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

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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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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.”