“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

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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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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

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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.