mats bound in fine silk covered the floor, and the built-in cabi-

nets along the wall were decorated with ink paintings of moun-

tain scenes. There was an altar on another wall, and against the

third a shelf with books and papers. A fine desk stood in front

of the fourth wall. Doors were open to a veranda overlooking

a picturesque ravine that plunged down to the central plain.

Beyond were the distant mountains of northern Sadoshima.

The peaks stood dark against the translucent sky, and the pale

moon hung above them like a large paper lantern. The view was

magnificent; the occupant of this quiet retreat surveyed the

world from godlike heights. Akitada reminded himself that it

was the room of a dead man.

Shunsei’s place in this luxurious retreat appeared to be con-

fined to his small prayer mat before the altar. As Akitada stood

gazing, the monk lit some candles there also. Suddenly glorious

colors sprang to life in a room which otherwise completely

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

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lacked them. Behind a small exquisite carving of the Buddha

hung a large mandala of Roshana, the Buddha of Absolute Wis-

dom. The painting’s dominant color was a deep and brilliant

vermilion, but there were contrasting areas of black and gold, as

well as touches of emerald, cobalt, white, and copper. The man-

dala shone and gleamed in the candlelight with an unearthly

beauty and was surely a treasure the temple would have been

proud to display in its Buddha Hall. But here it was, the private

object of worship of a prince and his lover.

The symbolic connection between the Buddha and Oki-

sada, once emperor-designate, was instantly clear to Akitada.

On the mandala, the Buddha occupied the very center and was

surrounded by concentric rings of petals of the lotus flower,

representing an enormous spiritual hierarchy; each petal con-

tained a figure, from the Buddha’s own representations to hun-

dreds of increasingly smaller saints, each representing multiple

worlds. The court had always perceived an analogy between this

Buddha and the emperor who, surrounded by his great minis-

ters, each in charge of his own department of lesser officials,

ruled the lives of the people down to the least significant per-

sons in the realm. When the emperor was a descendant of gods,

the religious hierarchy validated the secular one. Okisada had

certainly not lost his delusions of godlike majesty in exile.

But what of Shunsei? Apparently the young monk now

spent his days and nights in front of the mandala. Praying?

Grieving for his lover? Meditating in an effort to achieve

enlightenment? Or atoning for a mortal sin?

The monk stood, waiting passively, patiently, his eyes low-

ered and his hands folded in the sleeves of his black robe. Up

close, he was older than Akitada had at first thought. He must

be well into his thirties, no boy but a mature man. He also

looked frail and ill, as if the childish flesh had fallen away, the soft skin had lost its healthy glow, and the rounded contours of

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cheek and chin had disappeared to leave behind the finely

drawn features of total abstinence. Startlingly, the very large,

soft, and long-lashed eyes and the softly curving lips were still

there and powerfully sensual in the pale, thin face.

Shunsei raised those tender liquid eyes to Akitada’s. “Would

you like to sit down?” he asked in the same soft voice. “I have

only water to offer you.”

“Thank you. I need nothing.” Akitada seated himself on the

mat and gestured toward the mandala. “I have never seen a

more beautiful painting of Roshana,” he said.

“He sent for it when he built this hall. Now I pray to him.

Perhaps, someday soon, he will allow me to join him.”

Somehow this strange statement made sense. Shunsei’s

identification of the Buddha with the late prince might have

been the result of excessive grief, but Akitada suspected that

Okisada had planted the seed of worship in the young monk’s

mind a long time ago. For the first time he wondered about

Okisada’s physical appearance. He must have been old enough

to be Shunsei’s father. Of course, Shunsei himself looked decep-

tively young because of his small size and dainty shape. The

only imperial princes Akitada had met had been portly men of

undistinguished appearance. How, then, had Okisada attracted

such deep devotion in his lover unless it was through linking

physical lust to spiritual worship? The thought was disturbing,

and Akitada glanced away from those soft eyes and curving lips

to the Roshana Buddha.

“What do you wish to know?” the soft voice asked.

Akitada pulled his thoughts together. He had a murder to

solve and a conspiracy to prevent. “Tell me about him,” he

begged.

“Why?”

Akitada phrased his response carefully. “I have been sent

here. In the capital his death will raise questions. I have already I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

217

spoken to the high constable and Professor Sakamoto and I

have listened to Lord Taira and the prince’s physician, but still

some of the answers escape me.”

It was surprising how easily these half-truths came to his

tongue, and amazing how this simple monk accepted them

without question. He even smiled a little. “Yes, they all loved

him,” he said with a nod, “but not the same as I. We, he and I,

became as one when we were together. When he entered the

dark path, I wished to join him but couldn’t. Not then, but soon

now.” He nodded again and looked lovingly at the altar.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Yes. It is good that they should know in the capital. That his

family should know, and the whole world. You see, he knew the

great transformation was approaching. At first he thought it

was just an indisposition. He called his doctor in and took med-

icine, and when the pains got very bad he would come to me,

and I would chant as I rubbed his back and his aching belly.”

Akitada stared at Shunsei. He had a strange sense that the

floor beneath him had lost its solidity and there was nothing to

hold on to. “The prince was ill?” he asked.

“At first that was what we thought, he and I. I gave him

relief, he said, but now I know the great transformation had al-

ready begun. The pain came more and more often, until he

wished for release from this world. I thought my weak prayers

had failed, and lost my faith.” He hung his head and looked

down at his hands, which rested in his lap.

Dazedly Akitada followed his glance. Beautiful hands, he

thought, long-fingered and shapely, covered with the same

translucent skin as his face. Curled together, they lay passively

where once, no doubt, the dead lover’s hands had roamed,

where Shunsei and Okisada had found the center of their

universe together. The thought was disturbingly erotic, and

Akitada felt hot and ashamed. He shifted to look back at the

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I . J . P a r k e r

mandala. Death, religious ecstasy, and sexual arousal were

perhaps not far apart. The thought would be rejected as blas-

phemous by most, but here was at least one man who, in the

simplicity of his faith and because of repressed desires, had

equated physical lovemaking with spiritual worship. How

could you judge a man’s faith?

Was this the secret the others had wanted to hide at all cost?

That the prince had died from a severe and protracted illness?