There were the familiar shelves against one wall, but his father’s books and document boxes were gone. Gone also were the calligraphy scrolls with the Chinese cautionary precepts and the terrifying painting of Emma, the king of the underworld, judging the souls of the dead. This picture in particular had always instilled a special terror in young Akitada when he had crept into his father’s room, expecting punishment. The resemblance between his father and the scowling judge had been striking, and Akitada had always suspected that that was the reason the painting held such a prominent place in the room.
The broad black-lacquered desk was also bare of his father’s writing utensils and his special brazier and lamp. Only the atmosphere of stern and unforgiving judgment lingered. Akitada shuddered at the thought of receiving his own son in this room.
Seimei opened the doors to the veranda. Fresh, cold air came in. There was a private garden outside, with a narrow path leading to a fishpond, now covered with floating leaves. As a boy, Akitada had never been allowed to play here. Seimei tut-tutted at the state of the shrubbery, but Akitada stepped outside, glad to escape the room, and went to peer into the black water of the pond. Down in the depths he could make out some large glistening shapes, moving sullenly in the cold water. He picked up a small stick and tossed it in, and one by one the koi rose to the surface looking for food. They were red, gold, and silver, spotted and plain, and they looked up at their visitor curiously. Yori would like this place.
“Perhaps,” said Akitada, “with some changes, the room might do.”
Seimei, who had waited on the veranda, watching his master anxiously, gave a sigh of relief. “Her ladyship has directed which screens, cushions, and hangings are to be brought here. And, of course, there will be your own brushes and your books, your mementos from the north country, your tea things, your mirror and clothes rack, and your sword.”
“Hmm. Yes. Well, make sure your own desk is placed near mine,” said Akitada, giving the old man a fond smile, “for I refuse to work here without you.”
Seimei bowed. “It shall be so” There was a suspicion of moisture in his eyes as he turned to go back into the room.
Akitada followed, saying with a pretense of briskness, “I must go see about the horses and will send Tora to you. But could you dispatch a message to my brother-in-law Toshikage’s, letting them know that the family has arrived?”
“I took the liberty to do this earlier, sir.”
“I should have known.” Akitada touched the old man’s shoulder with affection, painfully aware how frail it had become. “I shall always think of you as my real father, Seimei,” he said, tears rising to his own eyes.
Seimei looked up at him. His lips moved, but no words came. Instead he touched Akitada’s hand on his shoulder with his own.
It was not until the afternoon that Akitada was free to help with the stables. A good part of the building had been torn down years ago, when he was a child. The Sugawara finances had made the keeping of horses and oxen impractical when there were neither grooms for their care nor money for their fodder. Since then a part of the remaining section had lost its roof, and piles of wet leaves covered the rotten boards where once horses had stood.
He found Tora and Genba busy erecting a rough wall between the roofed area and the stalls that were open to the elements. In this freezing weather, you could not leave animals unprotected. Akitada’s four horses and the pair of oxen which had drawn the carts were crammed together in the most sheltered part, where they had dry flooring covered with fresh straw.
The big gray stallion, a gift from a grateful lord, turned its handsome head to look at Akitada and whinnied. He went to the animal, running his hands over its body and down the slender, muscular legs, then did the same with the other three, a bay and two dark brown geldings. They had made the long journey in good condition. The bay was smaller than the others, but finely made and belonged to Tamako. They would be able to take rides into the countryside together. And soon, he thought contentedly, he would have to buy a horse for his son.
Protecting his horses was more important to Akitada than arranging his books. He worked companionably with his two retainers. Genba, a very big man, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, had once been a wrestler. It was a sport he still engaged in at odd times, but he had, with great difficulty, lost much of the weight he used to carry and was perpetually hungry or fantasizing about foods.
Tora was willing enough to put his hand to a bit of rough carpentry when there were no pretty young women around to distract him. He had joined the household during Akitada’s first assignment, when his master had taken a chance on the ex-soldier and saved him from a murder charge.
It got much colder when darkness fell, but the efforts of lugging about boards and climbing up and down ladders kept them warm enough, and the exchange of news passed the time.
Genba and Tora listened spellbound to his account of the events at the mountain temple. But when Akitada spoke of the hell screen and the painter’s studio near the Temple of Boundless Mercy, Tora stopped hammering nails and stared at him.
“That place is haunted!” he announced. “Hungry ghosts are thick as flies there and every morning the outcaste sweepers find parts of human bodies.”
Working side by side in the flickering light of torches while the animals quietly munched their hay and moved about in the straw went a long way toward laying the ghosts haunting Akitada’s mind. Tora’s imaginings were so far-fetched that both Akitada and Genba laughed at some of the details.
“Not a bad job,” remarked Genba when they were done, and had looked over the makeshift wall. “I think I’ve earned an extra helping of the evening rice. I meant to ask you, sir, how’s the cook? Not too stingy with fish in her soups and stews, is she?”
“She is from the country and cooks hearty meals, but you were not expected. There may not be enough food in the house.”
Comically, Genba’s face first fell, then brightened again. “I could run out and get some of those vegetable-stuffed dumplings, and maybe some soba noodles. Yori likes those.”
Akitada was putting on his robe. “Very well,” he said with a smile. “But don’t buy more than we can eat.”
Tora hooted. “That’s like telling the cat not to eat the fish.” As Genba headed out the door grinning, Tora turned to Akitada. “I’m ready to get started on that temple murder tomorrow.”
Akitada had planned to speak to Kobe as soon as possible, but now there were other things to be done. It would have to wait. He told Tora, “First we must get the family settled.”
Tora waved a dismissive hand as they headed out of the stable. “Done in no time!”
It was nearly dark outside. Akitada glanced across the dim courtyard at the looming shapes of the residence and felt another pang of regret that in his absence little had been done to take care of it. “There are also the repairs to the house and gardens.”
Tora’s eyes opened wide. “But winter is coming, sir. It’ll be best to wait until spring.”
They walked to the well to wash their hands. The water in the bucket was icy, and the night air bit their wet skin painfully.
“Well,” said Akitada, grimacing as he hurriedly dried his hands on the fabric of his trousers, “if you do have some spare time, you might ask around about those actors. They seem to have roamed all over the monastery that night. One of them may have seen something. And try to find out if any of their women were outside around the hour of the rat. They call themselves the Dragon Dancers and work for an old man by the name of Uemon.”
“The easiest thing in the world,” cried Tora, rubbing his hands. “A man like myself knows all the wine shops along the river where the actors usually spend their money—” He broke off as Seimei joined them.