above the low-lying coast a larger compound of broad roofs

dominated the town. This was Mano, the provincial capital of

Sadoshima.

Having been fed a small amount of millet gruel to give him

enough strength to stand and walk, the prisoner was on his

feet, but the transfer to the rowboat and stepping on solid land

had proved a shameful affair punctuated by several falls and a

drunken stagger.

On shore, a reception committee of sorts awaited. Six rough-

looking constables, chains wrapped around their middles and

whips in their hands, stood behind a red-coated police officer in

his official black cap. The short, squat, sharp-faced man in his

forties with a scanty mustache and a stiff-legged stance received

the papers the captain passed to him and glanced through them.

He looked the swaying prisoner up and down before snapping,

“He looks disgusting. Is he sick?”

28

I . J . P a r k e r

Unimpressed by the officer’s manner, much less by his

high, nasal voice, the captain spat, crooked a finger over his

shoulder at the tattered sails, and said, “We got lost in a spell of bad weather. Spewed his guts out. He’ll be all right in a day

or so.”

Reassured that the human cargo suffered from nothing

worse, the officer addressed the prisoner next. “You are called

Yoshimine Taketsuna?”

The prisoner croaked, “Yes.”

Instantly one of the guards stepped forward and back-

handed him. He cried out in protest, staggered, and fell.

“On your knees!” snarled the guard, kicking him in the ribs.

His nose bleeding, the prisoner slowly knelt.

“You will address me as ‘sir’ and bow when you speak,”

snapped the police officer.

The prisoner staggered up, squaring his shoulders. He

looked at the officer’s cap rank insignia and said contemptu-

ously, “I have never bowed to mere lieutenants.”

Punishment was instant again. This time the guard used his

fists. The prisoner managed to turn his head just a fraction, but

he was struck on the side of his jaw and flung again into the dirt, this time too stunned to rise. His nose gushed blood, and more

blood trickled from between his lips.

The police lieutenant, his eyes cold, bent down to him.

“Your past rank, whatever it may have been, is immaterial here.

By imperial order you are to be imprisoned on this island for

the rest of your life. You are a nobody and will be assigned to

work details to earn your food and clothes. You are not to at-

tempt escape or rebellion on pain of death.” He paused, then

added, “We consider lack of respect, disobedience to orders,

lack of cooperation, and complaints as indicative of the rebel-

lious character of a prisoner. You have escaped lightly this time.”

He straightened up and snapped, “Take him away.”

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

29

Two of the guards took hold of the prisoner’s arms and

jerked him upright. Half walking, half being dragged, he was

taken from the dockside to a nearby stockade, where he was

pushed into the middle of a group of other wretches huddling

in the shadow of the wall. The heavy gates clanked shut, and

most of the guards withdrew to a small guardhouse, except for

the four or five on duty. These gathered in a shady corner near

the gates, their long bows propped against the palisade, and

chatted idly.

It was hot in the courtyard. The midday sun baked the

gravel, and the tall stockade blocked the breeze from the ocean.

The prisoners huddled miserably around a wooden bucket. For

a while no one said anything. The others looked at the new-

comer with mild interest.

Taketsuna lay motionless for a few moments. Then he spat

out a mouthful of blood. His eyes closed, he explored the inside

of his mouth with his tongue. Thankful that no teeth seemed to

be broken, he settled for a bitten tongue and split lip, opened his eyes, and struggled into a sitting position.

His eyes went slowly around, studying his fellow prisoners

one by one: three huge muscular men and one little shrimp of a

fellow, all as filthy and more ragged than he. Then he touched

his face and winced. The side where the guard had punched

him was swollen and tender to the touch, and his nose still

bled a little. He dabbed at it with a sleeve and swallowed more

blood.

The shrimp, who had bandaged knees and elbows, reached

for the water bucket and pushed it toward him. Taketsuna nod-

ded his thanks, dipped both hands into the warm water, and

drank deeply. He was about to dip in one of his full sleeves when

one of the other prisoners snatched the bucket away.

“Damn you,” he snarled, “for dirtying our drinking water

with your stinking rags.”

30

I . J . P a r k e r

“Sorry. I didn’t know.” The newcomer glanced across the

courtyard to the well. Another bucket hung ready to be lowered.

He staggered to his feet and started toward it.

“Hey,” cried the shrimp. “Don’t do that. They’ll shoot you.”

The prisoner stopped and glanced at the lounging gate

guards, who seemed engrossed in a dice game. He continued to

the well, when another “Hey!” louder than the first sounded be-

hind him. Ignoring it, he lowered the bucket, filled it, and

brought it up. There was a loud plonk, followed by a whirring

sound. It drew his eyes to the crossbeam supporting the bucket.

An arrow stuck deep in the wood, vibrating softly. The prisoner

set the bucket on the coping and began to splash the water over

his face, hair, and neck. Then he washed his hands, the bloody

sleeve, and the front of his robe.

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him

around. “Are you deaf?” the guard growled. “Washing is not al-

lowed. Walking around is not allowed. Talking, shouting, and

singing are not allowed. Get back with the others.” He gave the

prisoner a vicious shove. Taketsuna staggered, then returned

to his assigned spot, where he sat down and wrung out his

sleeve.

The others were whispering together. One of the big men

missed an eye. He said, “Don’t bother. He must be deaf. You saw

what happened.”

“I’m not deaf,” said the new prisoner.

They gaped at him. The man with the crippled leg asked,

“Then why did you go to the well? Jisei warned you. You’re lucky

the guard didn’t shoot you.”

“I wished to wash.”

Silence, as they looked at each other. “He wished to wash,”

said the cripple, and laughed.

“Aren’t you afraid to die?” the small man with the bandaged

knees and arms wanted to know.

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

31

“Very much. But I didn’t think they would shoot a man for

washing his face.”

“Hah!” muttered the one-eyed fellow. They all shared a bit-

ter laugh at the newcomer’s innocence. “What’s your name?”

the small man asked.

“Yoshimine Taketsuna.”

The shrimp’s eyes grew round. “Two names. A gentleman.

No wonder you act like you own the place. How come they sent

you here?”

“I killed someone.”

“Ah!” They looked at each other and nodded understanding.

Introductions followed. The small man with the bandages

was Jisei; he had just returned from a work detail digging tun-

nels deep into the earth and bringing out rocks. His knees and

elbows had become infected after a year’s crawling on all fours.

“I’ll be reassigned now,” he told Taketsuna importantly. “Maybe

I’ll even get to go home.” He looked away, across the top of the

stockade, a dreamy smile on his lined face.

Haseo, a huge burly man, spat. The others introduced him;