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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I . J . P a r k e r

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!”

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

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.”

164

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?”

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

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