shock. “You want me to trouble the governor with this? You

think he likes me to bring him every robber, thief, and killer

we catch?”

“I did not rob, steal, or kill anyone,” Akitada began again,

but it was useless.

“Enough chatter!” snapped Wada. “Take him into those

woods over there. We’ll soon sort out what he’s done with the

body of this Osawa.”

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

231

It was getting out of hand. Once the sadistic Wada and his

thugs got him out of sight of passersby, it would be too late to

remonstrate. “Lieutenant,” Akitada said, drawing himself up as

much as he could under the circumstances. “You are making a

mistake. I am not a convict, but a government official. I demand

that you take me to Governor Mutobe this instant.”

Wada chuckled. “You’ve got to give it to him. He’s pretty

good,” he said to his men, who guffawed again. “All right. Let’s

show him some fun!” He marched ahead toward a cluster of

trees, and Akitada’s guards obliged with some well-placed kicks

to his lower back which sent him staggering after Wada.

Dear heaven, he thought, as he stumbled toward the woods,

let me get out of this alive and I’ll never be off my guard

again. He recalled vividly the battered face and body of little

Jisei. Staring at Wada’s swaggering back, he tried to think of

some way to talk himself out of this. Then he glanced at the

constable who held his chain, wondering about an evasive ac-

tion he could take to escape. At least his legs were not tied.

Maybe he could pull the chain out of his guard’s hand and run.

Wada had a bow and arrows. Still, it was worth a try if nothing

else offered.

“Lieutenant,” he called out, “if you will stop this nonsense,

I’ll explain before it is too late. There are matters you’re not

aware of, and they will be easy enough to verify.”

Wada did not stop.

They passed into the trees, and the constables moved in

more closely until they reached a clearing, and Akitada saw

their horses and a small pile of wooden cudgels near a tree.

Cudgels? The moment he realized they had been prepared for

him, he exploded into action. Kicking out at the constable

on his right, he flung himself forward, feeling the chain bite his

wrists and his arms jerking up under the strain. His shoulders

were almost wrenched from their sockets, but he pulled away

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I . J . P a r k e r

with all his strength, knowing that if he did not get free, much

worse awaited him.

And he almost made it. In the confused shouting and angry

cries, he felt the chain slacken and took off, twisting past one of the constables to loop back toward the road, dodging another

man, and thinking of Wada, who was probably placing an arrow

into the groove of his bow even then. He dodged again, a tree

this time, and then the chain caught on something, and he fell

forward, his face slamming into a tree root.

After that, he had no more chances. They took him back to

the clearing and lashed the chain around a large cedar. A cut he

had suffered in the fall was bleeding into his right eye, and his

left eye was swelling shut because the constable he had kicked

had returned the favor. But he glimpsed—and wished he had

not—the neat pile of sticks and cudgels and the constables arm-

ing themselves before they formed a circle around him. They

were going to have their fun.

His chain was loose enough to allow him some minimal

dodging. Wada stood off to the side, his face avid with antici-

pation.

“So,” he said, stroking his skimpy mustache with a finger.

“Let’s get started. Where is the body of the man you killed?”

Akitada saw no need to reply. He kept his eyes on the con-

stables.

“Very well,” said Wada, and the first man stepped forward

and swung.

Akitada dodged, and the end of the stick merely brushed his

hip. Not too bad, he thought.

Wada shook his head. “Go on. All of you. At this rate we’ll be

here till midnight.”

What followed was systematic and practiced. As one man

stepped forward and swung, Akitada dodged and was met by

the full force of the cudgel of the man at the other end. The

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

233

blows landed everywhere on his body, but for some reason they

avoided his head, which he could not in any case have protected.

The pain of each blow registered belatedly. The full sensation

was blocked by his concentration on dodging the next one, but

this did not last long. He had never been so totally at the mercy

of an enemy. The experience was simultaneously humbling and

infuriating. It became vital not to disgrace himself. In an effort

to distance himself from his pain, he thought of playing his

flute. Concentrating on a passage which always gave him

trouble, he played it in his mind, allowing his body to move by

instinct.

Time passed. Perhaps not much, perhaps a long time. Even-

tually one of the sticks broke, and once Akitada stumbled and

fell to his knees. He ducked in time, or the swinging cudgel

might have hit his head. Somehow he got back on his feet, and

once he even landed a kick to the groin of one of the men who

had strayed a bit too close. But he was quickly wearing out, and

his mental flute-playing disintegrated in hot flashes of agony.

Parts of him had gone numb. One arm was on fire with pain

that ran all the way from his shoulder to his hand. Then one of

the cudgels connected with his right knee, and he forgot the

other pains and his pride. He screamed and fell.

Mercifully they stopped then—though there was no mercy

about it, really. Wada walked over and kicked him in the ribs.

“Get up!”

“I can’t,” muttered Akitada through clenched teeth.

They jerked him upright. He screamed again as he put

weight on his injured knee and both knees buckled.

“Silence!”

Wada was listening toward the road. At a sign from him, his

men dropped Akitada. This time they left him lying there as

they walked away. Through waves of torment he heard someone

leaving on a horse but did not care.

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I . J . P a r k e r

The grass under Akitada’s face became sticky with the blood

from his cut and clung to his skin, but his mind was on his knee.

Compared with that even the multiple bruises on the rest of his

body, which had combined to form a solid robe of pain, paled.

He wondered if his knee was broken and tried to move his leg.

The effort was inconclusive. All feeling seemed to have left it.

He turned the ankle, and was successful this time, but feeling

returned with a vengeance, running all the way from the knee

down to his foot. He held his breath, waiting for the spasm

to pass.

As the agony in the knee ebbed away slowly, he checked

the damage to the rest of his body. His fingers moved, though

the skin on his wrists felt raw. Never mind! That was noth-

ing. His shoulders? Painful, but mobile. Ribs and back? He

attempted a stretch and managed it without suffering the

kinds of spasm a broken rib produces. The knee remained the

problem. He could not stand or walk, and that made eventual

flight impossible.

Having got that far, he considered Wada and his thugs. Were

they planning to kill him? Since they had brutalized him in this

manner, they would not let him live if they feared him. He

was glad now that he had not told Wada his name. As long as

the man believed he was an escaped convict, he had a chance.