Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

There had never been, nor would there ever be, another like Lord Horikawa.
Rumor held that before his lordship’s august birth, the form of Daiitoku Myōō had appeared in his mother’s dreams—in any case, from birth itself he differed entirely from ordinary men.
Thus among all deeds performed by that lord, not one took us humble ones by surprise.
To speak plainly: even when beholding the august scale of Lord Horikawa’s mansion—whether one called it grandeur or boldness—there lay a decisiveness far beyond our meager comprehension.
Some among us nitpicked over this, comparing his lordship’s conduct to that of Qin Shi Huang or Emperor Yang of Sui—but was this not like blind men groping an elephant?
His lordship’s intentions were never solely to seek glory and splendor for himself.
Rather, he considered even those beneath him—one might say he sought to share joy with all under heaven—possessing a magnanimity that seemed to fill his very being.

Therefore, even when His Lordship encountered the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons at Nijō Ōmiya, he suffered no particular harm.
Moreover, even the spirit of Minister Tōru—renowned for haunting Higashisanjō’s Kawara-in nightly, a place famed for its depiction of Shiogama’s scenery in Mutsu—must surely have vanished upon receiving His Lordship’s rebuke.
Given such august authority, it was by no means unreasonable that in those days, all the young and old, men and women of the capital revered His Lordship as if he were the return of a great ruler.
There was even a time when, upon returning from the plum blossom banquet at the palace, the ox pulling His Lordship’s carriage broke free and injured an old man who happened to be passing by—yet that very old man clasped his hands and thanked them for having been trampled by His Lordship’s ox, or so it is said.

Given such circumstances, during His Lordship’s reign, there were indeed a great many tales destined to be recounted for generations to come. There was the time when he bestowed thirty head of nothing but white horses as banquet gifts; there was the time when he had his favored page boy stand atop a pillar of Nagara Bridge; and then there was the time when he let a Cathayan monk versed in the surgical arts of Hua Tuo excise the boil on his thigh—to enumerate each instance would have been endless indeed. But among those numerous august anecdotes, there was likely no tale as terrifying as the origin of the Hell Screen—now a treasured heirloom of His Lordship’s house. Even Lord Horikawa, who was ordinarily unflappable, seemed at last to have been genuinely astonished on that occasion. As for those of us who served by his side, it went without saying that we were frightened to the point of our souls nearly vanishing. Even someone like me, who had served His Lordship for twenty years, had never before encountered such a dreadful spectacle as that.

However, to humbly relate that august tale, it was necessary to first speak of Yoshihide—the painter who had created that Hell Screen.

II

Speaking of Yoshihide—even now, there may still be some among you who remember that man.
At that time, when it came to wielding the brush, there was none who could surpass Yoshihide—such was his renown as a painter.
By the time of that incident, had he not already reached the age of fifty?
To look at him, he was nothing more than a short-statured, emaciated old man who looked spiteful.
When he visited Lord Horikawa’s residence, he would often wear a clove-dyed hunting robe and a crumpled eboshi hat, yet his character was utterly base; for some reason appearing ageless, with strikingly red lips that—combined with his repulsive demeanor—gave him an altogether beastly air.
Among them were those who claimed his lips grew red from licking his paintbrush—though what truth lay in this?
To be sure, there were those with sharper tongues still who declared Yoshihide’s comportment resembled a monkey’s, bestowing upon him the nickname Saruhide.

Ah, speaking of Saruhide—there is indeed such a tale.
At that time within Lord Horikawa's residence served Yoshihide's only daughter—now fifteen years of age and working as a maidservant—a girl who bore no resemblance to her father yet possessed considerable charm.
Moreover, having lost her mother at a young age, she was deeply compassionate, precocious beyond her years, and clever by nature—despite her youth she possessed uncommon perceptiveness—and thus was cherished by Her Ladyship and the other maidservants.

Then on one occasion, someone presented a tame monkey from Tanba Province, and the mischief-prone Young Lord bestowed upon it the name Yoshihide. Now, even without this, the monkey’s appearance was comical, but with such a name bestowed upon it, there was not a single soul in the mansion who could refrain from laughter. Now, had their laughter been mere amusement, it would have been tolerable—but everyone, half in jest, would shout “Yoshihide! Yoshihide!” each time it climbed a pine tree in the garden or soiled the tatami mats in the servants’ quarters, and torment it however they wished.

Now, one day, Yoshihide’s daughter—of whom I have already spoken—was passing through a long corridor, holding a branch of cold red plum blossoms with a letter attached, when from beyond a distant sliding door appeared that little monkey Yoshihide, who had likely injured its leg. Lacking its usual vigor to scramble up pillars, it came fleeing in a frantic limp.
Moreover, from behind came the Young Lord brandishing a whip, shouting, “Kleptomaniac citrus thief! Wait!”
“Wait!” he declared, chasing after it—was it not so?
When Yoshihide’s daughter saw this, she seemed to hesitate for a moment—but just then, the fleeing monkey clung to the hem of her hakama and let out a pitiful cry. Suddenly, her heart must have been overcome with compassion.
With one hand still holding the plum branch aloft and the other lightly fluttering open the sleeve of her purple-scented robes, she tenderly lifted the monkey into her arms. Bowing slightly before the Young Lord, she said, “I beg your forgiveness—it is but a creature.”
“I beg your forgiveness,” she entreated in a composed voice.

However, the Young Lord—having rushed forth in high dudgeon—now made a stern face and stamped his feet two or three times while...

“Why do you protect it? That monkey is a citrus thief!”

“Since it’s a creature…”

The daughter repeated this once more, then smiled a lonely smile and—

“Moreover, if he is called Yoshihide, it would be as though my father were being punished. I simply cannot stand by and watch,” she declared resolutely.
Even the Young Lord must have yielded his will at this.

“I see.
“If it’s a plea for your father’s sake, I shall grant pardon against my better judgment.”

Having thus reluctantly declared this, he discarded the thorned whip there and returned just as he was to the sliding door from which he had come.

III

It was from that time onward that Yoshihide’s daughter and this little monkey grew close.
The girl fastened a golden bell—which she had received from Her Highness the Princess—to a beautiful crimson cord and hung it around the monkey’s head, and no matter what happened, the monkey seldom strayed from the girl’s side.
On one occasion when the girl took to bed with a cold, the little monkey Yoshihide sat properly by her pillow, wearing what might have been a forlorn expression—or perhaps it was merely imagined—and bit its nails incessantly.

Now that things had come to this, strangely enough, there was no one who tormented the little monkey as they had before.
No—rather, they began doting on it more and more, until even the Young Lord would occasionally toss persimmons or chestnuts its way. Moreover, when a certain samurai kicked this monkey, he reportedly flew into a great rage.
It was said that Lord Horikawa’s subsequent decree for Yoshihide’s daughter to appear before him with the monkey in her arms came only after he had heard of this incident of the Young Lord’s rage.
In the course of this, the reason why the daughter had naturally come to dote on the monkey must also have reached His Lordship’s ears.

“You’re a dutiful creature. We shall bestow praise.”

In accordance with such august will, Yoshihide’s daughter was granted a crimson underrobe as her reward at that time.
However, when the monkey mimicked her gesture and reverently pressed the crimson underrobe to its forehead, Lord Horikawa’s august mood was said to have grown all the more splendid.
Therefore, His Lordship’s favor toward Yoshihide’s daughter was entirely because he deigned to admire her filial affection in caring for this monkey, and by no means was it—as people idly speculate—that he had taken a fancy to her beauty.
To be sure, there was some plausibility to how such rumors arose, but I shall reserve that tale for a later, more leisurely recounting.
Here, I should simply state that no matter how beautiful she might be, His Lordship would never deign to harbor feelings for the daughter of a mere painter.

Now, Yoshihide’s daughter left His Lordship’s presence with honor bestowed upon her, but as she was inherently a clever woman, she did not incur the jealousy of the other coarse maidservants. On the contrary, from that time onward, she and the monkey came to be doted upon together in all matters—indeed, to such an extent that one might say they were never apart from Her Highness the Princess’s side, never once missing even outings in the viewing carriage.

But let us set aside the matter of the daughter for now; I shall now speak once more of her father, Yoshihide. Indeed, while the monkey soon came to be doted upon by all in this manner, Yoshihide himself remained as detested as ever by everyone, lurking in the shadows where they still called him “Saruhide.” Moreover, this was not limited to within the mansion walls. Indeed, even the Abbot of Yokawa would change countenance as though encountering a demonic hindrance whenever Yoshihide’s name was mentioned, regarding him with loathing. (To be sure, some say this was because Yoshihide had drawn a caricature of the Abbot’s conduct—though as this remains but a vulgar rumor, one cannot confirm it as fact.) In any case, that man’s ill repute proved universal wherever one inquired. If any refrained from speaking ill of him, they were but two or three fellow painters or those who knew only his art and not the man himself.

But in truth, Yoshihide not only had a base appearance but also possessed even more detestable habits that repelled others, so this could only be deemed entirely of his own making.

IV

These faults of his were miserliness, greed, shamelessness, laziness, and rapacity—no, above all else, it was his arrogance and haughtiness, forever dangling his title as “the foremost painter in the land” before everyone’s noses.
Had it been confined solely to his art, one might have overlooked it, but when it came to his stubborn pride, he could not help but mock even the customs and conventions of the world.
This is a tale from a man who had long been Yoshihide’s disciple: even on the day when a dreadful oracle was delivered through spirit possession by the renowned Hikagami Shrine Maiden at a certain noble’s residence, that man—turning a deaf ear to the commotion—was said to have meticulously sketched the shrine maiden’s ghastly visage with whatever brush and ink were at hand.
If viewed through that man’s eyes, even the divine retribution of the spirit would likely be regarded as nothing more than a child’s trick.

Being such a man, when painting the Goddess of Fortune, he would model her face after a lowly puppet; when depicting Fudō Myō-ō, he would take the form of a dissolute ruffian—committing all manner of sacrilege. Yet when confronted, did he not scoff, saying, “To think that the gods and buddhas painted by Yoshihide would visit divine punishment upon Yoshihide himself—what nonsense have I just heard?”
Even his disciples—accustomed to his ways—were utterly appalled. Among them, those who took their leave in fear of future terrors seemed not few.—To put it plainly, one might call this arrogance compounded upon arrogance.
In short, he was a man who believed there was no one under heaven as great as himself at that time.

Therefore, how highly Yoshihide stood in the art of painting needs no elaboration. To be sure, even his works differed entirely from other painters in both brushwork and coloration, earning him considerable notoriety among rival artists as a charlatan. These detractors claimed that while masters like Kawanari and Kaneoka inspired elegant legends—of plum blossoms perfuming moonlit nights through wooden doors or court nobles' flute music drifting from screens—Yoshihide's paintings spawned only eerie, unsettling rumors. Take his Five States of Existence painting on Ryugaiji Temple's gates: those passing beneath late at night reported hearing celestial beings sighing and sobbing voices. Nay, some even swore they caught the stench of rotting corpses. Then there were the portraits of ladies-in-waiting commissioned by His Lordship—every subject fell victim to a soul-draining illness and perished within three years. Let his critics speak ill, and they'll declare this the clearest proof his art had descended into heresy.

But as I have mentioned before, he was an obstinate man through and through—indeed, this only swelled Yoshihide’s arrogance. Once, when His Lordship remarked in jest, “You seem rather fond of depicting ugliness,” Yoshihide—his crimson lips twisting into an ominous grin unbefitting his age—replied, “Indeed it is so. For mediocre painters as a whole, there is no understanding the beauty in ugliness.”

However much he might be the foremost painter in the land, how audacious it was for him to appear before His Lordship and utter such arrogant words. The disciple I mentioned earlier had privately given their master the nickname “Chira Eiju,” mocking his overweening pride—and not without reason. As you may know, “Chira Eiju” was the name of a tengu who crossed over from Cathay in ancient times.

However, even this Yoshihide—this ineffable, wayward Yoshihide—there was but one place where he displayed human-like affection.

V

The reason I speak thus is that Yoshihide doted on his only daughter—the maidservant—as though deranged. As I mentioned before, while the daughter herself was an exceedingly gentle and filial woman, that man’s fatherly obsession proved no less intense. To speak of matters such as his daughter’s garments and hair ornaments—though that man had never donated to any temple fundraiser—he spared no expense in procuring these things for her, rendering it nearly unbelievable.

But Yoshihide’s doting on his daughter was mere doting—he never once entertained the notion of finding her a good husband. On the contrary, if someone were to approach his daughter with ill intent, he would go so far as to round up street ruffians and have them ambush the offender without hesitation. Therefore, even when that daughter became a maidservant under Lord Horikawa’s decree, the old man was greatly displeased, and for a time, whenever he appeared before His Lordship, he did nothing but scowl. The rumor that His Lordship had been captivated by the daughter’s beauty and took her into his service despite her father’s disapproval likely arose from such observations leading to baseless conjecture.

However, even if that rumor were false, it was certain that Yoshihide—out of his obsessive parental devotion—constantly prayed for his daughter to be released from service.
On one occasion, when Yoshihide painted a Child Manjusri at Lord Horikawa’s command, he modeled the face after a favored pageboy, resulting in such a splendid work that His Lordship was utterly satisfied,

“We shall grant you any reward you desire.”
“Ask without hesitation,” came the gracious command.

At this, Yoshihide assumed a reverent posture—and just when one thought he was about to speak—

“I most humbly beseech you to deign to release my daughter,” he shamelessly entreated.
If it were another noble household, one might overlook it—but to so brazenly request leave from service at Lord Horikawa’s side, no matter how beloved one’s daughter might be—where in any land could such a person exist?
At this, even His Lordship of the Great Belly seemed somewhat displeased, and for a time did nothing but silently gaze upon Yoshihide’s face, until at length—

“That shall not be,” he spat out—and with that, abruptly rose and departed.
Such exchanges had occurred four or five times by then, I should think.
Now that I reflect upon it, Lord Horikawa’s gaze when regarding Yoshihide seemed to grow colder with each occasion.
Then again, perhaps because the daughter fretted over her father’s safety, whenever she withdrew to the servants’ quarters, she would often bite the sleeve of her juni-hito and weep quietly.
Thus rumors that His Lordship harbored romantic designs upon Yoshihide’s daughter must have spread ever more widely.
Among these were even claims that the Hell Screen’s origin lay in the daughter’s defiance of His Lordship’s will—though naturally, such a thing could never have been.

From our perspective, Lord Horikawa did not deign to release the daughter because he had pityingly considered her circumstances—a gracious consideration, it would seem, to keep her in his residence rather than send her to the side of so obstinate a parent, allowing her to live without hardship.
It is certainly true that His Lordship deigned to favor that gentle-natured daughter.
However, to say that he favored her for her beauty is likely a forced interpretation.
No—it would be more accurate to call it an utterly baseless lie.—

Be that as it may, this was when Yoshihide had fallen gravely out of favor over his daughter's affairs. What moved His Lordship's mind none could say, but he suddenly summoned Yoshihide and issued his command: the Hell Screen was to be painted.

VI

When I spoke of the Hell Screen, that terrifying scene from the painting already seemed to rise vividly before my eyes.

Though called by the same name, Yoshihide's Hell Screen differed fundamentally in composition from those of other painters.
In one panel of the folding screen, he had depicted small figures of the Ten Kings and their retinues in a corner, while the remaining space swirled with raging flames of crimson lotus and great crimson lotus—so intense they seemed to melt the Mountain of Swords and Tree of Blades.
Thus, save for the Tang-style robes of underworld officials dotted with yellow and indigo accents, everywhere burned the color of violent flames. Within them, ink-splattered black smoke and fire-fanned gold powder whirled madly like swastikas.

Even this alone was brushwork of such astonishing power that it startled the eyes of any beholder. Yet beyond this, among the sinners writhing in torment within the raging flames, scarcely a single one resembled those typically seen in conventional depictions of hell.
The reason for this was that Yoshihide had depicted people of all social standings among these many sinners—from nobles and courtiers down to beggars and outcasts.
Court nobles in imposing ceremonial robes, alluring ladies-in-waiting in layered silk gowns, Buddhist monks with rosaries draped about them, samurai scholars clattering in high clogs, young girls in narrow-sleeved robes, onmyōji mystics waving sacred wands—to enumerate them all would surely know no end.
In any case, these various people—amidst flames and smoke that billowed upward—were tormented by Ox-Headed and Horse-Headed Demons, scattering in all directions like leaves caught in a gale.
A woman, her hair ensnared by an iron trident, limbs contorted more than a spider’s—might she be some manner of shrine maiden?
A man pierced through the chest with a short spear, inverted like a bat—no doubt some hellish official or the like.
Others were struck by iron whips; others crushed beneath thousand-pull boulders; others caught in the beaks of monstrous birds; still others bitten by poisonous dragons—the forms of torment multiplied as endlessly as the sinners themselves.

But among these, what stood out most strikingly and gruesomely was a single ox-drawn carriage falling from mid-air, grazing past the peak of a sword tree resembling the fangs of a beast (though upon that sword tree's branches, numerous sinners were already impaled, their entire bodies heaped upon one another). Blown upward by hellish winds, within the curtains of that carriage, a maidservant—adorned as splendidly as a noble consort or high-ranking lady-in-waiting—let her long black hair stream through flames, arching her white neck as she writhed in agony. Yet neither her figure nor the fiercely blazing ox-drawn carriage failed to evoke a single torment from this scorching inferno. So to speak, could one say that the horror pervading the vast screen converged upon this single figure? So masterfully executed as to entrance the soul was it that those who beheld it might almost doubt whether terrifying screams had naturally come echoing in the depths of their ears.

Ah, this is it—it was for the sake of painting this that that dreadful event occurred.
Otherwise, how could even Yoshihide have depicted the torments of hell so vividly?
That man, in exchange for completing this Hell Screen, encountered a cruel fate that cost him even his life.
So to speak, the hell depicted in this painting was none other than the hell into which Yoshihide, the foremost painter in the land, was himself destined to fall……

In my haste to speak of that extraordinary Hell Screen, I may have inverted the order of my narrative. But let us now proceed next to the matter of Yoshihide, who had received the command from Lord Horikawa to paint a hell painting.

VII

For the next five or six months, Yoshihide did not once visit the lord’s residence, devoting himself entirely to the screen’s painting.
For one so devoted to his child, when it came time to paint, he lost all desire to see his daughter’s face—is it any wonder?
According to the disciple’s account I mentioned earlier, whenever that man began working, he would become as if possessed by a fox.
In fact, there were rumors at the time that Yoshihide had achieved renown in painting by making a vow to the Great Deity of Fortune and Virtue. As evidence, some claimed that if one secretly peered from the shadows while he was painting, one would invariably see shadowy spirit foxes—not just one but a whole host of them—gathered around him front and back, left and right.
Given this, once he took up his paintbrush, he would forget everything else save for completing the painting.
He shut himself in a single room day and night, and rarely saw the light of day.
—Especially when painting the Hell Screen, this kind of obsessive focus of his was said to have grown even more intense.

Now, when I say this, it was not merely that man—shut day and night in a room with latticed shutters lowered, mixing secret pigments beneath the flame of a standing lamp, or dressing his disciples in informal court robes and hunting attire to meticulously sketch their figures one by one—no, it was not merely such matters as these.
Such altered practices—even without painting the Hell Screen—were things that man could not help but undertake whenever he was at work.
Indeed, when he painted the Five States of Existence for Ryugaiji Temple, he would calmly seat himself before those decaying corpses in the street—corpses that ordinary people would deliberately avert their eyes from—and sketch their half-rotted faces and limbs without deviating a single hair.
Now, as for what precisely this extreme obsession entailed—surely there are those who cannot fully grasp it.
I have not the leisure at present to recount every detail, but to convey the essence of the tale, it unfolded in roughly the manner I have described.

One of Yoshihide’s disciples (the same man I mentioned earlier) was one day mixing paints when the master suddenly appeared and—

“I think I’ll take a short nap. But these days my dreams have been dreadful.”
Since this was neither particularly unusual nor anything out of the ordinary, the disciple continued working without pause, merely—

“Is that so?” he offered a perfunctory response.
However, Yoshihide wore a more forlorn expression than usual,

“In that case, while I take my nap, I would like you to sit by my pillow,” he hesitantly requested.

The disciple found it strange that his master now showed concern about dreams—something he had never done before—but since this entailed no particular trouble,

“Very well,” replied the disciple. The master still wore a worried expression,

“Then come to the inner chamber at once.
However, even if other disciples come later, do not let them into where I sleep,” he hesitantly commanded.
The “inner chamber” was the room where Yoshihide painted. On that day too, with its doors shut tight as though night had fallen, a dim lamp burning within illuminated the screen—still bearing only charcoal outlines—arranged around him in a circle.
Now upon entering this space, Yoshihide—using his elbow as a pillow like a man utterly spent—fell soundly asleep. Yet before half an hour had passed, an indescribably eerie voice began creeping into the ears of the disciple keeping vigil at his pillow.

VIII

At first, it was merely a voice, but after some time, it gradually coalesced into fragmented words—as one might say, like a drowning man groaning underwater—uttering such things.

"What? You tell me to come... — Where to — Where to come?"
Come to the Abyss.
Come to the Blazing Hell.
Who—
You who speak thus.
"Who are you— Who do you think you are?"

The disciple involuntarily stopped his hand mixing the paints and peered fearfully through at the master’s face—only to find that wrinkled face had turned pale, large beads of sweat oozing forth, his parched lips parted in a gasp, revealing sparse teeth within a mouth gaping wide as though panting.
And then, within that mouth, when he perceived something moving so frantically that one might suspect a thread had been attached to pull it—was it not that man’s tongue?
The fragmented words were indeed emerging from that tongue.

“Who do you think you are— Hmm, it’s you.”
“I also thought it must be you.”
“What? You’ve come to take me?”
“So come.”
“Come to the Abyss.”
“In the Abyss—in the Abyss my daughter waits.”

At that moment, the disciple was struck by so eerie a sensation that a hazy, grotesque shadow seemed to swarm down across the face of the screen in his eyes.
Of course, the disciple immediately laid hands on Yoshihide and shook him with all his might, but the master continued muttering in his dreamlike state, showing no sign of awakening.
So the disciple, resolving himself, took water from the brush-washing bowl at his side and splashed it onto the man’s face.

"'I'm waiting—get into this carriage—get into this carriage and come to the Abyss—'" The words transformed mid-utterance into a strangled groan, and at last Yoshihide's eyes flew open. He jerked upright more violently than if pierced by a needle, yet the grotesque creatures from his dream still clung to the corners of his eyes. For a time, he stared vacantly into space with a terrified look, mouth agape as before, until at length he seemed to regain his senses.

“That’s enough. Go away,” he commanded, this time with utter indifference.
The disciple, knowing he would be scolded if he disobeyed at such times, hurriedly exited the master’s room—but when he saw the bright daylight outside, he later said it felt as if he had awakened from a nightmare, a wave of relief washing over him.

However, this was still relatively mild. About a month later, when another disciple was specially summoned to the inner chamber this time, Yoshihide was—as usual—biting his paintbrush in the dim light of an oil lamp when he abruptly turned to face the disciple and—

“I appreciate your trouble, but would you strip naked once more?” he said.
This was something the master had occasionally ordered even before that time, so the disciple promptly stripped off his garments and stood naked. But then that man—Yoshihide—frowned strangely and—
“I wish to see a human bound in chains. Though it may be cruel, would you not comply with my instructions for a time?” he said coldly, without showing the slightest hint of remorse.
Now, this disciple was by nature a robust young man who seemed better suited to wielding a sword than gripping a paintbrush, but even he appeared thoroughly shaken by this demand. For years afterward, whenever recounting that moment, he would repeat: “I thought the master had gone mad—that he meant to kill me.”
But Yoshihide, for his part, must have grown impatient with the disciple’s frantic struggling.
From where he had produced it, while roughly pulling a thin iron chain with a grating sound, he mounted the disciple’s back with a motion almost like pouncing, and without hesitation, twisted both arms up and bound them tightly in coils.
Then, with brutal force, he yanked the end of the chain—it was unbearable.
The disciple’s body was jolted, resounding violently against the floor as it collapsed heavily onto its side.

IX

The disciple’s appearance at that moment might indeed be likened to a sake jar that had been rolled over.
Since both his hands and legs were cruelly twisted and bent, the only thing that could move was his head.
Then, as the engorged blood in his body was cut off by the chains, was it not that the color of his skin—whether face or torso—turned crimson all over?
Yet Yoshihide did not seem particularly concerned by this. Circling around the sake-jar-like body here and there as he observed it, he proceeded to sketch numerous similar studies.
During this time, how much agony the bound disciple endured requires no particular elaboration.

But had nothing occurred, this suffering would likely have continued even longer.
Then—after what was perhaps a fortunate interval (or rather, one should perhaps say *unfortunate*)—from behind a jar in the corner of the room, something like a thin stream of black oil began to flow out, writhing sinuously as it crept forward.
It initially moved with viscous slowness, as though possessing great tenacity, but gradually began to glide more smoothly until at last, glinting faintly, it reached the tip of his nose. As he watched this unfold, the disciple involuntarily drew in his breath—

“A snake— A snake!” he cried.
At that moment, it was said that the blood in his body seemed to freeze all at once—and indeed, it was no wonder.
The snake was nearly upon him—its cold tongue-tip about to graze the flesh of his neck where the chains bit deep.
At this unforeseen event, even the unscrupulous Yoshihide must have been startled.
In a panic, he threw down his paintbrush. The moment he reflexively crouched, he swiftly seized the snake’s tail and dangled it upside down with a jerk.
The snake, even as it was dangled upside down, raised its head and coiled tightly around its own body, but no matter how it struggled, it could not reach the man’s hand.

“You made me botch a brushstroke.”

Yoshihide muttered this irritably, then flung the snake into a jar in the room’s corner before grudgingly undoing the chains binding his disciple.
He merely untied them—not once speaking kindly to his disciple.
Yoshihide likely found that spoiled brushstroke more galling than any snakebite would have been—for it later emerged this serpent too had been kept by him expressly to sketch its form.

Having heard all this, you must have gained some understanding of Yoshihide’s madness-like, eerie obsession.
However, there was one final incident—this time involving a disciple of thirteen or fourteen who, too through the Hell Screen’s influence, faced a terrifying ordeal that could have cost his life.
The disciple was a fair-skinned, womanly-looking man by nature, but one night when heedlessly summoned to his master’s chamber and entering, Yoshihide was under the oil lamp’s light cradling something like raw meat in his palm while tending an unfamiliar bird.
In size—well, might it compare to an ordinary cat?
Indeed, with feather tufts protruding like ears from both sides and large round eyes of amber hue, its appearance bore an uncanny resemblance to a cat.

X

By nature, Yoshihide was a man who detested interference in his affairs—as seen with the snake mentioned earlier—yet he had never disclosed anything about his chamber's contents to his disciples.
Thus, a skull might lie upon his desk at one time; silver bowls and lacquered stands at another—depending on the painting at hand, wholly unexpected objects would materialize.
Yet where he stored such items ordinarily remained a mystery none could solve.
Indeed, rumors that he received divine assistance from the Great God of Fortune and Virtue seemed not unfounded.

The disciple, thinking to himself that the unusual bird on the desk must also be necessary for painting the Hell Screen, knelt respectfully before his master and said, “Do you require anything?” But Yoshihide, as though he hadn’t heard, merely licked his red lips.

“How’s this? It’s quite tame, isn’t it?” he gestured toward the bird with his chin.

“What manner of creature is this? I have never seen its like before.”

As the disciple spoke these words, staring intently at the bird with ears like a cat’s in evident disgust, Yoshihide, in his usual mocking tone,

“What? Never seen one before?
“That’s the trouble with you capital-bred folk.”
“This here’s a Mimikizu—a hunter from Kurama gave it to me two days back.”
“Tame as this? Doubt you’ll find another.”

Saying this, that man slowly raised his hand and gently stroked upward from beneath the Mimikizu’s back where it had just finished eating.
And then—
The bird let out a sharp cry and flew up from the desk in an instant, splaying both claws as it lunged at the disciple’s face.
Had he not thrown up his sleeve to shield himself then, those talons would surely have left gashes.
“Agh!” he cried, flailing his sleeve—but the Mimikizu clattered its beak against a lid before striking anew. Forgetting all deference, the disciple rose to block it, crouched to fend it off, scrambling madly about the cramped room.
The fiendish bird pursued relentlessly—soaring high and low—darting for his eyes at every opening.
Each time those wings beat violently—whether conjuring leaf-rot stench or waterfall spray or sour monkey-wine fumes—the dread thickened beyond words.
They say even the dim oil lamp’s glow seemed to him like hazy moonlight then—his master’s chamber transformed into some remote mountain vale choked with miasma—leaving him utterly unnerved.

However, what the disciple feared was not merely being attacked by the Mimikizu.
But what made his hair stand on end even more was Master Yoshihide coolly observing the commotion while slowly unfurling paper and moistening his brush to sketch the horrific scene of an effeminate youth being tormented by a monstrous bird.
The disciple, upon catching a single glimpse of this, was instantly seized by indescribable terror; he later recounted that in that very moment, he even thought the master might kill him.

XI

Indeed, it could not be said there was no possibility of being killed by the master.
In fact, even his summoning of the disciple that night had likely been a calculated scheme—to incite the Mimikizu and capture in paint the disciple's frenzied flight.
Therefore, the moment he glimpsed his master's demeanor, he instinctively hid his head within both sleeves, let out an involuntary scream—what words escaped him even he could not say—and cowered at the base of the sliding door in the room's corner.
At that very instant, Yoshihide too raised what seemed a flustered cry and made to stand—but abruptly, the Mimikizu's wingbeats grew fiercer than before, and was there not now a clamor of objects crashing and wood splintering?
At this, even the disciple twice lost his composure, involuntarily lifting his concealed head to look—only to find the room had somehow turned pitch dark, while within it, a voice likely belonging to the master could be heard calling irritably for his disciples.

At last, one of the disciples answered from afar and hurried over while holding up a lamp, but when he peered by that sooty light, he saw that the lampstand had fallen over, leaving both floor and tatami mats drenched in oil—and there amidst the spillage lay the Mimikizu from earlier, floundering about with its single wing fluttering as though in agony.
Yoshihide remained half-risen from behind his desk wearing a look of genuine bewilderment while muttering fragmented words no one could comprehend.
And this was not unreasonable.
Upon that Mimikizu's body coiled a jet-black snake—tightly wound from neck to wing.
Most likely this occurred because when the disciple cowered, he overturned a jar there causing its serpentine occupant to crawl out—and when the Mimikizu recklessly attempted to seize it—thus began this great commotion.
The two disciples exchanged glances and for a time simply stared vacantly at this bizarre spectacle before bowing silently to their master and hastily withdrawing from the room.
As for what became of snake and Mimikizu thereafter—no one knows.

There were many other incidents of this kind besides these.
As I mentioned earlier, the command to paint the Hell Screen had been issued in early autumn, so from then until winter's end, Yoshihide's disciples were ceaselessly menaced by their master's bizarre conduct.
But by that winter's close, Yoshihide must have encountered some impediment in the screen's execution, for his countenance grew yet more gloomy than before, and his speech became markedly harsher.
At the same time, the Hell Screen itself—its underdrawing now eighty percent complete—showed no sign of advancing further.
Indeed, at times it seemed he might even obliterate those sections he had already painted.

Yet what exactly he found so unmanageable about the screen remained a mystery to all.
Indeed, there was no one who even attempted to understand.
The disciples, chastened by those earlier incidents, felt as though sharing a cage with tigers and wolves, and from then on resolved to keep as far from their master’s presence as possible.

XII

Consequently, regarding the events of that period, there were no particular tales worth recounting.
If I must speak of it, it would be the tale of that obstinate old man who, for some reason, had grown oddly tearful and would sometimes weep alone in deserted places.
One day in particular, when one of the disciples had come to the garden on some errand, it was said that their master stood in the corridor, gazing vacantly at the nearing spring sky with eyes brimming with tears.
When the disciple saw this, he felt an odd sense of shame himself and retreated in silence—or so it is said. Yet how strange it was that that arrogant man, who had even sketched corpses by the roadside to paint the Five States of Existence, should now weep like a child over being unable to render the screen painting as he envisioned!

On one hand, Yoshihide was so engrossed in painting the Hell Screen that he seemed scarcely sane, while on the other hand, his daughter grew increasingly despondent, her demeanor—even holding back tears before us—becoming ever more noticeable.
Given that she was by nature a woman of sorrowful countenance, fair complexion, and modest demeanor, this state now made her seem all the more forlorn—her eyelashes seeming to weigh heavily, shadows settling about her eyes as though cast by weariness.
At first, they made all manner of conjectures—that it was longing for her father, that it was lovesickness—but around midwinter, rumors began to spread that it was His Lordship seeking to bend her to his will, and from then on, as though everyone had forgotten, all talk of that girl abruptly ceased.

It must have been around that time.
One night, when the hour had grown late, I found myself walking alone through the palace corridor. Suddenly, from nowhere, that monkey Yoshihide came flying and began tugging incessantly at the hem of my hakama.
The night was warm indeed, bathed in pale moonlight that seemed to carry the scent of plum blossoms. Peering by that faint light, I saw the monkey baring its stark white teeth, wrinkles creasing its nose tip, shrieking as though deranged.
Three parts unnerved and seven parts incensed at having my new hakama pulled, I first thought to kick the creature away and continue on my path. But then I recalled how a retainer who once abused this very monkey had incurred the Young Lord’s displeasure.
Moreover, this was no ordinary mischief.
Resolving myself at last, I walked five or six paces—or perhaps none at all—in the direction it pulled.

Then, just as I reached the point where the palace corridor curved, and beyond pines with gracefully branching boughs, the faintly white water of the imperial pond could be seen spread out broadly under the dim light of night.
From a nearby room came sounds like people struggling—frantic yet eerily quiet—that assailed my ears.

Everywhere was silent as a forest, enveloped in an ambiguous haze that was neither moonlight nor mist. Apart from the sound of fish leaping, not a single voice could be heard.
And then came this sound.
I involuntarily stopped and, thinking that if there were a troublemaker, I would show them what for, quietly drew near to the sliding door while holding my breath.

XIII

However, the monkey must have found my approach too slow.
When Yoshihide had run around my feet two or three times with evident impatience—or so I perceived—he suddenly let out a cry as if being strangled and leaped onto my shoulder in a single bound.
I reflexively arched my neck to avoid its claws; the monkey, in turn, clamped onto the sleeve of my suikan, trying not to slip from my body—in that instant, I staggered back two or three steps and slammed my body hard against the sliding door.
In such a state, not a moment longer could I hesitate.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I threw open the sliding door and attempted to leap into the depths where the moonlight did not reach.
But what blocked my view at that moment—no, more than that—I was startled by the woman who seemed to spring forth from within the room as if propelled.
The woman nearly collided with me head-on as she stumbled outside, but then—for some reason—dropped to her knees there, panting heavily as she trembled and gazed up at my face as though beholding something terrifying.

There was no need for me to explicitly state this was Yoshihide's daughter. Yet that night she appeared before my eyes as an entirely different being—vividly transformed. Her eyes shone with unnatural brilliance. Her cheeks burned crimson beneath the moonlight. Disheveled hakama trousers and layered robes clung to her frame, lending an allure wholly alien to her usual childish simplicity. Could this truly be that frail, ever-reserved girl? Leaning against the sliding door, I gazed at her moonlit form while pointing toward the sound of retreating footsteps. With calm eyes I asked: "Who was it?"

Then, biting her lip, the daughter silently shook her head.
Her demeanor seemed so utterly vexed.

Bending down, I brought my mouth close to her ear and whispered again, “Who was it?”
But the daughter merely shook her head again and gave no answer whatsoever.
But at the same time—the daughter’s long lashes brimming with tears—she bit her lip even more tightly than before.

To my inherently foolish self—who understood only what was already too clear—I regrettably could comprehend nothing more. Therefore, not knowing how to address her, I stood frozen for a time, as though listening intently to the pounding of the daughter’s heart. This was partly due, I must admit, to a sense of compunction—as if further questioning would be improper—that had come over me.

How long this lasted, I cannot say. But when I finally closed the sliding door I had thrown open and glanced back at the daughter—her flush now somewhat faded—I spoke as gently as possible: “Please return to your quarters now.” Then I myself felt gripped by unease, as though I had witnessed something forbidden, and with unplaceable shame, quietly began retracing my steps.

Yet before I had taken ten paces, someone timidly tugged at my hakama hem from behind once more. Startled, I turned around. What do you suppose it was?

When I looked, there at my feet was that monkey Yoshihide, bowing his head courteously again and again like a human, hands pressed to the ground and ringing a golden bell.

XIV

And so it was about half a month after that night’s events.

One day, Yoshihide suddenly came to the lord’s residence and requested an immediate audience with Lord Horikawa.
Though he was of lowly status, it was likely because he had long enjoyed His Lordship’s particular favor.
Lord Horikawa, who rarely granted audiences to anyone, on that day too readily consented and promptly summoned him to his presence.
That man, as was his custom, wore a saffron-dyed hunting robe and a crumpled eboshi hat, his face appearing even more sullen than usual as he prostrated himself reverently before His Lordship—then began to speak in a hoarse voice:

“Regarding the Hell Screen that Your Lordship has long commanded me to create, I have devoted my utmost sincerity day and night in wielding the brush, and now the general composition has reached completion as well.”

“That is auspicious.”
“We too are satisfied.”

Yet in His Lordship’s voice as he uttered these words, there lingered something oddly enervated—a curious absence of its customary vigor.

“No, that is not auspicious in the slightest.”
Yoshihide replied with downcast eyes and evident irritation, “The general composition stands complete. Yet one portion remains beyond my brush.”
“What? A portion you cannot paint?”
“Precisely so.”
“By principle, I cannot paint what these eyes have not witnessed.”
“Even were I to force the strokes, conviction would elude me.”
“Does this not equate to failure all the same?”

When His Lordship heard this, a derisive smile floated onto his face.

“Then if you are to paint the Hell Screen, you must see hell.”

“That is indeed so. But during the great fire of recent years, I witnessed with my own eyes flames that rivaled the fierce blazes of the Inferno Hell. The reason I painted Yojiri Fudō’s flames was indeed because I encountered that fire. My Lord must be aware of that painting.”

“However, what about the sinners? But you’ve never seen hell’s jailers, have you?”
Lord Horikawa, appearing as though Yoshihide’s words had not reached his ears at all, pressed on with his questioning in this manner.

“I have seen those bound with iron chains.”
“I have also captured in detail the forms of those tormented by monstrous birds.”
“Therefore, you cannot say that I do not know the appearance of sinners suffering from remorse.”
“And as for the jailers—” Yoshihide continued, his voice leaking an unpleasant bitter smile, “the jailers have appeared before my eyes countless times in dreams.”
“Ox-Headed Demons, Horse-Headed Demons, or three-faced, six-armed fiends—clapping soundless hands and opening voiceless mouths—torment me nearly day and night, I might say. Yet what I strive to paint but cannot are not such things.”

Even His Lordship must have been taken aback by this.
For a while, His Lordship did nothing but glare at Yoshihide’s face with evident irritation; then, with a fierce furrowing of his brows,

“Then what is it you claim you cannot paint?” His Lordship demanded brusquely.

XV

“I intend to depict precisely in the center of the Hell Screen a single palm-leaf carriage falling from the sky.”
Yoshihide said this and, for the first time, gazed sharply at Lord Horikawa’s face.
I had heard that when he spoke of painting, he became like a madman, but there was indeed such terror in his eyes at that moment.

“Inside that carriage is a noble lady, her black hair tangled as she writhes in agony amidst raging flames.”
“Her face choking on smoke, brows furrowed, she gazes upward at the carriage roof.”
“Her hands tear at the lowered blinds, perhaps trying to ward off the rain of falling sparks.”
“And around it swirl ten or twenty sinister birds of prey, clattering their beaks as they circle. Ah! That noble lady inside the ox-drawn carriage—I simply cannot paint her.”

“And then—what say you?”

For reasons unclear, Lord Horikawa—with a strangely pleased expression—urged Yoshihide thus.
But Yoshihide, his characteristic red lips trembling as though in a fever and in a manner that seemed as if he were dreaming,

“That I cannot paint,” he repeated once more, then suddenly snapped like a rabid dog baring its fangs,

“I humbly beseech you to set aflame a palm-leaf carriage before my very eyes.”
“And if that might be done—”

Lord Horikawa's countenance darkened—or so it seemed—when suddenly he burst into shrill laughter.
And while stifling his breath at his own laughter, His Lordship declared:
"Oh, We shall arrange all matters exactly as you say."
"Debating whether it can be done or not is a futile matter."

When I heard His Lordship’s words—whether from some insect-like premonition or not—an indescribable dread came over me.
Indeed, His Lordship’s appearance was far from ordinary—white foam had gathered at the corners of his mouth, while what resembled lightning flickered about his brows, as if infected by Yoshihide’s madness itself.
The moment His Lordship ceased speaking, he burst forth with explosive force, laughing uncontrollably with a guttural rumble in his throat—

“We shall set fire to the palm-leaf carriage as well. Moreover, inside it, we shall have a beautiful woman—dressed in noble attire—ride. A woman inside the carriage, assailed by flames and black smoke, dies in agony—to think of depicting such a scene, you truly are the foremost painter in the land. We deign to praise you. Oh, We deign to praise you!”

When Yoshihide heard His Lordship’s words, he suddenly lost all color and gasped as if struggling for breath—only his lips twitched soundlessly—until at last, as though the sinews throughout his body had slackened, he slumped forward and planted both hands on the tatami mat.

“What an auspicious blessing,” he said in a voice so low it was barely audible, offering humble thanks with utmost courtesy.
Was it that the horror of his envisioned scene—now vividly rising before his eyes at His Lordship’s words—had overwhelmed him?
In all my life, only at this moment did Yoshihide strike me as a pitiable human being.

XVI

It was a night two or three days later.
In accordance with his promise, His Lordship summoned Yoshihide and had him witness up close the burning of the palm-leaf carriage.
However, this did not take place at Lord Horikawa’s residence.
It was at the mountain villa on the outskirts of the capital—commonly known as the Snow-Thawed Palace, where His Lordship’s elder sister once resided—that [the carriage] was set ablaze.

As for this Snow-Thawed Palace, it had long stood uninhabited by any soul, its vast garden left to ruin unchecked—a desolation that those who glimpsed its abandoned state might readily imagine. Here too swirled rumors about Her Ladyship’s younger sister who had perished within these walls—whispers claiming that even now on moonless nights, a strange crimson hakama could be seen drifting through the corridors without touching the floor. Nor was this entirely baseless. For this palace, bleak even by daylight, grew truly ominous after dark—the channel water’s flow echoing with unnatural resonance, while night herons flitting through starlight took on such monstrous shapes they chilled the blood.

That night too was moonless and pitch-dark, but viewed in the lamplight’s glow, Lord Horikawa—having taken his seat near the veranda—wore a pale yellow robe and deep purple figured silk trousers, sitting imposingly with legs crossed upon a round cushion trimmed with white brocade. Surrounding him on all sides, five or six attendants knelt in reverent formation—a sight hardly worth mentioning specifically. Yet among them, one figure stood out conspicuously—a formidable warrior who, since starving and resorting to cannibalism in the Mutsu campaign years prior, had gained such strength that he could even split live deer antlers. Clad in a haramaki undergarment, he crouched solemnly beneath the veranda with his long sword thrust backward at his hip in the seagull-tail style.—All of them were illuminated unevenly by lamplight swaying in the night wind, appearing eerily as if the boundary between dream and reality had dissolved.

Moreover, gazing at the palm-leaf carriage parked in the garden—its high canopy pressing heavily against the darkness, black shafts resting diagonally on a bench without an ox, golden metal fittings glimmering like stars—one felt an unseasonable chill despite it being spring.
However, the interior of the carriage was heavily sealed with blue blinds edged in brocade-patterned trim, making it impossible to discern what lay within.
And around it stood servants, each holding a blazing torch in their hands and minding the smoke drifting toward the veranda as they waited with solemn attentiveness.

Yoshihide himself knelt a short distance away, directly facing the veranda. Clad in what appeared to be his usual fragrance-dyed hunting robe and wearing a crumpled court cap, he looked even smaller and more wretched than usual—as though crushed beneath the weight of the starry sky. Behind him crouched another figure in the same court cap and hunting attire—likely one of the disciples he had brought along. Since both of them were crouching in a dim, distant gloom, from beneath the veranda where I was, even the color of their hunting robes remained indistinct.

XVII

The hour must have been nearing midnight.
The darkness enveloping the grove and garden swallowed all sound in hushed silence, as though eavesdropping on the gathered company’s held breaths. Within this stillness, only the faint whisper of a night wind passed through, each gust carrying the sooty reek of torch smoke.
Lord Horikawa remained silent for a time, gazing intently at this uncanny scene, then shifted his knee forward and—

“Yoshihide,” he called out sharply.

Yoshihide seemed to offer some manner of reply, but to my ears came only a groaning voice.

“Yoshihide.”
“Tonight, as you wish, We shall deign to set fire to the carriage and show you.”

Having spoken thus, Lord Horikawa cast a sidelong glance at his attendants.
At that moment, it seemed as though a meaningful smile had been exchanged between Lord Horikawa and one of his attendants—though this may have been my imagination.
Then Yoshihide timidly raised his head and looked up toward the veranda, yet still refrained from uttering a word as he remained in place.

“Look closely.”
“That is the carriage We customarily ride.”
“You must recall it—We shall now set fire to that carriage and manifest before your eyes a fiery hell.”

Lord Horikawa again fell silent and motioned to his attendants.
Then, with bitter distaste in his voice, he added, “Inside lies a criminal’s wife—bound as she is.”
“When flames engulf this carriage, that wretch shall roast flesh and scorch bone, perishing in the agony of all eight sufferings.”
“For your screen’s completion, ’tis a model beyond compare.”
“Mark well how snow-pure flesh blisters and putrefies.”
“Observe how raven locks transmute to fiery sparks and soar aloft.”

His Lordship fell silent three times, but then—what thoughts had taken hold of him?—this time merely shook his shoulders and laughed without making a sound,

“Hardly a spectacle for posterity.”
“We too shall observe here.”
“Now then, raise the blinds and show Yoshihide the woman inside.”

Upon hearing the command, one of the servants—holding a torch aloft in one hand—briskly approached the carriage, then abruptly thrust out his hand and lifted the bamboo screen in one swift motion. The torchlight, crackling shrilly as it burned, flared crimson for a moment—then abruptly illuminated the cramped carriage's interior in vivid detail. There, upon the carriage floor, lay a woman in shackles—ah, who could fail to recognize her? Clad in a cherry-blossom Chinese robe adorned with resplendent embroidery, glossy black hair cascaded smoothly down her back while a tilted golden hairpin shimmered faintly—yet despite the difference in attire, her petite frame, the pale hue of her neck, and above all that desolately modest profile left no doubt—this was Yoshihide's daughter. I nearly cried out.

At that very moment.
The samurai facing me sprang up hurriedly, gripping his sword hilt with one hand while glaring fiercely at Yoshihide.
When I looked in shock at this commotion, I saw that man had half lost his senses at the sight.
The figure who had been crouching below suddenly leapt forward—arms outstretched—and began rushing involuntarily toward the carriage.
Yet as I mentioned earlier, their faces remained indistinct within those distant shadows.
But this impression lasted mere seconds—Yoshihide’s pallid face—no—his entire form seemed hoisted by invisible forces—now tore through the gloom to loom vividly before my eyes.
At that instant, upon Lord Horikawa’s command of “Ignite it!”, attendants hurled their torches at the palm-leaf carriage bearing his daughter—engulfing it in roaring flames.

XVIII

The fire swiftly engulfed the carriage canopy before our eyes.
The purple tassels adorning the eaves fluttered as though swept by a gust, and from beneath them billowed dense white smoke—visible even in the dark—swirling upward. Blinds, sleeves, and the roof’s metal fittings seemed to shatter and scatter all at once as sparks soared like a rain of fire—a sight of such ghastly horror it defies description.
No—rather, the color of the flames, licking hungrily at the latticed sleeves and rising fiercely halfway to the heavens, was as though the sun had crashed to earth and celestial fire erupted—or so one might say.
Even I, who had nearly cried out moments before, now found my very soul extinguished, left only to gaze upon this terrifying spectacle with mouth agape.
However, Yoshihide, her father—

The expression on Yoshihide’s face at that moment—I still have not forgotten it. The man who had involuntarily tried to rush toward the carriage stopped in his tracks the moment the flames erupted. With hands still outstretched and eyes devouring the scene, he stared as though drawn into the fiery smoke engulfing the vehicle. Bathed in the blaze’s light, every wrinkle on his grotesque face—down to the tips of his beard—stood starkly visible. But whether in those wide-open eyes, the contortion of his twisted lips, or the ceaseless trembling of the muscles in his convulsing cheeks, the fear, sorrow, and astonishment that crossed Yoshihide’s heart were vividly etched upon his face. Not even a thief moments before decapitation, nor a sinner of the Ten Abominations and Five Offenses dragged before the Hall of Judgment, could have worn a countenance of such agony. Even that stalwart samurai could not help but pale at this, and with trepidation, he looked up at Lord Horikawa’s countenance.

However, Lord Horikawa, while biting his lips tightly, occasionally let slip an eerie smile and continued to gaze fixedly at the carriage without averting his eyes.
And within that carriage—ah, what form of the girl I beheld there at that moment—I find myself utterly lacking the courage to recount it in detail.
The pallor of her face upturned and choking on smoke, the disheveled length of her hair swept by flames, and then the beauty of her cherry-blossom Chinese robe transforming into flames before our eyes—what a ghastly spectacle it was.
When the night wind gusted once more, billowing the smoke aside, her form emerged from the flames—crimson as though sprinkled with gold dust—biting her hair and writhing so violently against her bonds that the chains seemed ready to snap. This sight, which seemed to reproduce before our very eyes the torments of hell itself, caused even me and the stalwart samurai to shudder involuntarily, the hairs on our bodies standing on end.

Then once more the night wind swept through the treetops in the garden—anyone would have thought so.
No sooner had such a sound raced through the dark sky—from where, none could tell—than something black, neither touching ground nor flying through air, leapt like a ball from the palace roof and plunged straight into the blazing carriage.
And as the vermilion-lacquered latticework scattered apart in flames, it embraced the daughter—her body arched backward—and sent forth from the smoke a piercing shriek like tearing silk, unbearably anguished and prolonged.
Then, two or three more times—we all cried out in unison before we knew it.

Against the backdrop of flames like a wall hanging, what clung to the daughter’s shoulder was none other than that monkey nicknamed Yoshihide, who had been kept at Lord Horikawa’s residence.
How that monkey had managed to sneak into this palace—through what path or means—was of course known to no one.
But precisely because she was the daughter who had always doted on him, the monkey too had plunged into the flames alongside her.

XIX

However, the monkey’s figure was visible for but a mere instant.
Amidst a burst of gold-lacquer-like sparks that seemed to leap skyward, both the monkey and even the daughter’s form were swallowed beneath the black smoke, leaving only a single ox-drawn carriage at the garden’s center—blazing with a dreadful roar as it seethed in flames.
No—rather than a fiery carriage, it might be more fitting to call it a pillar of fire, given how those dreadful flames surged upward into the starry sky, boiling and roiling.

Before that pillar of fire stood Yoshihide, rigid as though petrified—how uncanny a sight it was! This Yoshihide who until moments earlier had seemed racked by infernal torments now stood with an ineffable radiance—a glow akin to religious ecstasy—suffusing his wrinkled countenance. Had he forgotten His Lordship's very presence? Arms folded tightly across his chest, he stood motionless. Yet in that man's eyes, no reflection of his daughter's death throes could be discerned. Only the flames' beautiful hues and the vision of a woman suffering within them brought endless delight to his heart—such was the scene that manifested.

Moreover, what was strange was not merely that the man had watched his only daughter's death throes with apparent pleasure.
At that moment, Yoshihide bore an uncanny solemnity—somehow inhuman, akin to the wrath of a lion king seen in dreams.
Thus even the countless night birds—startled by sudden flames and shrieking as they wheeled about—seemed not to approach the vicinity of Yoshihide's crumpled eboshi hat, whether by trick of perception or otherwise.
To even the sightless eyes of those mindless birds, there must have been visible an inexplicable aura of majesty—like a halo—suspended above that man's head.

Even the birds were thus.
Even we—down to the lowest attendants—all held our breath, trembling inwardly yet filled with uncanny rapture, staring fixedly at Yoshihide as though beholding a living Buddha.
The carriage's flames roaring across the firmament, Yoshihide standing transfixed before them—his very soul consumed—what solemn grandeur! What terrible exultation!
Yet amidst this, only Lord Horikawa upon the veranda stood transformed—his face deathly pale, foam gathering at his lips, hands clawing into his purple hakama's knees—panting like some thirst-maddened beast...

XX

That night at Yukige Palace, word that His Lordship had ordered the carriage burned spread through society from unknown lips, and there were those who voiced considerable criticism regarding the matter.
First and foremost—why had Lord Horikawa burned Yoshihide's daughter to death?—the most widespread rumor claimed it stemmed from resentment over unrequited love.
However, there can be no doubt His Lordship's true intention was to chastise that warped painter's obstinacy—the perverse determination to complete his screen artwork even through carriage-burning and murder.
Indeed, I myself heard Lord Horikawa declare this very reasoning directly from his august lips.

Moreover, it seems that Yoshihide’s heart—as unfeeling as wood or stone, which desired to paint the Hell Screen even as he witnessed his own daughter being burned to death before his very eyes—was likewise subjected to no small measure of censure.
Among them were those who cursed him as a human-faced, beast-hearted villain—one who would cast aside even the love between parent and child for the sake of his art.
The Abbot of Yokawa was among those who sided with this view, often proclaiming, “No matter how one may excel in an art or skill, if they fail to uphold the Five Virtues as a human being, they can only fall into hell.”

However, after about a month had passed and the Hell Screen was finally completed, Yoshihide promptly brought it to the lord’s residence and humbly presented it for Lord Horikawa’s inspection.
At that very moment, the Abbot of Yokawa was also in attendance. When he cast his eyes upon the screen’s painting, even he—despite his usual composure—must have been struck with awe by the terror of the infernal tempest raging across that single panel’s expanse.
Until then, he had been glowering at Yoshihide with a bitter expression, but now he involuntarily slapped his knee and exclaimed, “It is accomplished!”
To this day, I have not forgotten the expression on Lord Horikawa’s face as he gave a bitter smile upon hearing these words.

Since then, those who spoke ill of that man had all but vanished—at least within the confines of the lord’s residence.
Anyone who beheld that Hell Screen—no matter how bitterly they might have resented Yoshihide in their daily lives—would find themselves struck by an inexplicable solemnity and feel the great torments of the blazing hell as though real—or so one might say.

However, by that time, Yoshihide had already departed this world.
Moreover, on the very night after the completion of the Hell Screen, he fastened a rope to the beam of his room and hanged himself.
That man, predeceased by his only daughter, likely could not endure living on in tranquility.
The corpse of that man remains buried at the site of his house to this day.
However, that small marker stone, after being exposed to decades of rain and wind, has long since become indistinguishable as anyone’s grave, undoubtedly overgrown with moss.