Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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better than the first batch, but one or two pages had to be

rewritten, and he settled down to the chore. He was just

bundling up the finished document when Genzo made his

sullen appearance.

“Any more instructions, boss?” he demanded. His tone was

hostile and impudent—or it would have been impudent, had he

not been speaking to a convict.

Akitada sorted through the stack of records, looking for

something to occupy Genzo’s time. He came across an account

of the silver production of a mine called Two Rocks. As he

glanced at some of the figures, he was struck by the modest

yields for what was, according to Yume, one of the best silver

deposits on the island. But then, he knew nothing about silver

mines. Passing the sheaf of papers to Genzo, he asked him to

make copies.

Toward midday, Inspector Osawa arrived, clearly suffering

from the effects of too much wine. He listened with half an ear

to Akitada’s report, glanced at the copies and notes, and said,

“Good. Finish up, will you? We are leaving for the coast as soon

as you can be ready. I’m going to lie down a bit. I don’t feel at all well today.”

Akitada wished him a speedy recovery. There was little more

work to be done. At one point, he sought out the secretary again

to ask a question, but more to gauge the man’s changed manner

than to gain useful answers.

Shiba answered freely until Akitada mentioned the Two

Rocks mine, saying, “I noticed some papers relating to it, and

wondered where it might be located.”

Shiba blinked and fidgeted. “Mine?” he asked. “In the

mountains, I suppose.” Seeing Akitada’s astonishment at this

vague reply, he added, “I know nothing about that part of the

master’s business, but all the mines are in the mountains of

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151

Greater Sadoshima, that is, the northern half. Our mines must

be there also.”

Well, it was hardly a satisfactory answer, but Akitada knew

from the governor’s map that the closest coast to the mountain-

ous areas was the one facing away from the mainland, a partic-

ularly rocky area not used by regular shipping, but familiar to

local fishermen and pirates. He wondered about the “pack

trains to the coast” mentioned by the supervisor from the

Kumo mine. But perhaps he had said “coast” when he had

meant Sawata Bay and the harbor at Mano where all the silver

was loaded for the trip to the mainland.

The secretary busied himself with paperwork, muttering,

“Forgive me, but there is much work. If there’s nothing

else . . . ?” Akitada gave up.

Osawa eventually reappeared in traveling costume. Under

his direction, Akitada and Genzo carried the documents out to

the waiting horses and packed them in the saddlebags.

Kumo came to bid Osawa farewell. “All ready to leave?” he

boomed cheerfully. Turning to Akitada, he said, “I hope my

people gave you all the assistance you needed?” Mildly aston-

ished by such belated attention, Akitada bowed and praised the

secretarial staff.

“And you have been made quite at home here, I trust?”

Kumo continued, his light eyes boring into Akitada’s.

Was the man hinting at Akitada’s trespassing in his garden?

Meeting the high constable’s sharp eyes, Akitada said, “Yes,

thank you. I have been treated with unusual kindness and

respect. A man in my position learns not to expect such cour-

tesy. And your beautiful garden brought memories of a happier

past. I shall always remember my stay here with pleasure.”

“In that case you must return often,” Kumo said, then

turned to Osawa, putting a friendly hand on his shoulder. “And

where are you off to next, my friend?”

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Osawa glowered at his horse. “All the way to Minato on that

miserable animal. At least the weather is dry.” He put his foot in

the stirrup and swung himself up with a grunt.

Kumo stood transfixed. “Minato?” he asked, his voice sud-

denly tense. “Why Minato? I thought you were on an inspec-

tion tour.”

“Governor’s orders. I’m to deliver a letter to Professor

Sakamoto there.”

“I see.” Kumo’s eyes left Osawa’s face and went to Akitada’s

instead, and this time Akitada thought he caught a flicker of

some smoldering, hidden violence which might erupt at any

moment. The shift was so sudden and brief that he doubted

his eyes.

C H A P T E R N I N E

M I NATO

The road to Minato continued through the rich plain between

the two mountain ranges. This was the “inside country,” the

most populated area of the island, where the rice paddies

extended on both sides to the mountains, their green rectangles

swaying and rippling in the breeze like waves in an emerald sea.

Peasants moved about their daily chores among them, bare-

legged and the women often bare-chested, and half-naked chil-

dren stopped their play to watch round-eyed as the riders

passed.

In all their journey that day, they saw only one other horse-

man. The rider stayed far behind, traveling at the same moder-

ate speed. Osawa, who started to feel better as time passed, was

eager to reach Minato before dark, and they made better time

than the day before. Halfway, they took a brief rest at a shrine to water their horses and eat some of the rice dumplings provided

by Kumo’s cook. They had just dismounted and led their horses

under the shrine gates into the shady grove when they heard the

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other rider. A moment later he passed, hunched in his saddle,

incurious about the shrine, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

The man looked vaguely familiar. Akitada searched his memory

as to where he might have come across a short fellow with a

large nose but failed.

The sky clouded over after that, and in another hour the

wind picked up. Osawa grumbled to himself, but Akitada

breathed the moisture-laden air with pleasure. He caught the

first hint of the sea and knew they were close to the coast. Soon

after, the rain began to fall.

“I have no rain cape,” complained Osawa. “The weather was

so fine when we left that I refused the offer of one. And now

there won’t be another village till we reach Minato.” A gust of

wind drove the heavy drizzle into their faces, and he added irri-

tably, “If we reach it today.”

They reached Lake Kamo in spite of the rain and muddy

road, but the heavily overcast sky had caused dusk to fall early,

and there was still half the lake to skirt to reach Minato on the

opposite shore.

Minato turned out to be a large village between the lake and

the ocean. Its inhabitants were mostly fishermen who fished

both the open sea and the lake. Minato was well known for its

excellent seafood, and its houses and shrines looked more sub-

stantial than those of other villages.

But the travelers were by then too miserable to be interested

in anything but shelter, a change of clothes, and some hot food

and wine. The rain had soaked their robes until they clung

heavily to their cold skin, and Osawa and Genzo were so ex-

hausted that they were in danger of falling from the saddle.

On the deserted village street, Akitada stopped a barefoot

old woman under a tattered straw rain cape to ask directions

to Professor Sakamoto’s house. She pointed across the lake to

the shore on the outskirts of Minato where several villas and

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

155

summerhouses overlooked the water. When they had wearily

plodded there, Sakamoto’s residence turned out to be walled

and gated. Unfortunately, the servant who answered Osawa’s

knocking claimed his master was absent and he had no author-

ity to admit strangers. He seemed in a hurry to get out of

the rain.

Osawa started to berate the man but was too exhausted to

make much of a job of it. The servant merely played dumb and

refused to admit them or provide any information.

“Perhaps an inn for tonight?” Akitada suggested to the desper-

ate and shivering Osawa. “We passed a nice one on our way here.”

Osawa just nodded.

An hour later, Osawa, dry, bathed, and fed with an excellent

fish soup provided by the proprietress, took to his bed in the

inn’s best room, and Genzo went to sleep over his warmed

wine in the reception room of the inn. Akitada, more used to

riding than the others, had washed at the well and then bor-

rowed some old clothes from the inn’s owner. His own robe and

trousers were draped over a beam in the kitchen, and he now

sat by the fire, dressed in a patched shirt and short cotton pants

held by a rope about his middle, devouring a large bowl of millet

and vegetables. Not for him the delights of the local seafood or

warmed wine, or even of decent rice, but he was hungry.

Their hostess was a plain, thin woman in her thirties. His

borrowed clothes had belonged to her dead husband. She

was not unkind, but too busy with Osawa to pay attention to

him. Besides, Genzo had informed her immediately that the fel-

low Taketsuna was only a convict. After that it had taken all of

Akitada’s charm to beg a change of clothes. She drew the line at

feeding him a meal like the one she had prepared for Osawa.

Instead she busied herself with starting the rice for the next

morning and grinding some dumpling flour with a large stone

mortar and pestle.

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I . J . P a r k e r

When he was done with his millet, Akitada went into the

scullery and washed his bowl, drying it with a hemp cloth. Then

he took a broom and swept the kitchen. That chore done, he

headed outside to bring in more firewood, and looked around

for other work.

She had watched him—at first suspiciously in case he might

steal something, then with increasing astonishment. Now she

asked, “Aren’t you tired?”

“A little,” he said with a smile. “I noticed that you don’t have

much help, so I thought I’d lend a hand before I rest.”

A smile cracked her dour face, and she wiped her hands on

her apron. “I lost my husband, but I’m strong.” Then she went

to a small bamboo cabinet and took out a flask and a cup.

“Here,” she said. “Sit down and talk to me while I make the

dumplings. How do you like your master?”

He sat and thanked her. “Mr. Osawa? He’s fair enough, I

guess. A good official, but he claims he’s overworked.” The wine

was decent. Akitada sipped it slowly, savoring its sweetness and

warmth, wondering if she had saved it for a special occasion.

“Is he married?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Ah. Poor man. And you? Where are you from?”

He gave her a heavily altered story of his life. Only what he

told about his family was the truth, because he suspected that

she, being a woman, would catch him in a lie most easily there.

As it was, talking about Tamako and his baby son caused a

painfully intense longing for them, and his feelings must have

shown, for when he paused, she shook her head and muttered,

“What a pity! What a pity! It’s terrible to be alone in this life.”

Perhaps this small comment more than anything he had

seen or heard brought close what exile to this island meant

to the men who were condemned to spend their lives here,

working under intolerable conditions if they were ordinary

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157

criminals, or just measuring out their days in enforced idleness

if high-ranking court nobles.

“Will you play a song for me?” she asked with a glance at the

flute, which he had laid beside him.

He obliged, gladly. She was inordinately pleased when he

was done. Perhaps he had touched a long-since-abandoned

chord of romance in her. In any case, she unbent some more.

“I hear you were turned away at the professor’s place,” she

said, her nimble fingers shaping perfect white spheres. When

Akitada mentioned Osawa’s disappointment, she said with a

sniff, “The professor’s getting drunk in the Bamboo Grove as

usual.”

“In this rain?” he asked, misunderstanding.

She laughed and became almost attractive. “The Bamboo

Grove is a restaurant. Haru’s place. Besides, it’s stopped raining.”

“I heard the professor keeps company with the good people.

Glad to hear that he’s friendly with the common folk, too.”

“Only when he’s drinking. The rest of the time he stays to

himself in that fine house of his. He’s writing a great history

book about Sadoshima. Sometimes the good people visit him

and then he has dinner parties. You know the Second Prince was

murdered at his house? You should have seen all the fuss to get

ready for that party. We were all put to work cooking and carry-

ing. The professor’s a bit of a skinflint, but he spent his money

then. The best wine, the finest delicacies, the best dishes, what-

ever the prince wanted.”

“You prepared some of the food?”

“Yes. Rice cakes filled with vegetables, salted mushrooms,

pickled eggplant, and tofu in sweet bean sauce.”

“You must be a fine cook. I hope they didn’t blame you for

the death?”

“No. They arrested the governor’s son. Some people say he

didn’t do it.”

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Akitada waited for more, but the landlady took her time.

She finished her dumplings, wiped her hands on her apron,

and carried the large wooden tray to a shelf. Then she took

off the apron, shook it out, and put it away. He was about to

remind her of her last words when she came to join him in a

cup of wine.

“People talk,” she said, sipping. “And they talk mostly about

the good people. Some people say the governor’s son’s been set

up. Others think he killed the prince because the prince wrote

to His Majesty about the governor stealing the government’s sil-

ver. And some—” She broke off and shook her head.

“And some? Go on!” urged Akitada.

She leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t tell anybody, but

some say the governor made his son do it. Can you imagine?”

Akitada could and felt grim. “The ones who think he’s been

framed, do they mention names?”

She shook her head. “It’s only gossip. Good deeds won’t step

outside your gate, they say, but evil will spread a thousand

leagues.” She refilled their cups. “Some of the good people here

would like to get back at the governor. He’s not very popular.”

“It’s a great puzzle,” Akitada said, shaking his head. He was

beginning to feel pleasantly warm and sleepy and had a hard

time concentrating. “How was the Second Prince killed, do you

think?”

“Oh, it was poison, but nobody knows for sure what kind. I

thank the gods they didn’t suspect me.” She smirked a little.

“They say Haru made the special prawn stew the governor’s son

took to the prince. A dog died from licking the bowl.”

“Is this the same Haru who owns the restaurant where the

professor is drinking?”

“Yes. The Bamboo Grove.” She sniffed. “Haru’s husband is

just a fisherman, but she thinks she’s something special because

the good people buy their fish from them and stop at her place

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

159

for a meal after one of their boating or hunting parties. She’s

nothing special that I can see, but men like her. All that brag-

ging, and now look at the trouble she’s made for herself.”

“But they did not accuse her of anything?”

“No. Seems like some of her customers said they ate the

same stew and it was fine.”

“Maybe it was an accident. Say some poisonous mush-

rooms . . . or . . . I don’t suppose blowfish could have got in the stew?”

She sat up and stared at him. “Blowfish? Funny you should

say that. The prince used to buy that from her. Serve her right if

she made a bad mistake with blowfish. But the poison was in the

dish the governor’s son brought, and that was prawn stew.”

“Well, I was just wondering. Do many of the good people

live around here?”

“Oh, yes. It’s the lake. They came and built their villas here.

You know already about the professor. And the prince’s doctor

has a place here, and some of the lords, like Iga and Kumo, have

summerhouses here.”

“I thought the exiles were forbidden to use their former titles.”

She yawned and stretched. “They may have had their ti-

tles taken away, but to us they’re still great men.” She got to her feet. “Well, it’s bedtime for me. I’ve got to be up early to start

the fire. There’s bedding in that trunk. It’ll be warm near the

fire pit.”

Akitada rose and thanked her. He, too, was very tired. As

soon as she had left, he took out the bedding and spread it be-

fore the fire. It looked inviting, but he did not lie down. Instead he tucked the flute into it and then slipped outside, closing the

kitchen door softly behind him.

Though the rain had stopped, it was still cloudy and very

dark. The rain-cooled air had caused a thick mist to rise from

the surface of the lake, and this crept over the low roofs of

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I . J . P a r k e r

the silent houses and filled the streets and narrow alleys

between them. Akitada stood still for a moment and listened.

He thought he had heard a stealthy sound somewhere, but the

silence was broken only by the soft dripping of moisture from

the roof behind him. The mist muffled noises; he could no

longer hear the sound of the surf on the nearby coast. Cau-

tiously he started down the road. He planned to pay a quick

visit to Haru’s restaurant before retiring.

Minato, though considered a village, was almost a small

town. No doubt this was due in equal parts to the lake’s attrac-

tions and to the fishing off the Sadoshima coast. Nighttime en-

tertainment, totally lacking in ordinary villages, could be found

here in a wine shop or two and in the Bamboo Grove.

The street passed between the single-storied houses, mostly

dark now and built so close together that the alleyways between

them were too narrow for more than one person. Now and then

there was a small break to allow for a roadway to the lake or to

accommodate a temple or shrine. Akitada had paid little atten-

tion to these details earlier, being too preoccupied with the con-

dition of his companions. Now he took note that the Buddhist

temple, though small, was in excellent repair, its pillars painted

and gilded, and its double doors studded with ornamental

nails. It was closed now, but a little farther on the houses made

room for a small shrine surrounded by pines and a stand of tall

bamboo.

Akitada had always had a strong affinity for shrines. Though

he was not a superstitious man, he had found them a source

of peace during troubling times in his life. On an impulse he

decided to pay his respects to the local god. Turning in under

the torii, two upright beams spanned by two horizontal ones, marking the threshold between the unquiet world of men and

the sacred precinct of the god, he found amid the dripping trees

a small building of unpainted logs with a roof of rain-darkened

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

161

cedar shingles. It brooded silently in the gloom. The smell of

wet earth and pine needles was all around. Ahead the almost-

darkness was broken by one small, eerie point of light. As

Akitada approached, he found that it was an oil lamp flickering

in a niche of the shrine building. It illuminated a grotesque

birdlike creature which seemed to crouch there watchfully. The

bird was the size of a four-year-old child and seemed to ruffle its brown feathers and fix him with a malevolent and predatory

eye. Akitada stopped, then relaxed. A trick of the flickering

light had given momentary life to the wooden carving of a

tengu, a demonic creature believed to inhabit remote places and play very nasty tricks on unsuspecting humans. A few crumbs

of rice cakes, now soggy from the rain, still lay near the oil lamp, and someone had placed a wooden plaque against the image,

inscribed with the words: “Eat and rest, then go away!”

This shrine was no restful place, and Akitada retraced his

steps without addressing the god. He was about to emerge into

the street again when he heard footsteps. Since he had no desire

to explain what he was doing wandering around Minato in the

middle of the night, he ducked under some bamboo which,

heavy with rain, drooped low and screened him from the road.

A man was walking past. The bamboo’s slight rustle drenched

Akitada in a cold shower and caused the passerby to swing

around and stare suspiciously at the shrine entrance.

It was difficult to see clearly in the murk, but for a moment

Akitada thought the tengu had flown off its perch to look for victims. The man was small, his shoulders hunched against the

cold mist. He had a nose like a beak, and his clothing also was as

dark brown as the carved plumage of the tengu. Perhaps the

sculptor had found his model in this local man. Akitada smiled

to himself. The passerby was probably himself nervous about

the demon bird of this shrine, for he stared long and hard

before continuing on his way.

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It was late and Akitada was tired. He was glad when he

found the Bamboo Grove by following one of the narrow roads

down to the lake. A sign hung by its door and a dim glow and

the sound of male voices raised in song came from inside.

Haru’s restaurant was still open, and among its late revelers was,

perhaps, their elusive host, the professor.

But Akitada could hardly walk in as a customer. Besides, he

carried only a few copper coins, hardly enough for an evening’s

carousing and too precious to be wasted on wine. For once he felt

a sympathetic concern for the plight of the poor workingman.

He peered into the Bamboo Grove’s interior through one of

the bamboo grilles which covered the windows.

The large room contained the ubiquitous central fire pit,

where a handsome buxom female stirred a pot with a small

ladle. Her guests were neither poor nor working class, to judge

by their clothes. From time to time, they would extend an

empty cup which the hostess filled with warm, spiced wine. Its

aroma drifted tantalizingly through the grille.

The four men reclined or sat cross-legged around the fire,

their faces flushed with wine and warmth, their hands gesticu-

lating as they sang, or chatted, or recited poetry. The quality of

their performances varied sharply and there were both loud

laughter and applause. A corpulent elderly man with thin white

hair and beard dominated the entertainment. He was quite

drunk and his speech slurred, but he recited well and from a

memory that revealed an excellent education. Akitada guessed

that this was Sakamoto.

The exchanges were mildly entertaining, but Akitada heard

nothing of interest and was glad when the gathering broke up.

Somewhere in the fog a temple or monastery bell was marking

the hours of devotion. Inside, the hostess cocked her head,

then laid down her ladle and clapped her hands. “Closing time,

gentlemen!”

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163

Akitada watched from the corner as the guests departed,

then followed them.

The four men stayed together for a little, chatting and

breaking into snatches of song, and then, one by one, turned off

toward their homes. Eventually only the professor was left. He

seemed to have difficulty walking and was talking to himself

as if he were still carrying on a conversation with his friends.

For some reason, the cool night air turned what had seemed

mild inebriation into staggering, falling-down drunkenness,

and Sakamoto proceeded homeward by starts and stops, with

Akitada following behind.

In this manner they passed through the village and were still

a distance from his villa when the professor suddenly rolled into

a ditch and stayed there.

The rain had filled the ditches with water, and when Akitada

caught up, he found Sakamoto face down and blowing bubbles

while his hands scrabbled at the sides of the muddy gully. Jump-

ing in, he hauled him out, a strenuous job since the man was

heavy and his water-soaked robe added more weight. Once he

sat on the side of the road, Sakamoto looked considerably the

worse for wear, his face and beard covered with mud, and wet

leaves and weeds sticking out of his topknot. He gagged,

coughed up water and wine, then vomited copiously, holding

his belly. Akitada helped the process along by slapping his back

smartly.

“Wha . . . mph,” croaked the professor. “S-stop it. Oarghh.

Dear heaven, I f-feel awful. I’m all wet. Wh-what happened?”

“You fell into a ditch and almost drowned,” said Akitada,

and delivered another unsympathetic smack for good measure.

“Ouch. Drowned? Ditch?” Sakamoto turned his head and

peered blearily at the water, then flung both arms around Akitada’s knees. “You saved my l-life. Sh-shall be rewarded. S-silver. At

my house.”

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I . J . P a r k e r

An invitation to Sakamoto’s house was tempting, but

Akitada was tired. Besides, it might raise questions when he re-

turned with Osawa the next day. On the whole, he preferred

to remain a ragged stranger encountered on a dark night.

Putting his arm around Sakamoto’s back, he hauled him to

his feet.

Their progress was not much quicker than before because

Sakamoto became talkative again and insisted on stopping

every few yards to recite poetry or bits of a sutra. The realization that he could have died but for the intervention of this kind

stranger put him into a maudlin mood.

“To die forgotten in a ditch somewhere, how s-sad,” he mut-

tered mournfully. “An exile in a distant land, dead on the strand

of this s-sad world.” He stopped and raised his face to the

cloudy skies. “All dead, every one of us, not a one left to tell our tale. F-forgotten. Gone. Like dewdrops. Snowflakes. Mere wisps

of s-smoke.” Bursting into tears, he clutched Akitada’s hand

and peered up at him blearily. “You’re a young man. Wh-what’s

your name?”

“I have no name,” Akitada said, hiding a smile.

“No name?” Sakamoto pondered this, then nodded wisely.

“M-much better not to have a name.” Stepping away from

Akitada, he flung his arms wide and recited, “ ‘Oh you, who now

have gone to dwell among the clouds, do you still call yourself

by the old name?’ ”

Akitada took hold of him firmly and managed to take him a

little way before Sakamoto stopped again.

“He died well, you know. A warrior’s death. But what good

is it now? S-so sad. All of life is a road towards death.” He nod-

ded to Akitada and recited in a tragic voice, “ ‘I, too, am already deeply entered on the pathway of the gods and wonder what lies

beyond.’ Do you think I shall find him there?”

“Find whom?”

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165

“Him. My true sovereign. Oh, never mind.” He clutched at

Akitada’s arm. “I’m sleepy. Take me home.”

Akitada shared the feeling. He was exhausted himself. For-

tunately, Sakamoto was no more trouble after that, and his

servant received him with the unsurprised expression of long-

suffering. Hardly glancing at the muddied figure of Akitada,

who wisely kept his face in the shadow, he supported his master

with one arm and fished a single copper coin from his sash.

Handing this to Akitada with a curt, “Thanks,” he slammed the

gate in his face.

So much for the promised silver, Akitada thought, adding

the copper to his small supply, then turned his steps toward

the inn.

But soon he stepped off the stony roadway and continued

on the grassy strip next to the ditch. In the silence, he now heard it clearly: someone else’s steps softly crunching on the gravel.

He thought that he had been trailed for quite a while. At first he

had paid no attention. Others had the same right as he to take a

stroll before bedtime. And when he had followed Sakamoto, he

had assumed another reveler was on his way home. But now, on

this quiet street leading to the lakeside villas, he knew someone

had been watching and following them, and had done so from

the time they left the Bamboo Grove.

The steps ceased abruptly. Either the other man had stopped

or, like Akitada, he was walking on the soft grass. Akitada

stepped back into the street and resumed his walk but increased

his speed. As soon as he reached the first houses of Minato, he

slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings and waited.

Nothing happened.

The other man was too wily. Well, he had time, and his

pursuer had two choices. He could either give up the pursuit and

go home, or he could come and investigate what had become

of Akitada. A long time passed. The great bell at the temple

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sounded again, its deep peal muffled in the mist. It was wet

where Akitada crouched; cold water dripped steadily down his

back from the roof of one of the houses. He moved a little, but

found more drips, and his legs began to cramp. Rising to his

feet, he decided to give up, when he heard the crunching of

gravel again.

The small man in the brown clothes walked past. He was

almost close enough to touch and scanned the houses opposite.

For a moment, Akitada was tempted to jump out and force

some answers from him, but he knew that the man would sim-

ply deny having followed him. The other’s face was not visible,

but Akitada knew he was the birdlike individual he had seen

earlier at the shrine. And now he noticed also that this man had

a very slight peculiarity in his gait. His right leg seemed stiffer than the left.

Keeping to the dark shadows of the houses, Akitada fol-

lowed silently, but eventually he lost him to the darkness.

Somewhat uneasy, he returned to the inn and let himself

quietly into the kitchen, where he took off his wet shirt and

pants and reassured himself that the flute was safe. Then he

slipped into the bedding, falling instantly into an exhausted

sleep.

C H A P T E R T E N

T H E P RO F E S S O R

The next day Osawa had a cold.

Akitada became aware of this when their hostess, surpris-

ingly rosy and handsome in a brightly colored cotton robe and

with her hair tied up neatly, shook him awake because she had

to start the fire and rush hot gruel and wine to Osawa’s room.

She seemed preoccupied, and he got up quickly, dressed in his

dry blue robe, put away his bedding, and laid the fire for her.

Then he went outside to get water from the well. The sky

had cleared overnight, and a fresh breeze blew from the ocean,

reminding him of the distance, in more than one sense, between

himself and his family. But he put aside the troubling thoughts;

the business at hand was the murder of the Second Prince.

Drawing the water and carrying the pail into the kitchen, he

pondered the ramblings of the drunken professor, but could

make nothing of them.

Having finished his chores, Akitada washed himself and

retied his topknot. His beard itched and he wished for a barber,

168

I . J . P a r k e r

but the facial hair was his best disguise in the unlikely case

that someone here knew him from the capital or from Echigo. It

occurred to him to check his saddlebag in the kitchen. His own