the steps to the courtyard and passed on their way to their

horses.

Akitada breathed a sigh of relief. The constables had actually

looked pretty sharp, in spite of their lack of proper uniforms, a

matter he would remedy immediately. But Tora spoiled the

good impression he had made by shouting up to Akitada, “Well,

sir, are we going home at last?”

The short visitor, almost at the gate, froze in his tracks for a

moment before continuing.

“Report to my office, Tora,” snapped Akitada, and walked

back inside.

Time was when Tora had been a mere peasant and foot sol-

dier. Then he had fallen on even worse times and was hunted by

the authorities as a deserter and bandit. He owed his change

in fortunes to the day Akitada had offered to take him on as a

servant.

Tora had almost turned down the offer. In those days, he

had hated officials almost as much as the injustices his family

had suffered. But his master had been as intolerant of injustice

as Tora, and they had built a strong friendship, one in which

Tora expressed his opinions freely. They had saved each other’s

lives repeatedly and risen in each other’s esteem through

mutual tolerance of the other’s shortcomings, namely Tora’s

womanizing and Akitada’s rigidity about the law.

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

23

Now Tora ran after him, boots pounding on the wooden

planks and startling the clerks in the archives. “Well?” he de-

manded again.

“Why did you shout at me?”

“Because you were too far away.” Tora grinned with his

usual impudence.

Akitada sighed. Tora was incorrigible, but the fault was his.

He had treated him from the start more like a brother than a

servant. “I shall have to leave for a week or two,” he said. “There is some trouble in Sadoshima. The former crown prince was

murdered. I am to investigate the murder charge against the

governor’s son.”

Tora whistled. “The governor’s son? What’s the world com-

ing to? Shall I start packing my things?”

“No. I am going alone. You and Genba will look after things

here. I should be back in a week.”

Tora looked disappointed, but he accepted the decision,

especially when Akitada promised to pay his back wages before

he departed.

After Tora left, Akitada walked back to his residence. He

did not like to leave Tamako and his son but had no choice

in the matter. Even if he could have refused such an order,

doing so would have ended his career for good. On the other

hand, if he managed to solve the problem, he hoped the two

imperial secretaries would put in a good word for him in the

capital.

Seimei and Tamako were waiting anxiously. Their faces fell

when they saw him. Akitada hated to see the hope drain from

Tamako’s eyes.

“We are to stay here?” she asked.

“For the time being. I am to go to Sadoshima to investigate

a murder.”

24

I . J . P a r k e r

“That place?” she cried. “Where they send all the worst

criminals?”

“Don’t worry. I shall not be gone long, and perhaps some-

thing good may come of it.”

◆

But when the two noble visitors returned the following morn-

ing, his optimism vanished. They proposed an extraordinary

plan which struck Akitada as both dangerous and uncertain.

C H A P T E R T W O

T H E P R I S O N E R

The ship had been at sea for two days. Blown off course by a

sudden violent summer storm, it had become lost in the open

ocean shortly after departing from the coast south of Echigo.

The prisoner was in the back of the ship, unchained since

they had left land behind and there was no longer any risk of

escape. He lay against the side, as he had for days, suffering from the rough seas and the seasickness they brought.

When he had been taken on board, they had put him below

deck, into a tiny black hole. Later, when they were well out at

sea, one of the guards had taken off his shackles and left an oil

lamp which swung from the low ceiling, putting out little light

but a horrible stench. The small area had become hot and so

smoky it had been hard to breathe.

But the real misery started with the storm. He had woken

from a fitful sleep when the ship began to roll and plunge amid

horrendous noise. Outside, dull crashing and roaring sounds of

wind and water bore down on the small ship. The sail snapped

26

I . J . P a r k e r

loudly in the wind and sailors shouted urgent orders to each

other. The prisoner had worried about the creaking timbers,

which seemed hardly strong enough to withstand the combined

onslaught of wind and water. And he had thought of his family.

The stench of the oil lamp, its violent swinging back and

forth, the roll and pitch of the flimsy planks underneath him

had sickened him until he could not control the heaving in his

belly. By nature fastidious, he had crawled out of his hole

and up a short bamboo ladder to the pitching deck. Nobody

paid attention to him, and he had at first welcomed the icy spray

of water, the sharp tearing gusts of wind, until the pitching and

rolling of the ship had sent him slipping and scrabbling to the

side, where he had vomited into a heaving black sea.

The vomiting was unremitting from then on, keeping pace

with the storm, abating as the wind abated a little, but recom-

mencing with the next onslaught. He was conscious of little dif-

ference between day and night, though the pitch-blackness

which must have been the first night, did make way for a dense

dark gray world in which water and sky were of a uniform

murkiness. It was then that it had dawned on him that they

were lost. He swallowed neither food nor water for what seemed

like days, nor felt any desire for them, and in time he became

too weak and listless to raise himself enough to bring up the bile

from his stomach while leaning over the side.

So now he lay in his own filth, only half conscious and

soaked to the skin.

The ship was still soaring and pitching, the wind still

howled, and spray burst across the deck, but there was a sub-

tle change in the atmosphere. Frantic activity ceased, and it

became almost quiet. Somewhere someone prayed to Amida,

but he was giving thanks for being spared.

The prisoner had neither the strength nor the inclination to

give thanks. His journey to the island of exiles had already

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

27

proven horrible beyond his wildest imaginings, and he had lit-

tle expectation that what lay ahead would be much easier.

However, sea and weather calmed, the captain changed

course, and a brisk wind carried them finally to their destina-

tion. A call from the lookout came early the following morning,

just as the prisoner was drinking greedily from a flask of water

one of the guards offered. It was snatched back quickly, too

quickly, for never had water tasted so delicious. There was land

westward, and the sailors and guards all rushed to that side of

the boat, causing it to lean and the captain to curse them. The

prisoner raised himself and peered into a pearly dawn without

seeing anything. Below, the green sea slid past like translucent

gossamer in a lady’s train, and he leaned down to dip his hand

and sleeve into it and washed his face and beard.

Before noon they steered into Sawata Bay and crossed the

limpid waters under a clear summer sky toward a green shore

dotted with small brown roofs huddled about a temple. Slightly