Текст книги "Island of Exiles "

Автор книги: Ingrid J. Parker

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

tle Jisei had been released. Then he lay down and tried to catch

a few hours’ sleep before dawn.

◆

The guard reappeared early and took Akitada back to the tribu-

nal before he had a chance to eat his morning gruel. At this time

of day, the merchants were opening shutters, and the first farm-

ers were bringing their vegetables to market. Nobody paid

much attention to a guard with a chained prisoner.

In the government compound there were also signs of

life. The guard removed the chains, and Akitada looked about

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

51

curiously. Soldiers passed back and forth, a clerk or scribe

with papers and document boxes under his arm rushed be-

tween buildings, and a few civilian petitioners hung about in

deferential groups.

They crossed the graveled compound to a small building

with deep eaves. Its interior was cool and smelled pleasantly of

wood, paper, and ink. A gaunt man, bent from years of poring

over manuscripts, came toward them.

The shijo, or head scribe, was nearsighted and hard of hearing. He had the guard repeat the governor’s instructions.

“Good, good,” he finally said. “We’re very short-handed. Very

much so.” Peering up at Akitada, he said dubiously, “You are tall

for a scribe. How many characters do you know?”

“I’m afraid I never counted them.”

“Counting? There’s no counting required. You are to write.

Can you use the brush?”

Akitada raised his voice. “Yes. I studied Chinese as a boy and

young man. I believe you will be satisfied with my calligraphy.”

“Don’t shout. Hmph. We’ll see. They all brag. The fools

think copying work is easier than carrying rocks or digging tun-

nels. Never mind. I’ll know soon enough. Soon enough, yes.

What’s your name?”

“Yoshimine Taketsuna.”

“What? Which is it?”

Raising his voice again, Akitada repeated the double name,

adding that the first was his family name.

The old man stared at him. “If you’re one of the ‘good

people,’ where are your servants? Yes, where are your servants,

eh? And why were you sent to me? Only common criminals

work.”

“I killed a man,” shouted Akitada.

The shijo jumped back, suddenly pale. “I hope you don’t

have a violent disposition.”

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I . J . P a r k e r

Akitada lowered his voice a little. “Not at all, sir. It was a per-

sonal matter, a matter of loyalty.”

“Oh. Loyalty.” The other man seemed only partly reassured

but said, “I’m called Yutaka and you will be plain Taketsuna

here. Come along, Taketsuna.”

Sado’s provincial archives were neat and orderly. Akitada

looked about with interest. Rows of shelves with document

boxes divided the open interior of the hall into convenient

smaller spaces. In each was a low table for making entries or

searching through records. There were altogether six of these

work areas, but only two were occupied by clerks copying doc-

uments. The largest space was Yutaka’s own, and he took his

new clerk there.

“Sit down,” he said, peering up at one of the shelves. He

stretched for a document box, and Akitada jumped up again to

get it down for him. “Hmm,” muttered the old man. “You’ll be

useful for something, at any rate. Yes, useful.”

Akitada suppressed a smile and sat down again. Yutaka

opened the box and extracted a thin roll of paper. This he

unrolled partially before Akitada. Then he moved a sheet of

clean paper, brushes, water, and an inkstone toward him. “Can

you read this?” he asked, pointing to the document.

The document began with the usual formalities, and

Akitada quickly ran his eye over these, unrolling it further to get to the text. “It appears to be a report on the flooding of Lake

Kamo and the damage done to rice fields there.”

“Harrumph,” grunted Yutaka and poked a thin, bent finger

at one of the characters. “What’s that?”

Suppressing another smile, Akitada pronounced the charac-

ter in Chinese.

“What? Oh, well. I suppose that one’s too hard. It signifies

‘forced labor.’ The high constable is requesting His Excellency to

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53

supply him with more prisoners to help dam the lake waters.

Let’s see you write that character.”

Akitada poured a little water into the ink dish and rubbed

the ink stone in it. When the ink was the proper thickness, he

selected a brush, dipped it, and with a flourish wrote the char-

acter on the paper.

“Too big! Too big!” cried Yutaka. “You wasted the whole

sheet. Make it very small.”

Akitada selected another brush and wrote it again on an un-

used corner, this time as small as he could.

Yutaka picked up the paper and brought it close to his eyes.

Without comment, he laid it down. “Come with me,” he said

and took Akitada to meet the other two clerks, neither of whom

was a prisoner and therefore regarded the new clerk with dis-

dain. Yutaka assigned Akitada to one of the empty desks, with

instructions to copy a set of tax accounts from one of the dis-

tricts. For the rest of the day, as Akitada labored, he appeared on silent feet, peered over the prisoner’s shoulder, muttered, “Harrumph,” and disappeared again.

Akitada made good progress, but after several hours the un-

accustomed work caused his back to ache and his wrist to

cramp. His stomach growled. After more time passed, his feet

had gone to sleep, and his belly ached with hunger. Apparently

he was not entitled to a midday rice break.

Or rice, either. That was reserved for better people. Near

sunset, a gong sounded somewhere in the compound. Akitada

heard his fellow scribes rustling papers and shuffling off rap-

idly. He continued until he had finished the final page of a doc-

ument he was working on and stretched. Suddenly Yutaka

appeared.

“You didn’t hear the gong,” he said accusingly.

“I heard it. Why?”

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I . J . P a r k e r

“Time for the prisoners’ evening meal.”

Akitada said, “Oh.” He started to wash out his brush.

“Never mind,” said Yutaka irritably. “Give it to me and run,

or you’ll be too late. Masako doesn’t tolerate stragglers. No.

Doesn’t tolerate them at all.”

“Run where?” asked Akitada, rising.

“The jail. Where else?” Yutaka pointed vaguely. “I think

you’ll be too late,” he added glumly.

Akitada bowed. “Thank you. I look forward to seeing you

tomorrow.”

When he found the jail, or more precisely the jail kitchen, it

was empty except for a very shapely young maid who was stack-

ing dirty bowls into a basket.

“I was told that the prisoners eat somewhere around here,”

said Akitada.

She swung around, and he saw that she was very pretty, with a

round face and sparkling eyes. At the moment they sparkled with

anger. “Well, you’re too late,” she snapped. “The gong sounded an

hour ago.” A threadbare cotton robe, much too big and too short

for her, was firmly tied around her small waist, its sleeves rolled up to reveal work-reddened hands and arms, and her hair was

pinned up under a kerchief. Surprisingly, the skirts of a pale blue silk gown peeked forth underneath the rough covering.

“I didn’t know. I am new,” he offered hopefully, staring at

the silken hem.

She relented a little. “The fire’s out. You’ll have to eat the

soup cold.”

He smiled at her with relief. “I don’t mind.” Her speech was

more refined than he had expected in a kitchen maid, and his

eyes went again to the pale silk hem. As she moved, a dainty

bare foot, dirty but white and slender, appeared for a moment.

She scooped something from a large iron kettle into a

bowl and handed it to him. Whatever it was, it looked and

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

55

smelled unappetizing—some kind of millet mush with a few

wilted greens. Akitada held the dripping bowl gingerly away

from his clothes and looked about for a place to sit. Finding

none, he leaned against the kitchen wall and raised the bowl

to his lips. But the mush had thickened, and he had trouble

drinking it.

“Would you happen to have some chopsticks?” he asked the

girl, who was sweeping the floor in a haphazard fashion.

She stopped and stared at him. “Chopsticks? For a prisoner?”

“A little joke.” He chuckled. “I suppose there’s not much

hope in asking for wine, so maybe I’d better settle for water,

right?”

“Right!” She pointed to a large bucket in the corner.

He did not dare ask for a cup. Instead he used the dipper to

pour some water into his food, stirred it with his finger, and

then drank it down in several hungry gulps. It had little taste,

but he gladly accepted the refill she offered. This, too, he mixed

with water, and when he was done, he poured more water in the

bowl, took it outside to rinse it, and refilled it to drink.

The girl had watched him surreptitiously. When he returned

the bowl to her with a bow and a smile, he said, “Thank you. My

name is Taketsuna. You’re very kind. And very pretty. May I ask

your name?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m Masako,” she snapped. “And my

father’s the superintendent, so you’d better watch yourself.”

He was so astonished, he was speechless. The superinten-

dent of a provincial jail, though of low rank, was still an official.

How could such a man allow his daughter to work in the

prison’s kitchen? It occurred to him that she might be the result

of an affair with a native woman, and he said, “Certainly. I’m to

report to him. Can you show me the way?”

“You’ll have to wait. I have to finish cleaning up first.” She

put his bowl into the basket and bent to pick it up.

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I . J . P a r k e r

“Allow me to carry that for you. Perhaps I could help you

wash up?”

She regarded his tall figure thoughtfully for a moment. Her

lip twitched. “All right. You can do with a wash yourself. Come

along, then, Taketsuna.”

He followed her across the courtyard to the well and hauled

buckets of water, while she washed the bowls and restacked

them in the basket. “Now take off your robe,” she told him. “You

won’t get a bath tonight, so you’d better wash here.”

He glanced around. The courtyard was empty, so he obeyed,

draping his stained gown carefully over the rim of the well while

he stood in his loincloth, sluicing himself down with the cold

well water, uncomfortably aware of her eyes on his body. When

he reached for his robe, she snatched it away. “It’s filthy. I’ll wash it for you later. Get the basket and come with me.”

“B-but,” he stammered, looking down at his wet self, “I can’t

go like this. I have nothing to wear.”

She was walking away. “Nonsense. Nobody cares what a

prisoner wears,” she snapped over her shoulder.

He picked up the basket and followed. The guards outside

the gate threw it open as they passed, and two constables ap-

peared, carrying a litter between them. Behind them waddled

Ogata, the fat physician.

Masako stopped, and Akitada quickly hid behind her,

clutching the basket to his body.

As the litter passed, he saw that the slight shape on it was

hidden under a woven grass cover. A dead child? He recalled

that Ogata was also the local coroner. The child’s death must

have been suspicious, or Ogata would hardly take this kind of

interest in the corpse.

For once Ogata’s eyes were alert and sharp. He recognized

the prisoner instantly and halted, letting his eyes move from the

girl to Akitada and back again. “Are you keeping company with

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57

half-naked men now, Masako?” he drawled. “In broad daylight,

too. Must have a talk with your father.”

Akitada saw the color rise in Masako’s pale neck. “If you go

worrying Father, Uncle,” she cried, raising a clenched fist,

“I’ll . . .”

“Oho! Is that the way the wind blows? A secret affair.” Ogata

raised his brows comically.

Masako dropped Akitada’s robe and picked up her skirts to

rush at Ogata. The doctor held her away easily, laughing while

she shouted at him.

The constables stopped and put down their litter to watch.

They, too, began to laugh, looking from the half-naked Akitada

to the angry girl. Guards peered in at the gate and people came

from buildings to stare.

Akitada put down the basket and snatched up his robe. Slip-

ping it on, he joined the doctor and the girl. “Is a suspicious

death an occasion for mirth on Sadoshima?” he asked.

Masako dropped her arms, looked at the stretcher, and

stepped away from Ogata, who continued to chuckle helplessly.

After a moment the doctor choked back another peal and

wiped his face. “Sorry,” he gasped, looking mildly shamefaced.

“The sight of you with our lovely Masako here drove this other

matter from my mind for a moment. Masako’s my goddaughter,

by the way, which accounts for my teasing her.” His eyes nar-

rowed speculatively. “As a man like you knows how to use a

brush, come along. I’m to do a postmortem on this man. You

can take notes.” With a wave of the hand, he set the constables

and their litter in motion and they moved off.

Akitada looked at Masako and the basket.

“Never mind,” she said crossly, still rosy with embarrass-

ment. “You go along. I can manage. Come to the house when

you’re done.” She pointed out a modest building which huddled

under some trees behind a bamboo fence.

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I . J . P a r k e r

Akitada followed the litter into another low building not far

from the kitchen. It contained only a long table, raised to waist

height, a low desk with writing implements and paper, and sev-

eral rough shelves with lanterns, oil lamps, and assorted med-

ical instruments.

Ogata directed the constables to place the body on the table,

and then to light the lanterns. He placed these himself so that

the still-covered body was brightly illuminated. When all was

arranged to his satisfaction, he turned to Akitada.

“Squeamish?” he asked.

“I’ve seen death before.”

“This man you know,” said Ogata and whipped aside the

cover.

The corpse was nude and very small. Yellowish gray in

death, his ribs and bones unnaturally prominent, his face con-

torted as if in pain, and his eyes mere slits, he lay childlike on

his side with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped about

his belly. The only wounds apparent were on both knees and

elbows. It was little Jisei, the prisoner.

Akitada stifled an exclamation. “What happened?” he asked,

stepping closer. “He was well yesterday. He said the ointment you

had me apply eased the inflammation in his wounds. He looked

forward to being released. How could he have died so quickly?”

“Not sure. That’s why we’re here.” Ogata told the constables

to turn the body on its back and straighten the limbs. When one

of them was careless and broke an arm, he snarled at the man,

“I’ll make sure to deal roughly with your carcass when your

time comes. Which may be sooner than you think.” The consta-

ble blanched.

There were faint marks on the poor thin body in addition to

the gruesome wounds on his knees and arms. Ogata said, “He

got those crawling in and out of badger holes. When a pris-

oner’s as small as this one, that’s the work they make him do.”

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59

“Badger holes? Why?”

“Mines. There’s silver in the mountains. The men tunnel in

and bring it out. It’s grueling work. But that’s not what killed him.”

He began to study every inch of the naked body, taking spe-

cial note of the sunken area just below the rib cage, ordering

the constables to turn Jisei on his stomach and then back again.

He pursed his lips and next gave his attention to the skull, feeling all over it carefully. Lifting the lids, he peered at Jisei’s eyes.

Finally, he pried open the dead man’s mouth with a thin ivory

implement. When he straightened up, his face was filled with

angry disgust. The sudden movement caused the flames in the

lanterns to flicker, and for a moment it seemed as though Jisei

smiled.

“What is it?” asked Akitada. But Ogata did not answer. He

stared at the dead man, then looked at the constables. “You can

go,” he said harshly. “It seems to be a natural death after all.”

They trooped out.

Akitada stepped forward and bent to peer at Jisei’s mouth. It

was filled with blood. He straightened. “I think this man has

been tortured,” he said flatly. “I don’t know how, but he’s bitten

through his tongue.”

Ogata was still angry. “No. He was beaten to death. Hit in

the stomach where the marks don’t show. He may have bitten

his tongue also, but he would have died from the ruptured or-

gans inside. The fools thought I wouldn’t notice.” Suddenly he

looked old and defeated. Pulling the mat back over the pathetic

corpse, he muttered, “Not that it makes any difference. Let’s go.”

Akitada said, “But the man was murdered.”

“It will be reported as a fight between prisoners.”

“A fight? This man would never fight. Look at him.”

Ogata laid a finger on his lips. “Ssh. You know it and I

know it, but knowledge can kill. Forget it and watch your step,

young man.”

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I . J . P a r k e r

“You mean you won’t do anything about this?” Akitada was

outraged. “How can you allow the murder of a human being to

go unpunished?”

Ogata sighed. Blowing out the flame in one of the lanterns,

he said sadly, “Here a human being is nothing but a candle in

the wind. Remember it well, Taketsuna.”

C H A P T E R F O U R

T H E N U N

Akitada’s awakening was much more pleasant than the previ-

ous ones. He woke to the chatter of birds and the brightness of

sunshine outside the shutters of a small, neat room, comfort-

able in soft bedding and aware of the good smell of food.

For just a moment, he imagined himself home, but instantly

the ugly image of the emaciated and abused body of the

prisoner Jisei superimposed itself on his fantasy. He sat up.

Where he had dropped his own filthy robe the night before

lay, neatly folded, a new blue cotton robe and a white loincloth.

He unfolded the clothes in wonder, then looked about for his

own things. They were gone, and he was seized by a sudden fear

for his documents. Day by day, events proved his undertaking

more foolhardy and impossible. It should have occurred to him

that his clothes might get lost or stolen.

Dressing quickly in the new robe, he pushed back the shut-

ter. Outside was a vegetable plot, its plantings of radish, cab-

bage, onions, and melons stretching higgledy-piggedly in all

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I . J . P a r k e r

directions. The sun was fully up; he would be late for his duties

in the archives. This puzzled him as much as the new clothes.

Someone should have come for him—some guard with a whip

for the lazy prisoner.

Stepping down into the garden, he looked around. Never

mind the mouthwatering smells and the gnawing emptiness in

his stomach. He must find out what happened to his clothes

and then run across to the archives where Yutaka, no doubt, had

already raised an alarm.

He turned the corner of the house quickly and halted in dis-

may before a private family scene. On a small veranda sat a

balding man with pendulous cheeks and a small paunch, his

host, no doubt. To judge by the sloping shoulders and downcast

expression, the superintendent was in very low spirits. Across

from him knelt Masako. She wore her blue silk gown today, and

her shining hair hung loose. The difference from the girl in the

prison kitchen was startling. She looked charming and entirely

ladylike as she urged her father to sample a dish she was filling

from several bowls on a small tray.

Akitada attempted to withdraw, but a scraping of the gravel

beneath his feet caused both to turn their heads simultaneously.

Akitada bowed, thought better of it, and knelt instead, bending

his head to the ground.

“Ah,” said the superintendent. “Is that our guest, daughter?

Good morning to you, sir. Please join us.”

Akitada sat back on his heels and looked at the superinten-

dent in astonishment, wondering if whatever weighed on the

man’s mind had unbalanced his reason. “Good morning, sir,” he

said. “Please forgive the intrusion. I lost my way. I am not a

guest, only a prisoner. Having overslept, I was on my way to the

archives to report for work.”

Masako now said very pleasantly, “Please take some gruel

first.”

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

63

He stood up slowly, not understanding. “Thank you, but

there is no time. Allow me to express my thanks for your hospi-

tality and for lending me these new clothes.”

The superintendent cleared his throat and looked at his

daughter. “Er, don’t mention it,” he said. “Please accept our

food, such as it is. It’s only some millet gruel and fruit from the plum tree in the backyard. But my daughter is a fine cook as

well as a good judge of men.”

“It would not be proper. I’m a prisoner, sir,” Akitada

protested and became suspicious about his lost papers.

The superintendent waved the objection away. “Masako says

that you are of good background. Whatever brought you here

was, no doubt, due to some careless association, or even per-

haps a noble act. These are politically troubled times, and many

a good man is deprived of home, office, income, and happi-

ness.” He gave his daughter a sad nod.

Akitada was faced with a dilemma. He looked at Masako,

who kept her eyes lowered, blushing modestly. This certainly

was not the fiery, sharp-tongued girl he had met in the prison

kitchen. “I am deeply honored by the young lady’s good opin-

ion,” he said, “but I was sent here because I murdered a man.

Under the circumstances, I fear that both you and I will suffer if

I accept your generosity. And I am already late for work.”

Masako now said softly, “Please do not worry. You need not

report to Yutaka until later today. Come, there is plenty for both

of you. Father’s appetite has been poor lately.”

Bemused, Akitada obeyed and took his place on the ve-

randa, accepting a bowl of millet gruel, and feeling uneasy

about this change of attitude. The success of his assignment

depended on his being taken for an exile and a dangerous indi-

vidual. He tried to think of a way to introduce the subject of his

missing clothes, but Masako spoke first.

“Were you of some use to the doctor last night?”

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I . J . P a r k e r

He suppressed a grimace. “There was little enough to do and

no postmortem. The doctor seemed to think the prisoner died

as a result of a fight.” He stared unhappily at the gruel his host-

ess had passed to him.

“I am sorry it is only millet,” she said.

“Oh, the gruel? No, no. It’s delicious,” he said. “No. It’s the

dead man. I knew him, you see. He was kind to me when I first

arrived.”

“Ah,” she murmured. “I am very sorry the man died, but life

is hard for the prisoners here.” She shivered a little.

Akitada set the gruel down half eaten. There seemed to be

different rules for different men. He was sitting here, at his ease and in the company of a gentleman of rank and his charming

daughter, taking his morning gruel in new clothes, after spend-

ing a night in fine bedding in a room of his own. And only one

night ago he had slept under the open sky along with the crip-

pled wretches who were beaten regularly by cruel men and suf-

fered from the festering wounds they got by crawling in and out

of mine tunnels. Was this justice? He said angrily, “The prison-

ers are abused until they die, and the authorities permit this, if

they don’t actively encourage it.”

There was a brief silence in which father and daughter

looked at each other. Then the superintendent said, “You speak

very frankly but not wisely. In this house you are safe, but not so elsewhere. As you may spend the rest of your life on this island,

you can hardly wish to make it a life of torment and suffering.”

This was said in a tone of sad finality, and Akitada recalled

himself. “Of course not,” he said humbly. “I was merely struck

by the contrast between my condition and theirs.”

Yamada nodded and fell into another bout of melancholy.

Akitada looked at the daughter. “I wondered what had be-

come of my clothes,” he said, giving up any effort at diplomacy.

“Oh. I mean to clean them. You’ll have them back tonight.”

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

65

Relief made him smile. “Thank you, but there is no need. If

I may borrow a brush, I can do it myself.”

“Very well.”

Picking up his bowl, Akitada finished his gruel quickly, then

rose to bid father and daughter goodbye.

“Yes, ah,” said Yamada vaguely without raising his head,

“delightful to meet you, young man.”

“Father,” said Masako sharply. “Remember the governor’s

message!”

“Ah,” said the superintendent after a moment’s puzzlement,

“yes, of course. How silly of me to forget! I shall need your skills for an hour or so. You see, I have no clerk, and a prisoner is to

be questioned again. It is quite beyond Masako, who has other

duties anyway, I’m afraid. So will you take notes?”

“I’ll gladly do whatever you require of me, but is it permitted?”

“Oh, yes. The governor himself said so.”

So Mutobe had wasted no time to have him hear about the

murder from his son’s lips. And that also explained his accom-

modations. Akitada suppressed his excitement and bowed

again. “I’m quite ready to accompany you, sir.”

As they walked across the courtyard toward the low building

that served as jail, the superintendent muttered, “It’s so difficult.

One doesn’t know how to behave.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Akitada catching up a bit.

“Young Mutobe. As assistant to the governor he was my su-

perior, but now . . . well, he’s a prisoner charged with a capital crime. A crime against the imperial family.” He sighed heavily.

“I’m fond of that young man. He and my daughter grew up to-

gether, and I had hopes . . . but never mind.”

Akitada said, “That is difficult.” He was beginning to like

Yamada. His moral sense was stronger than his self-interest. But

why did such a man force his daughter to perform the most

menial tasks for depraved criminals?

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When they stepped into the small jail building, they startled

two drowsy guards, who sprang to attention. The guardroom was

bare except for an old desk and a small shelf of papers, but its walls were liberally decorated with whips, chains, and other devices

meant to put obstinate prisoners in the proper frame of mind.

“We’re here to see young Mutobe,” announced the superin-

tendent.

“He’s got his usual visitor with him,” said one of the guards.

He reached for a lantern and led the way down a narrow, dark

hallway.

Yamada followed without comment, and Akitada trailed

behind. Apparently the visitor had raised no eyebrows. Akitada

wondered if the governor was with his son.

Most of the cells appeared to be empty. Prisoners from the

mainland were put to hard labor upon arrival. Mutobe Toshito’s

cell was toward the back. To Akitada’s surprise, the sound of a

woman’s voice came from it.

There was little light in the cell. A pale glimmer of sunshine

fell through a single small window so thickly barred that it

seemed the bottom of a basket. In the murky gloom, Akitada

made out two seated figures. One was that of a young man of

middle size, dressed in a pale silk robe; the other was an elderly

nun in white hemp robe and veil.

At their entrance, the nun rose awkwardly with the assis-

tance of the young man, and turned to face them. As the guard

raised his lantern, Akitada saw a thin figure with a narrow face

that was darkened by sun and weather and dominated by enor-

mous eyes like pools of ink. She looked frail, like a sliver of discarded wood, as if exposure and illness had destroyed a former

great beauty by consuming what once gave it life.

“Madam.” The superintendent bowed deeply. “Your visit

honors this dismal place. You bring spiritual riches to those who

have nothing else left in this life.”

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

67

She shuddered at his words. “Let us hope for a better

outcome in this instance, Yamada, but thank you. I shall

leave now.” Her voice was beautiful, and the elegance of her dic-

tion reminded the startled Akitada of the faraway court at

Heian-kyo.

Turning back to the prisoner, she said, “Do not forget what

I told you.” Then she slipped past them so gently that she

seemed no more than a wraith on a breath of air.

Akitada stared after her. “Who was that?” he burst out, for-

getting for a moment his own position.

Fortunately, Yamada was preoccupied. He was greeting

the prisoner with a friendly courtesy which the young man

seemed to return. Over his shoulder, Yamada said, “They call

her Ribata. She’s a hermit nun who lives on a mountain not far

from here. Sometimes she visits prisoners in need of spiritual

counsel.”

The guard added helpfully, “She’s been visiting him

every day.”

The young man with the pale, intelligent face smiled bit-

terly. “I suppose that means my case is desperate. We pray

together. She is very holy.” His tone was casual, but Akitada did

not quite believe it. Mutobe Toshito glanced at him and asked,

“Who is that with you, Yamada?”

“His name is Taketsuna, a new prisoner. He’s here to

take notes.” Pulling a sheaf of papers from his sleeve, Yamada

said apologetically, “I am to ask you some more questions. The

answers are needed to prepare your case.”

“You mean, the case against me,” the prisoner corrected him.

Yamada fidgeted uneasily. “Let us sit down,” he said, seating

himself on the dirt floor. When the young man reluctantly sat,

he added soothingly, “You mustn’t be so downcast. Your father

will speak for you, as will many others.” But he did not sound as

if he believed it, and the prisoner gave a harsh laugh.

68

I . J . P a r k e r

“The governor is no longer my father. How could he be,

when I have been charged with such a hideous crime?”

“Now, now,” mumbled Yamada again. “Sit down, sit down,”

he told Akitada, then turned to the guard. “Paper and ink for the

clerk.”

An uncomfortable silence fell as they waited. After a mo-

ment, Toshito addressed Akitada. “I would bid you welcome,

but this prison and the island are a special kind of hell for

people like you and me. So you have my pity instead. What did

you do to have been sent here?”

Akitada glanced at Yamada for permission to answer, but

the superintendent was again lost in his own thoughts, his chin

sunk into his chest. “I killed a political enemy,” he said.

“Really? Much the same crime of which I stand accused.

With, of course, the major difference that I’m supposed to have

murdered an imperial prince and will not live to see exile.”

Akitada could not think of an appropriate response, so

merely murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Another silence fell, and then the guard reappeared to hand

Akitada a lap desk, paper, and writing utensils. Akitada rubbed

the ink, then glanced at Yamada, who still brooded. “Ready, sir.”