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and crept back into his bedding. After a long time he fell asleep again, dreamlessly this time, until faint bells calling to morning service woke him before dawn.
     
    He dressed quickly and walked out into the courtyard. It was barely light. Heavy fog shrouded the temple buildings, muffling the tinkling of bells and somber chants. Akitada looked at the fog with dismay. It was common in the mountains, especially after a rain, and would stay until midmorning, slowing him down on the steep and hazardous mountain track.
     
    After collecting his horse at the stables, he rode to the main gate. A different gatekeeper greeted him. They exchanged comments on the fog and the road down the mountain, and Akitada presented the monk with some silver, a donation to the temple in return for its hospitality. The gatekeeper hoped that the gentleman had had a restful night. Akitada said, “I was woken by some brief noise once. Did anyone else report a disturbance?”
     
    “No, sir. Oh, I do hope it wasn’t those noisy actors.”
     
    Akitada recalled the scene in the bathhouse the evening before, but shook his head. “No. But I thought I heard someone cry out in an adjoining courtyard.” A thought occurred to him. The gatehouses of most major temples kept simple diagrams of the location of various buildings handy for visitors. He asked, “Do you have a plan of the temple here?”
     
    The monk opened a cupboard and produced a wrinkled piece of paper. Together they bent over it and located Akitada’s room.
     
    “Whoever cried out must have been just there,” Akitada said, pointing to an area between several long, narrow buildings.
     
    The monk pondered. “It can’t have been there. That’s a storage yard,” he said. “Only the monks assigned to kitchen or housekeeping use it, and never at night. Visitors’ quarters are in this courtyard.” He pointed to the opposite corner of the compound.
     
    “Oh, well,” said Akitada. “It probably was nothing. I’ll be on my way.”
     
    The road was drier than the day before, but the downward slope made the journey difficult for horse and rider. Every rock and loose pebble seemed bent on starting a small avalanche. Fog shrouded all but the closest trees, and it was impossible to see the next turn ahead of time. They moved at a snail’s pace.
     
    In spite of his frustrations, Akitada thought the scenery quite beautiful. It was already the Frost Month and in the north winter would already have smothered the world in blankets of snow, but here autumn lingered. The unseen sun gradually illuminated wisps of mist until they looked like fairies dancing in silver and gold veils among the trees. The whole forest resembled something seen in a dream of the Western Paradise. Lit from within, its graceful branches released rainbow-sparkling jewels which fell soundlessly on cushions of green moss. Here and there the path was strewn with rich blankets of fallen leaves: orange, red, pale yellow, and deep russet. Above Akitada’s head, a few crimson maple leaves mingled with the cobalt green of Sawara cypress and the deep emerald of cryptomerias.
     
    The only sounds were made by the horse, hooves clinking against rocks, an occasional snort and puff of breath, the creaking of the saddle leather, and the soft slapping of the reins against his neck when he shook his head. But there were birds in the forest. Akitada saw them flitting across the path ahead of him, indistinct like silent moths. Once a rabbit appeared, sat up to eye them, and dove back into the undergrowth. Horse and man moved companionably through a misty cloud forest.
     
    In time, imperceptibly almost, the fog lifted, the road leveled, sights and sounds became clearer, and Akitada caught glimpses of hazy mountaintops covered with a patchwork of fading autumn colors.
     
    When he reached the place where the road to the temple branched off from the highway and an abandoned shack stood deserted near some pines, the world was as still