowed his head. "Omaki was a good girl, but we are very poor. She tried hard to make a living playing the lute. She was very talented; all who heard her said so. But the men where she entertained, well, they want more than a bit a music, and she had no one to look out for her. Who am I to ask questions or to blame her, when I am too poor to give her a dowry?"

  "Sorry," mumbled Tora. "The trouble is, from all we hear, she was pleased about the kid. Like she expected to marry its father."

  The man sighed. "Maybe. I wouldn't know. I'm gone so much, selling my umbrellas in the market and gathering bamboo for more. You'll have to ask my wife. Women have their secrets. Only she's not in right now."

  Tora rose. "Never mind! It doesn't matter. I'll ask around."

  He spent the next few hours in the amusement quarter. His day had been long and Lady Sugawara had worked him hard. He felt in need of a rest and liquid refreshment. Besides, the bright lights and sounds of laughter and music blotted out thoughts of the horrors awaiting him in Rashomon.

  He drank liberally and asked his questions without getting any helpful answers. Omaki had not been well liked by the other women in the quarter. They thought her proud and secretive, and none of them knew anything of her private life. At some point the combined effects of his exertions and the wine caused him to nod off. When the waiter shook him awake, wanting his place for other customers, it was past the middle of the night, and Tora had no reason to put off the unpleasant business of Rashomon any longer. He reflected bitterly that murder investigations exposed a man to danger not only from killers, but also from the angry spirits of their victims. Rashomon, being a receptacle of the unwanted dead, must be teeming with disgruntled specters.

  Casting an uneasy glance at the sky, he saw that it was clouding up, and the moon made only fitful appearances. The cool, clear days of spring were over. Soon it would be hot and the rainy season would start, but not quite yet. It was merely dark, an excellent night to search for abandoned bodies and encounter gruesome ghosts. It suddenly occurred to Tora that he was totally unprepared for this undertaking and he headed for the market.

  Most vendors had closed down, but he found a cheap lantern and then searched with increasing desperation for a soothsayer. He found this most essential individual in the form of a shrivelled old man who had fallen asleep over his stock of divining sticks, patent medicines and amulets.

  "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 fo
r 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.

  "Pretty, ain't she?" The old crone cackled again. "If you want to lie with her, she's free. She won't give you no argument neither."

  "Shut up!" Tora raised an arm as if to strike her. She scuttled away a few steps, dropping a long knife in her haste. Tora cursed and snatched it up. "What's that for, you she-devil?" he snarled, coming after her with the knife.

  She backed against a wall, raising spindly arms to cover her face. "Nothing," she wailed. "There's no law against it. She'll not be needin' it."

  Tora stopped. "What?"

  The crone reached into her robe and stretched out a bony arm. From her fist dangled a long twist of black hair.

  Tora cursed again and turned away. So she had come to rob the dead woman of the only valuable thing she had left. There was a good market for women's hair. The wealthy and noble ladies liked to augment their own thin or short tresses artificially; little did they know where their borrowed beauty came from. Glancing down at the dead woman, Tora saw that she might have been quite pretty once with her long and shining hair. His stomach twisted again with anger, but he restrained himself. The old one had to live too, and he knew well what poverty could make people do.

  "I'm looking for the body of an old man," he said. The crone stuffed the hair back into her robe and picked up her lantern. "He's about a head shorter than me, skinny, big nose. A drowning victim. Have you seen anyone like that?"

  "Gimme back my knife!"

  He returned it to her reluctantly.

  "What you want him for?" she asked slyly, shoving the knife into her belt. "Think he's got some gold on him?"

  "No. He's a beggar."

  Her eyes shifted past him. She muttered, "Don't know nothing. Gotta go." Kicking at Tora's lantern, she left him standing in the sudden darkness.

  "Hey!" He cursed and groped his way forward, hoping he woul
d not step on any more corpses or tumble down the stairwell. He touched a wall and moved along it cautiously. Somewhere ahead of him steps shuffled away. Then the wall ended. Tora decided to abandon his lantern rather than come in contact with the corpse again. A doorway opened into another room, dimly lit by moonlight coming through wooden shutters. Tora entered and threw the shutters wide. The room was empty except for a pile of refuse and a scurrying rat.

  Back in the hallway, he found that he could see well enough now to make out several other doors opening into rooms similar to the last one. He stumbled over another body, which turned out to be still alive. He did not bother to check whether the person was drunk or dying. Checking rooms systematically while clutching his Fudo amulet, he finally found what he had come for in the fifth and last room.

  A dark shape lay in the middle of the floor. When he bent to touch it, he found wet garments and went to open the shutters wide. The moon was about to disappear behind clouds again, and he quickly turned back to the corpse.

  It was Umakai.

  He had not been dead long when he had been fished out of the water. His face was blue; his eyes, their whites bloodshot, protruded; and his tongue showed between toothless gums. The wet rags notwithstanding, he did not look like a drowned man. Puzzled, Tora bent to check the dead man's throat the way he remembered his master doing with the girl Omaki.

  At that moment the back of his head seemed to explode, and he fell into blackness.

  • • •

  When he came to, he was lying on his side, his arms tied behind his back and his feet tied together and drawn up. There was an evil-tasting gag in his mouth, his head hurt blindingly and he felt nauseated.

  Opening one eye, he peered cautiously at his surroundings and saw that he was still in Rashomon. The beggar's body was gone, but someone else had taken its place. A man sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, reading a book by the light of an oil lamp. The man looked familiar.

  Slowly memory returned. It was the robber-warrior who had been downstairs earlier. His sword was still slung across his back, but he had laid the bow and arrows aside.