apparently he rarely spoke himself and appeared to take little

interest in the conversation. They only knew his name and

imagined that he, too, must be a convicted killer. Haseo did not

correct them.

They passed the long hot afternoon in desultory conversa-

tion interspersed with naps.

The two big fellows, one crippled with a badly set leg, the

other one-eyed, were pirates, Kumaso and Yoshi. They passed

the time telling of adventure at sea, of stolen treasure, mon-

sters of the deep, and apparitions of floating fairies. According to Jisei, they also had an uncanny talent for predicting the weather.

Jisei, the shrimp, had been on Sadoshima longest, having

been sent here for stealing a golden scepter from the hand of a

temple statue.

32

I . J . P a r k e r

All of them awaited reassignment, though none was as opti-

mistic as Jisei. They expected to be put to work building roads,

digging irrigation canals, building stockades, or repairing pub-

lic buildings.

Taketsuna wanted to ask about Jisei’s strange tunneling

when shouts sounded outside the gate. The guards rushed

to throw open both sides of the double gate and stood to

attention. A contingent of uniformed runners entered at a

trot, carrying the banner of the governor of Sado. His Excel-

lency followed on a fine horse, and more runners brought up

the rear. “Make room for the governor!” shouted the frontrun-

ners in unison, and the prisoners immediately prostrated

themselves.

All but one, that is. Taketsuna wanted a good look at the

man who ruled this island in the emperor’s name. The governor

was an elderly man with a clean-shaven, intelligent face and

eyes which roamed around the yard until they found the pris-

oners. For a moment he locked eyes with Taketsuna, then the

new prisoner quickly prostrated himself with the rest. He had

seen the expression on the other man’s face and wondered if he

looked worse than he felt.

The governor’s visit was short and did not seem to concern

the prisoners. The great man and his escort left after only the

briefest stop in the guardhouse.

This was not the only excitement of the day, for an hour

later there was another shout outside the gate. This time the

guards were in no rush to admit the visitor. They exchanged

some unintelligible words with someone outside and finally

cracked the gate grudgingly to admit a fat man in the black robe

of a minor official. He was followed by a ragged youngster with

a bamboo case.

The fat man also cast a glance toward the prisoners and then

waddled to the guardhouse.

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

33

“That’s the doctor,” Jisei informed Taketsuna. “Hope he

looks at my knees. They been getting worse. What do you

think?” Jisei lifted one of the stained rags around his knees.

Taketsuna looked and averted his eyes. A huge area of swollen,

dirt-encrusted flesh, ringed by angry purplish red skin, oozed a

bloody liquid and yellow pus. If Jisei did not get some medical

attention soon, he would get a fever and die from the infection.

Moments later, one of the guards emerged from the guard-

house and strode briskly toward the prisoners. Jisei scrambled

to his feet.

But the guard’s eye was on Taketsuna. “You,” he barked. “Get

up. You’re to see the doctor.”

Taketsuna rose and followed him into the building, past

disinterested guards, and into the far corner of the open space,

where two screens of woven bamboo had been set up to

create some privacy. The arrangement astonished the prisoner,

but he was grateful for it. His present condition was still so novel that he found it difficult to put aside past habits of modesty.

The doctor proved, on closer inspection, less confidence-

inspiring. The black gown was covered with stains, his finger-

nails were dirt-rimmed, and his eyes bleary and bloodshot.

“Harrumph,” said the doctor. “I’m Ogata, physician and

medical officer for the prisoners. Was told to have a look at you.

You’re Taketsuna? No family names here, I’m afraid. Strictly for-

bidden. You don’t look too good. What happened?”

“I’m all right. We ran into a storm coming over, and I’m not

used to sailing. But there’s a man outside whose wounds have

become infected.”

The doctor nodded, then stepped closer to peer at Taket-

suna’s face. A strong smell of sour breath and wine assailed the

prisoner’s nose and made him flinch.

“Hmm. I suppose the welcoming committee issued its usual

warning,” the physician said, probing Taketsuna’s cheekbone

34

I . J . P a r k e r

and jaw with surprisingly gentle fingers. “Open your mouth.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Eating will be a bit

painful for a while, but you should get over that.”

Taketsuna smiled a little, painfully. “So far there has been

no food. Only water. I could eat raw greens at this point.” He

wondered if the physician had heard his comment about little

Jisei.

The physician cocked his head. “When did they feed you

last?”

“A bowl of gruel on the ship after the storm. It was all the

food I’ve had in three days. I was seasick.”

“No wonder you’re swaying on your feet. Never mind. You’ll

get fed. And, as soon as I’ve checked the rest of you, you can sit

down. Take off those filthy rags.”

The prisoner glanced at the doctor’s stained gown and

smiled again, but he complied without protest.

“Heavens,” muttered the physician, stepping back and walk-

ing around the patient. “You’ve got muscles. Ever do any

wrestling?”

“Just for exercise.”

“They’ll put you to hard labor if they see that. You’d bet-

ter keep your clothes on at all times and slouch a bit when

you walk.”

“What sort of labor?”

The physician was feeling the bruised ribs. “Roads. Dikes.

Mines. Lifting and carrying rocks. Not healthy unless you’re

used to it.” He moved around to the prisoner’s back and pressed

near the lower spine. “Does this hurt?”

The prisoner shook his head, and the physician came

around to face him again, prodding about the abdomen, asking

about pain. Again the prisoner shook his head.

“You can get dressed now,” the doctor said, digging about in

his medicine case and pulling forth a stoppered flask. “My guess

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

35

is . . .” he said, pausing to take a long swig from the bottle before extending it to Taketsuna, “that you have never done a day’s

hard physical work in your life, and the sort of forced labor the

stronger prisoners do here will cripple or kill a man like you.

Have you any skills?”

Taketsuna was holding the flask dubiously. The contents

smelled like wine, and he wondered what it would do to his

empty and painful stomach. “I can read and write,” he said. “I

could do secretarial work or bookkeeping, I suppose.”

“If you’re not going to drink, give it back,” the doctor

snapped crossly, extending his hand.

Taketsuna took a deep swallow and doubled over, coughing.

The wine, if that was what it was, packed an incredible punch.

“Hmph,” commented the doctor, “not much of a stomach,

either. Can’t imagine why they put someone with your back-

ground on the hard labor detail. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

He raised the flask to his mouth and drank deeply, waving the

prisoner out.

◆

An hour later, when Taketsuna was sitting with the others in the

shade of the wooden palisade again, the doctor emerged from