Island of Exiles sa-5

by I. J. Parker

  The effort to control his desire brought a frown to his face.

  “Oh, you are hurting him,” cried Masako, bending over him more closely so that he could smell the scent of her hair and skin and feel the warmth from her body. “Is it serious?” Ribata sat back, her eyes resting thoughtfully first on Akitada, then on her. “No,” she said. Reaching into her sleeve, she pulled out a handful of bundled herbs. Selecting one, she said, “He has a bad headache and feels slightly feverish. Take a few of these leaves of purple violet and pour boiling water over them. Let them steep as long as it takes to recite the preamble of the lotus sutra, and then bring the infusion back.” Masako left, and Akitada said, “Thank you. It is most kind of you to trouble. I shall be well again shortly, I’m sure.” She nodded and reached for a cloth, which was soaking in the water bowl. Squeezing it out, she began to clean the dried blood from his face and scalp. “They say you killed a political enemy.”

  “Yes.” He was glad the story was beginning to circulate. In the abstract it was no lie. He had killed, and killed for the same reasons as the real Taketsuna.

  “What did you think of Toshito’s story?” This was strange questioning, but he decided that a nun’s life was of necessity dull. No doubt she took an avid interest in the people she met. He said cautiously, “I liked him and felt sorry for him.”

  She paused in her ministrations. “You avoid an answer, so you think his case is hopeless?” Her gaze was intent, as if she willed him to deny it.

  “I don’t know much about it,” he said evasively.

  She nodded. “You will. You’re not a man to rest until you have the truth.”

  He stared at this strange remark, but she resumed her work, firmly turning his head to the side to dab at a particularly sore area. He gritted his teeth and winced at the sharp pain.

  “The girl likes you.”

  “What?”

  “Masako likes you. I could see it in her face and hear it in her voice. Don’t hurt her.”

  “Of course not. I hardly know her.” He was glad his face was averted, for he could feel the heat of his embarrassment along with the beginnings of anger. “If you are so concerned about the young lady,” he said, “why don’t you speak to her father? Making his daughter labor like an outcast among rough criminals is cruel and wrong.”

  She clicked her tongue. “All human beings have the lotus of Buddhahood within. It flourishes even in foul water.” She had finished what she was doing, and he turned to glance up at her, catching a speculative gleam in those deep-set eyes. A tiny smile formed at the corner of her thin lips and disappeared instantly.

  “There may be reasons,” she said, folding away the wet cloth and putting the bowl of dirty water aside. “For example, they may be very poor and need the extra money.”

  “Poor?” he scoffed. “Yamada is a man of rank and good family. He has his salary and probably also family income.

  How could he be poor enough to treat his only child this way?”

  “Masako is not his only child. Yamada has a son in the northern army. He is very proud of him. The boy has distinguished himself and has hopes of a fine military career.”

  “Then he cares more about his son than his daughter,” Akitada charged. “As if it were not enough that she is confined to this island where suitable husbands must be singularly lacking-” He stopped abruptly and flushed.

  Ribata gave him a sharp glance, and he felt angrier than ever.

  Closing his mouth firmly before his temper caused him to say too much, he glared at the ceiling.

  When she spoke, her voice was sad. “Sometimes events happen which force us to make cruel choices.” Masako returned with a steaming bowl. He drank the pun-gent, vile-tasting brew and was reminded of Seimei and home.

  Ribata’s ministrations had turned the steady pain in his head to vicious pounding.

  They left him after a while, and he lay there, miserable in a confusion of pain and puzzlement. After a while, he forced himself to check his robe. The stains were gone, but his papers still stiffened the lining of the collar. With a sigh of relief, he crawled back and tried to think.

  He had suffered humiliation, abuse, and repeated beatings without having made the slightest progress. And now, as if this were not enough, he had allowed himself to become distracted by a girl who was of no concern to him and threatened to interfere with his task and peace of mind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE UNPOLISHED JEWEL

  In the morning, Akitada had only a slight headache and a few swellings and lacerations which his hair hid well enough. He verified these matters by peering at himself in the courtyard well. Unfortunately, his appearance was marred by the unkempt state of his beard. Since he had no razor, he decided to ask Yamada for the use of his.

  Father and daughter were at breakfast as before. It was millet gruel again, this time with a bit of radish thrown in. It was poor food indeed for a family of Yamada’s status. Akitada cast furtive glances at his hosts. Masako wore the same silk dress, not new because the blue had faded in the folds, and Yamada’s dark robe was mended at the sleeve and collar. Could they indeed be abjectly poor? Perhaps the son in the northern army required hefty sums. Many young men in the military gambled.

  Yamada politely inquired about Akitada’s injuries and repeated the story of Yutaka being attacked by the prisoner.

  Masako said nothing and, beyond a bow and a muttered thanks for her ministrations the day before, Akitada avoided speaking to or looking at her. When they were done, he begged the loan of the razor. An awkward silence met his request. Then Yamada said, “Forgive me, but it is not permissible to provide prisoners with such things.”

  “Oh,” said Akitada. “Of course. In your house I tend to forget that I am a prisoner.” He touched his beard with a rueful smile. “I do not like to appear in front of you so unkempt, but I suppose I must.”

  “But,” said Masako quickly, “I could trim it for you. I always shave Father.”

  “No,” cried Akitada, rising quickly, “I would not dream of asking such a thing of a lady.”

  “Well,” put in her father, “I suppose it is out of the ordinary, but we can hardly expect to live by the old rules, any of us. Masako is quite skilled with a razor. You may trust her completely.”

  “Of course I trust her,” said Akitada, reddening, “but it is surely not seemly for her to trim my beard. A servant, perhaps . . .”

  “We have no servants,” Masako said practically. “But if it embarrasses you, I would rather not.” It was an impossible situation which ended, predictably, after reassurances and apologies from Akitada, with him sitting on the edge of the veranda, while she knelt beside him and trimmed his beard. Yamada had withdrawn into his room, where he was bent over some paperwork and out of earshot.

  Masako’s closeness was as disturbing to Akitada as her featherlight touch on his skin. He could not avoid looking at her face, so close to his that he felt the warmth of her breath. She had unusually long lashes, as silken and thick as her hair, and her full lips quirked now and then with concentration. Once they parted, and the tip of her pink tongue appeared between

  her teeth. White teeth. She did not blacken them as other women of her class did. Neither did his wife, for that matter, unless she had to appear in public. The memory of Tamako shook him enough to avert his eyes from Masako’s pretty features. But there was little escape, for they next fell on her wrist, slender and white where the sleeve of her gown had slipped back, in contrast to the rough redness of her hands.

  He remembered the first time he had met her, how she had been barefoot, and how dirty her pretty feet had been. How could such a beautiful and wellborn young girl lead the life of a rough serving woman? Had her education been as neglected as her manners? He felt a perverse desire to protect her.

  In his confusion, he blurted out, “Why are you and your father so poor?”

  She dropped the razor in her lap and stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  Oh, dear.
He could hardly refer to the millet gruel and their mended clothes. But there were always her menial tasks. “You know very well,” he said severely, “that a young lady of your class should not engage in the kind of work I have seen you perform.

  That is for slaves or outcasts to do. Only utter penury could have caused your father to care so little about his daughter’s behavior.”

  She reddened and her eyes flashed. “My behavior is not your concern,” she hissed, waving the razor at him to make her point.

  “If I wish to shave men, it is my business. And if I want to work in the prison kitchen, it is also my business. Let me tell you that I find such a life more entertaining than spending all my days and nights in some dark room reading poetry like the fine ladies you are familiar with. I am fed up with people telling me how improper I am and how no gentleman will want me for a wife.

  There are only farmers, soldiers, and prisoners in Sadoshima.

  The few officials are either too old or too settled to look for another wife. The best I can do is to marry some penniless exile like you, and he would surely appreciate the fact that I can cook a meal, clean the kitchen, and trim his beard when it needs it.”

  They stared at each other, dismayed at opening the flood-gates of so much suppressed frustration. The deep color which touched her translucent skin reminded Akitada of the blushing of a rose.

  “Forgive me,” he said, taking her hand.

  “I didn’t mean that,” she cried at the same moment. They both laughed a little in mutual embarrassment.

  He took the razor from her hand and laid it aside. “You have been very good to me, Masako, you and your father. I have been wondering if you are in some sort of trouble. Perhaps I can help.”

  She did not point out to him that he was hardly in a position to help anybody. Instead she shook her head and smiled tremulously. “Thank you. You are very kind. It is a temporary situation and involves my father’s honor. I’m afraid I cannot tell you more than that.”

  “Something to do with the prison or the prisoners?” he persisted, wondering if Yamada had become involved in some way in Toshito’s predicament.

  “No. Not the prison. Another duty. Please don’t ask any more questions.” She took up the razor again and finished trimming his beard, while he sat, puzzling over her remarks. What other assignment did Yamada have? Whatever it was, it probably involved money somehow, for the deprivation they suffered must be due to the fact that he must make restitution. Had Yamada mismanaged government funds?

  She laid aside the razor and smiled at him. “There. You look very handsome,” she said. “And you could easily have slashed my throat and made your escape.”

  He smiled back. “Your throat is much too pretty for that, and there is little chance of my getting off the island. That is why exiles are sent here in the first place.”

  “As to that, there have been escapes. At least, people have disappeared mysteriously. They say fishermen from the mainland used to do a lucrative business ferrying off exiles. Of course, it takes a great deal of gold, but some of the noblemen here have wealthy families back in the capital or in one of the provinces.” She stopped and put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear. I talk too much. Do you have a family?” Akitada laughed out loud. “We are very poor.” It was the truth. He could hardly have raised the money for the passage to Sadoshima, let alone the sum involved in an escape attempt. But the topic was an interesting one. “I assume Prince Okisada could have availed himself of such a method if he had wished to do so. Why did he remain?”

  “Oh, the prince was too famous. He would have been caught quickly. And they say he was too soft to be a hunted man.” She regarded Akitada affectionately. “You, on the other hand, look able to take on any danger. Where did you get the scar on your shoulder?”

  Akitada saw the admiration in her eyes and smiled. “A sword cut. And it wasn’t proper of you to stare at a man washing himself.”

  She blushed. For a moment they sat looking at each other, then she turned her face away. “I told you that my life is more entertaining than that of proper young ladies,” she said lightly.

  “I could not help noticing that the scar is recent, and there were others. Are you a famous swordsman?”

  “Not at all.” Her sudden warm regard made him uncomfortable, and he started to rise. “It is time to go to the archives.” She snatched at his hand. “Not even a thank-you, when I have made you look so handsome?”

  Akitada looked down into her laughing eyes. The invitation in them was unmistakable and unnerving. There was a part of him which disapproved of such forwardness. She was the most improper young lady he had ever met. Yet his heart melted and he felt his hand tremble in hers. She managed to make him feel as awkward as a young boy. Detaching his hand gently, he bowed. “I am deeply in your debt, Masako. Perhaps I could do some of your chores for you after work tonight?” She stood also, twisting the razor in her hands. There was still color in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled as she returned the bow. “Thank you. I would be honored, Taketsuna.” One of the clerks was peering out of the door to the archives but disappeared instantly when he saw Akitada. No one was in the dim hall. Akitada looked about nervously, wondering what to expect after yesterday’s attack. Suddenly Yutaka appeared.

  He was all smiles. The two clerks followed him, looking glum.

  Yutaka gestured and they knelt, bowing deeply.

  For a moment, Akitada feared his identity was known, but then Yutaka said, “These stupid louts wish to express their humble apologies for their mistake. They hope you will forgive them this time.”

  “Please,” Akitada said to the two clerks, “get up, both of you.

  Shijo-san, there was no need for this. The mistake has been explained to me, and I assure you I am much better.”

  “That is good,” cried Yutaka. “Good and generous. Yes. Well, then.” He looked at the two clerks, who were still on their knees, and cried, “You heard, you lazy oafs. Up! Up! Back to work! And don’t make such a foolish mistake again or I’ll see that you get another beating.”

  Akitada winced. Yutaka had been rather unfair. They had merely responded to his cries for help. No wonder the big one, Genzo, gave Akitada a rather nasty look before he scurried out.

  They blamed him for their punishment.

  The day passed quietly. As a rule the documents Akitada worked on were of little interest to him, and he had fallen into a habit of copying mechanically while turning over in his mind the many puzzling events of the past days. Foremost among these was the death of Jisei. Who had beaten him to death?

  Ogata had mentioned a fight, but surely the prisoners would have been caught. Had it been done by the guards? Why? He was such a weak, inoffensive creature, and much too timid to make an escape attempt. Besides, he had counted on being released shortly. And that fat drunkard Ogata had almost certainly covered up the murder out of fear. That suggested that Jisei had been killed on someone’s orders. Had he seen something he should not have? Akitada remembered with a shiver how certain Jisei had been that he would be sent home. Who had promised him an early release? Akitada had taken it for a sort of merciful practicality because Jisei’s festering knees and arms made him useless for crawling about in silver mines, but there were laws against releasing prisoners before their sentences were served. And that left only an empty promise, a lie, which was never intended to be kept. The real intention all along must have been to kill him. Akitada decided that Jisei had known something with which he had bargained for his release and which had cost him his life.

  He was so preoccupied with Jisei’s murder that he almost overlooked an interesting item in the document he was working on. It concerned an institution called a “Public Valuables Office.” Apparently one of the earlier governors of Sadoshima had established a storehouse where people could deposit family treasures in exchange for ready money or rice. Later, say after a good harvest, they could redeem the items. Such places existed elsewhere in the country, but they were usually run
by the larger temples and helped farmers buy their seed rice in the spring. He skimmed the pages for an explanation of government oversight in Sadoshima and found it in the fact that much of what was left in safekeeping seemed to be silver. Akitada recalled that some of the silver mining was in the hands of private families, Kumo’s for example. But most intriguing was the fact that the official currently in charge of the “Public Valuables Office” was none other than Yamada.

  After work that evening, Akitada went directly to the prison kitchen. Steam rose from one of the cookers in the large earthen stove, and the smell of food hung in the hot air. Masako, her back to him and dressed in her rough cotton cover and kerchief, was filling a bamboo carrier with steaming soup. A basket of empty bowls stood beside her. Except for her slender waist and a certain grace in her movements, she looked exactly like a peasant girl.

  “I came to help,” said Akitada.

  She turned, her face red and moist from the fire and the steam, and brushed away a strand of hair that had escaped from the scarf. Flashing him a smile, she pointed to the basket of bowls. “I’m about to take food to the guards and prisoners. You can help if you want.”

  He accepted with alacrity, taking the handle of the full soup container in one hand and the basket of bowls in the other and following her across the yard to the low jail building.

  They met with a rude reception in the guardroom.

  “What? Bean stew again?” complained one big, burly fellow, sniffing disdainfully. “It’s been a week since we’ve had a bit of fish. I suppose you’re saving up for a new silk gown.” His smaller companion lifted her skirts and eyed her leg.

  “We don’t mind if you wear a bit less,” he said, and guffawed.

  Masako slapped his hand away and snapped, “If you don’t want the soup, the prisoners will be glad of an extra helping.

  The food is supposed to be for them anyway. You get paid enough to buy your own. If you want delicacies, go to the market. We’ve been feeding you lazy louts long enough.” This was received with shocked surprise. “But,” whined the first guard, “it’s been the custom. And you know we can’t leave our post to go to the market.”