wove through Akitada’s memory.

He felt a moment’s panic. Was she someone who had known

him in another place and recognized him in spite of his beard?

Surely not.

The old lady in the gorgeous robes waved a painted fan at

him. Gold dust sparkled like stars on its delicate blue paper.

“Come, come!” she invited him impatiently. “Do not be shy. You

were never shy with me before.”

He felt completely out of his depth and glanced back at the

small bridge he had just crossed as if it had led him into an oth-

erworldly place, like the Tokutaro of the fairy tale who had

ended up among fox spirits.

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

137

The nun Ribata put down her flute and gave him an amused

smile.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, bowing to both women. “I

heard the music and came to meet the artist.”

“Silly man.” The old lady snickered coquettishly behind her

fan. “You thought it was I and hoped to find me alone. Come sit

beside me. Naka no Kimi won’t give old lovers away.”

Old lovers? And Naka no Kimi surely referred to an imperial

princess? It dawned on him that the old lady must be demented.

Akitada heaved a sigh of relief and walked up the steps of the

pavilion.

Ribata gestured toward the cushion beside her companion.

“Please be seated,” she said, her own voice as warm and resonant

as a temple bell. “Lady Saisho is the high constable’s grand-

mother. We are old friends.”

Whatever her official status, the Lady Saisho had survived

the harsh years of early exile to live in luxury again. But to what avail? Close up, she looked incredibly frail, withered, and wrinkled. He saw now that her skin was not abnormally white, but

that she had painted her face with white lead. Rouged lips and

soot-ringed eyes parodied former beauty, and heavy perfume

mingled with the sour smell of old age and rotting gums. Yet she

eyed Akitada flirtatiously and batted her eyes at him.

Feeling an overwhelming pity, he bowed deeply and said, “I

hope I see your ladyship in good spirits on this lovely evening.”

“Lovely indeed. A poem, Lord Yoriyoshi,” she cried gaily,

waving her fan with the studied grace of a court lady. “Make me

a poem about the evening so I can respond.”

“A poem?” Apparently she took him for a poet called

Yoriyoshi. Poetry was not one of Akitada’s skills. “Er,” he stam-

mered, looking to the nun for help.

“She lives in a happier past,” said Ribata softly. “Humor her,

please.”

138

I . J . P a r k e r

Hardly helpful. His eyes roamed around for inspiration and

fell on the bridge. The last of the sunlight was gone and the bril-

liant red of its balustrade had turned to a dull brown of with-

ered maple leaves. Akitada recited, “The evening sheds a lonely

light upon the bridge suspended between two arms of land.”

The old lady hissed behind her fan. “Prince Okisada could

have done better, even when his illness was upon him. However,

let me see.” She tapped her chin with the fan. “‘Evening,’ ‘lonely,’

‘suspended,’ ‘arms.’ ” She cackled triumphantly, and cried, in a

grating singsong, “Waiting, I cradle loneliness in my arms, hop-

ing you will cross the bridge.”

Akitada and Ribata applauded politely, their eyes on the

ridiculous old creature who simpered behind her fan and sent

inviting glances toward Akitada.

They were unaware that someone had joined them until

Kumo spoke.

“I think my honored grandmother must feel the chill of the

air. I have come to escort her back to her quarters.”

Akitada knelt quickly, his head bowed, hoping he had not

broken some rule, but Kumo took no notice of him. He went to

his grandmother and bent to lift her to her feet.

“No!” She scrambled back like a small, stubborn child. “I

don’t want to go. Lord Yoriyoshi and I are exchanging poems. His

are not as good as the prince’s, but . . .” She screwed up her face and began to cry. “The prince died,” she wailed. “All of my friends die. It’s your fault.” And she lashed out with a frail hand like a

bird’s claw and slapped her grandson’s face. He stepped back, his

expression grim, as she staggered to her feet and faced him with

glittering eyes. “I hate you,” she shrieked. “You are a monster! I

wish you would die, too.” Then she burst into violent tears and

the mask of the court beauty disintegrated into a grotesque min-

gling of black and white paint. Her thin frame shook in its volu-

minous, many-colored silks, and she began to sway alarmingly.

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

139

Both Ribata and Kumo went to her aid. “She is overtired,”

muttered Ribata, while he said, “I hate to see her like this.”

Lady Saisho clung to the nun, but her tears diminished, and

after a moment she allowed her grandson to lift her in his arms

and carry her away with tender care. The nun walked with them

a little ways, then returned.

Akitada had got to his feet. “What was she talking about?” he

asked, puzzled by Lady Saisho’s references to Prince Okisada.

Ribata sighed. “Old age may take away the mind, yet leave

the pain behind. She has seen much grief and many horrors in

her long life.”

He gave her a sharp look. “I have heard that, in spite of the

favor shown the high constable by the government in the capi-

tal, her grandson still bears a grudge for what happened three

generations ago.”

Ribata looked into the distance, her arms folded into her

wide sleeves, and murmured, “They are a proud family.”

Following her glance, Akitada said, “Look around you.” His

sweeping gesture encompassed the elegant garden with its

pavilion, shrine, lake, and lacquered bridge. “The Kumos have

not fared badly here. I see power, wealth, and luxury all about

me where I least expected it.”

She gazed silently at the scene. The last light was fading in the

sky and already the darkness of night seeped forth from the trees

and ground. Fireflies glimmered faintly. Only the lake still shim-

mered, reflecting, like a lady’s polished silver mirror, the dying

lavender of the sky. “You play the flute?” Ribata asked softly.

The question startled Akitada. “I used to, poorly, in an-

other life.”

She went back into the pavilion. Picking up her flute, she

offered it. “Come. Play for me.”

Ribata was a woman of extraordinary culture, one of the mys-

teries of this island, and part of him did not want to play, fearing 140

I . J . P a r k e r

her censure, even if it remained unspoken. But his desire over-

came his shyness. He took up the flute with a bow. They seated

themselves, and he put the mouthpiece to his lips and blew gently.

The sound the instrument produced was strong and very beau-

tiful. It told him that this flute was of extraordinary, perhaps

legendary quality. He looked at it in wonder. At first glance very

plain and ordinary, it consisted of a piece of bamboo with seven

holes and a mouthpiece—called a cicada because it resembled the

carapace of that insect—the whole wrapped in paper-thin cherry

bark of a lustrous deep red and then lacquered with the sap of the

sumac tree until its patina shimmered like layered gossamer.

The flute was old and must be very precious, a family heir-

loom. “What is its name?” he asked reverently.

“Plover’s Cry.”

“Ah.” He raised the flute to his lips again. The name was apt.

High, clear, and full of longing, the notes resembled the melan-

choly cry of the male bird on the seashore calling for its lost