He thought too late of what might happen if Noami returned and found him so. Yori! He must get the boy away.
Akitada swayed, suddenly dizzy. With shaking hands he rolled up the papers and pushed them back in their corner. Then he staggered back to Yori. He was barely in time.
Noami came in, carrying a bowl of water and some towels. For a moment, Akitada could not focus. The room swam before his eyes.
Noami busied himself wiping paint off Yori’s face and hands.
“Papa saw my pictures.” Yori’s voice sounded a long way off, but quite cheerful. “I shall come back to paint the puppies soon.”
Noami put down the dirty towels and took off the stained shirt. “I shall look forward to it, young master,” he said in his grating voice. Yori ran to Akitada. Catching the child in his arms, Akitada stared at the painter. He must act naturally, or Noami would prevent their leaving.
“Are you quite well, my lord?” asked Noami. “You look very pale.”
“No, I’m… I’m fine. His coat? We must g… g …” Yori was already struggling into his red coat.
“We must go home,” Akitada managed to say quite clearly. He felt strangely light-headed. Making an attempt to get to his feet, he found that his legs would not support him.
“Perhaps another cup of wine before your long walk back?” asked Noami, pressing the cup into his hand.
Anything to get to his feet. He must leave. He must take Yori. Akitada drank and staggered up. “Come, Yori,” he said, and bent to take his son’s hand. But he miscalculated, overbalanced, and fell to his hands and knees.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Noami. “Sit down and rest, my lord. Shall I get you some water?”
Akitada nodded. “Some water. Yes.”
The light was very poor, but the man seemed to be grinning as he left. For a moment, Akitada stared after him nervously. It seemed darker in the room. Then he realized that he had left the lamp in the corner with Noami’s drawings. The painter knew he had seen them. Almost at the same moment, another thought worked its way through the haze of his mind: the wine he had just drunk must have been drugged to make him so dizzy and weak.
Akitada made a superhuman effort. “Yori,” he mumbled, “you must run home now!”
Yori nodded. “We’ll run home, Papa. I’m hungry.”
“No. You must go home alone. Can you …” Akitada’s tongue would not obey. “Alone. Now! Can you … run alone?” He had meant to ask if the child could find the way. Silly question. “Get Genba… tell Genba…” No time! He raised his voice. “Run, Yori! Now! Run!”
The boy stood irresolute, staring at him wide-eyed. Outside, there were the returning steps of Noami.
“Please, Yori,” Akitada begged. “Please, hurry! And don’t look back!” He gave the child a little push toward the entrance.
His urgency must have registered, for Yori nodded and ran. In a moment, he was gone. Akitada staggered to his feet again, grabbing for a pillar to stay upright. He must prevent Noami from going after Yori. Pushing himself away from the pillar, he stumbled toward the rear of the studio and slid open the doors to the garden.
“What are you doing?” cried the painter.
Akitada staggered forward and fell headlong down some steps. The pain to his knees and the cold air cleared his head a little. Noami, a vague presence in Akitada’s confused state, attempted to lift him to his feet. Akitada mumbled, “Yori…”
“Where’s the boy? Did he run out?”
Akitada clutched the shoulders of the small man and nodded. “Li’l rascal was looking for the … dogs,” he slurred.
“Let’s get you back in first,” said Noami. “Then I’ll go find the boy!”
He half supported, half dragged Akitada back into the studio and let him drop onto the cushion.
Waves of nausea washed over Akitada; the room spun and receded crazily; someone pressed a cup to his lips. He tried to shake his head, opened his mouth to say no, but the liquid poured between his teeth; he gagged and swallowed.
Before him hovered the broad, grinning face of Noami. “There, now,” he rasped. “That should put you to sleep.” His laughter sounded like a cracked bell. “I was right about you. I knew you’d come yourself and alone, my lord. Men like you are too arrogant to think common folk would dare lay a finger on them.”
Akitada lurched forward, his hands reaching for the man’s throat, but Noami pushed him back and laughed. The sound reverberated in Akitada’s ears as he lay helplessly on the floor and watched the painter’s disembodied head recede and fade on waves of mocking laughter.
Then he was alone.
As long as the walls kept whirling and the floor bucking like a wild horse, he despaired of making his escape, but something forced him to try. He got to his knees.
Concentrate! Move! Get away from here! If necessary, on all fours, or crawling like a snake, pulling himself along by his fingernails across the wooden floor, board by board. To the entrance and beyond. Yori must be well clear by now.
On that thought, Akitada passed out.
When he regained consciousness, he was first aware of bitter cold. There were sounds of rustling and more faintly of someone moaning. It was very dark, and he could not see where the sounds came from. He was freezing. There was also pain, great pain in his wrists and shoulders. His arms were stretched above his head. He tried to move, and the moaning turned into an agonized groan. His- groan. His wrists were tied and attached to something above him. Most of the weight of his body depended from his wrists, because he was sagging. He straightened, and the pain eased a little.
He tried to shout, but something was stuffed in his mouth, a rag with the nauseating taste and smell of paints. He gagged and felt the bile rising in his throat. No! He must not vomit or he would suffocate. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on subduing his nausea. Finally the urge subsided.
His wrists were held together by a rope tied so tightly that he could not feel his hands. His feet were also tied at the ankles, but not so tightly. He could feel sharp gravel biting into the soles of his feet. But when he tried to move his legs, his shoulders, arms, and wrists were in agony. If only he could get some slack in the rope from which he was suspended. He attempted to pull on it, but another excruciating pain ran from his shoulders across his entire torso, and he desisted instantly. To ease the pain, he raised himself to his toes.
He balanced like this for a while, afraid to move until the waves of pain subsided a little. As he waited, it dawned on him that he was strung up in Noami’s garden and that he was alone.
The darkness was not impenetrable. A patch of starlit sky showed between the fronds of rustling bamboo and bare branches. He must be tied up to a tree. It was incredibly cold, and he realized that he was naked except for his loincloth.
The madman had stripped him of his clothes, tied him up to the tree, and left him to freeze in agony. It was a great deal of trouble to go to, in order to eliminate a witness. Why not kill him outright? What did Noami have in mind?
The memory of those sketches of bleeding bodies returned vividly. Perhaps he was about to be carved up while the monster busily sketched away. He, Akitada, would become a character on the hell screen. He had a sudden freakish image of lines of people passing by to stare at his writhing body. Would his friends or acquaintances recognize him? He giggled at the thought of their faces, and then felt warm moisture running down his cheeks.