Island of Exiles

CHAPTER FIVE

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 Yamada had withdrawn into his room, where he was bent over some paperwork and out of earshot.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.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared. “Then bring your food from home. Now open up! I don’t have all day.” The larger man muttered under his breath, but he got the keys and his lantern. As he passed Akitada, who was carrying the heavy food container in one hand and balancing the basket of bowls with the other, he sniffed. “It smells good for bean stew,” he said in an ingratiating tone.

“Open up!” snapped Masako.

Muttering some more, he preceded them down the hallway, stopping to unlock each cell door to let Masako fill a bowl and hand it to an inmate. They finally reached young Mutobe, who stood waiting and bowed politely to Masako before receiving his bowl.

“How are you today, Toshito?” she asked the prisoner.

“Well. Thank you, Masako.” He looked at her with concern.

“And how is it with you and your father? Any news?”

“No. Nothing. And you?”

“No talking allowed,” growled the guard.

Masako sighed and filled another bowl. “Here,” she said, handing it to the guard. “Hunger makes you irritable. Go away and eat.”

“What about Kintsu? I can’t go back without taking him something.”

Akitada handed Masako a second bowl with a wink. She chuckled softly, filled this also, and gave it to the waiting guard.

He nodded and departed with the food.

“Well, that got rid of him,” said Masako, giving Akitada a conspiratorial smile. “They’re becoming unbearable. Even the outcast sweepers ignore my orders. As Father’s daughter I used to get some respect, but now they think of me as one of their own. What a difference poverty makes.” She turned and saw that young Mutobe was still holding his full bowl, worried eyes moving between her and Akitada. “Sit down, Toshito, and eat, please.”

He bowed and started eating, but would not sit in her presence. After a few mouthfuls he said, “You cannot continue this, you know. They are savages. One of them might get ideas.” He glanced at Akitada again.

“I’m not afraid. Besides, Taketsuna can come along to protect me.”

“Taketsuna?” His eyes narrowed. “Oh, it’s you. You were here yesterday with Masako’s father, taking notes. I wasn’t paying attention.”

His tone had become arrogant and faintly hostile. When Akitada nodded, he turned back to Masako with a frown. “How do you come to know this prisoner?”

“Taketsuna is no criminal. He is a political exile who works in the archives during the day and stays at our house.”

“You mean like a houseguest? Why the special treatment?

He should be locked up here or sent inland to work.” Masako stared at him. “Oh, Toshito, how can you of all people say such a thing?”

Young Mutobe flushed and said angrily, “It is not safe to take a criminal into your house. You know nothing about him. What can your father be thinking of?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she cried, moving closer to Akitada and putting her hand on his arm. “For all you know he’s of better birth than you.”

Young Mutobe paled and pushed the half-empty bowl her way. “No doubt. I can see how the wind blows. Here. I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Oh, Toshito,” she cried, “I’m sorry. I did not mean to insult you. Please forgive me.” But the young man folded his arms across his chest and turned his back to them. She pleaded,

“Come, you insulted Taketsuna. That was not well done, either.

As for his staying with us: it was the governor’s wish, and he pays for Taketsuna’s lodging and food.”

“I see. It’s the infernal money again!” Toshito said bitterly to the wall.

Akitada wished himself elsewhere. He did not like being talked about as if he were not present, especially with the hostility displayed by this man. But the news that Mutobe had made elaborate arrangements for him after all was more disconcerting. Word had probably already got out that the was being treated like a guest in the provincial headquarters. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me for interrupting,” he said, “but as I am to leave Mano shortly, the arrangement is strictly temporary.

My being given special lodging has more to do with my ability to take dictation and write well. I understand there is a great shortage of scribes here. Of course, I am most grateful to Superintendent Yamada. I assure you, his daughter is quite safe from me.”

Akitada’s polite speech was a reproach to the other man’s manners, and he turned around. “I am sorry for my rudeness.

My situation is frustrating to me because I cannot help my friends.”

Akitada bowed. “I understand.”

But there was resentment in the air, and Masako called the guard. When she picked up their empty bowls in the guardroom, the little guard remarked with a grin, “Found yourself a new fellow, eh? He’ll give better service than that little sprout Toshito and he’ll live longer, too.” Masako gasped, and Akitada took a threatening step toward the man, but she caught his arm and pulled him away.

Outside, she stopped. “Oh, Taketsuna, you must never do that again. Fighting with a guard will get you nothing but a vicious flogging and chains.”

She was right, of course, and he could not afford to make a scene in any case. When he muttered an apology, she reached up to touch his face. “Thank you, Taketsuna. It was kind of you to want to protect me.” She was looking up at him with a little smile, her eyes suddenly moist. “I would put up with a great deal more than a few silly words to spare you pain,” she said softly. When he said nothing, she asked, “Are you really leaving so soon?” He saw the tears in her eyes, and his heart started beating faster. Feeling like a brute, he said, “Yes. I’m to travel inland with one of the governor’s inspectors.”

“Oh, Taketsuna. So little time.” She looked dejected, then brightened. “But you’ll come back soon?” He said nothing and they walked back to the kitchen courtyard. At the well he helped her wash the bowls. She was deep in thought and said little. He was relieved. Her words and expression had touched him deeply. He wondered what the relationship was between her and Mutobe’s son and knew he did not like it. Ashamed of his jealousy, he forced his mind to more important matters.

Regardless of Mutobe’s assertion that his son had been framed by his own political enemies, Akitada was by no means convinced of the son’s innocence. Toshito had attended the university in the capital and might have come in contact with Prince Okisada’s enemies. He might, in fact, have been their tool to eliminate a troublesome claimant to the throne.

Back in the kitchen, Akitada took up the broom and began to sweep while Masako busied herself about the stove, laying the fire for the morning meal and gathering the remnants of bean soup for their own supper. The Yamadas’ provisions seemed scarce and of the plainest sort, but Masako had managed to prepare decent meals with what she had. Such extreme poverty was still a great puzzle to Akitada.

“You seem to be on very familiar terms with young Mutobe,” he began after a while.

She stopped, a bamboo dipper with bean soup in her hand, and stared at him. “What do you mean?” she asked, color rising to her cheeks.

“That was badly put.” He leaned on the broom and smiled at her. “Nothing insulting, I assure you. You speak to each other like brother and sister.”

She finished emptying the soup kettle. “We are friends, because we grew up together.”

“You must know him very well, then. Well enough to share secrets, as children do. Would you tell each other things you might not mention to your fathers?” He tried to make it sound like gentle teasing.

But she was too sharp for that. “Why do you want to know?” she demanded suspiciously.

He retreated. “No reason. Or rather, there are so many mysteries about you that I . . . Never mind! It was just idle conversation.”

She came then and looked up at him searchingly. “Was it, Taketsuna?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky. Akitada started to back away, but she put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Who are you really?”

This startled him. “You know who I am. Yoshimine Taketsuna.”

“No. I mean, who are you inside? You ask about me, but what are your thoughts? What is your family like? What did you wish for before you came here? What sort of life will you make in the future?”

He moved away from her and started sweeping again. “What I was does not matter here,” he said, “and I have no future.”

She followed him. “Your past matters to me, and so does your future. Many exiles have settled to a comfortable life here.

They have taken wives and raised families.” Appalled by where this conversation seemed to be leading, he kept his back to her. “I will never rest until I return to my home and family,” he said firmly.

“Tell me about your family.”

He turned then. “I have a wife and a young son.” She flinched a little at his fierceness. “Oh,” she murmured. “I should have thought of that. I’m sorry. You must love them very much.” Tears rose to her eyes, making him sorry for his cruel frankness. “Taketsuna,” she whispered, “you may not see them again for many, many years, or perhaps never. What will you do meanwhile?”

“Nothing. Hope. What else can a man do?” Her eyes pleaded. “He can make another life.” He put away the broom then. “I have no life,” he said in a tone of finality. “And now, if you have no other chores for me, I think I’ll go clean up before the evening meal.” Outside, at the well, he started to strip off his gown, but a strong sense of being watched made him stop and look over his shoulder. Masako stood in the kitchen doorway, a small, secretive smile on her pretty face. When their eyes met, she turned abruptly, took up the container of bean soup, and walked away humming a song.

They took their evening meal-the leftover bean soup with some pickled radish-as always on the veranda in front of Yamada’s study. For Akitada it was a difficult meal. Masako had appeared a little late. She was again in her faded blue silk gown, but she had put a new ribbon in her shining hair.

Her father was in his usual abstracted mood, and she attempted to make conversation with Akitada, making sure he had enough soup, that it was to his liking, that the setting

sun was not in his eyes. All of these overtures Akitada met with a monosyllabic “Yes” or “No,” and she finally turned to her father.

“When will you get paid again, Father?” she asked, startling Yamada, who cast an embarrassed glance toward Akitada.

“Not for another five days, child,” he said. “I am very sorry.

It must be difficult for you.”

“Not at all,” she said lightly. “I’m a very good manager. But the guards were demanding fish today, and it has been days since we’ve had any. I expect you would like some, too.”

“Fish?” He seemed surprised. “You have no money left? I am very sorry, my dear. You shall have some tomorrow. The truth is I had not noticed the absence of fish.” He added with a smile to Akitada, “Masako makes even the plainest dish taste like something fit for the emperor. Isn’t that so?” The meals had been adequate but hardly fit for an emperor, or even one of their own class. A farmer or a monk might have approved, though, of the vegetarian dishes. Millet and beans were their main staples. The flavor was due to herbs, fruit, or vegetables, all things which were raised in their garden or gathered in the woods. However, Akitada agreed politely, then changed the subject.

“I noticed a document in the archives today which refers to a rather peculiar institution of which you seem to be the overseer, sir. It’s called a Valuables Office. Apparently it pays out rice against securities like silver? I thought such operations are usually carried out by temples.”

Masako dropped her bowl with a crash and stared at him wide-eyed. Her father turned rather pale. His hands shook as he put down his own bowl. After a moment, he took a deep breath and said, “Clean that up, child.” He waited until Masako had scooped up the shards and food bits and left the room. Then he asked, “What is your interest in this matter, young man?”

Akitada knew now that he was on the right track but said only, “Curiosity, mainly. Sadoshima is a strange place to me.

There are private silver mines here, when I thought all the mined silver belonged to the emperor. Why is so much silver in private hands, and what is the reason for the valuables office?” Yamada relaxed a little. “Some of the mines belong to the emperor, and the silver from them goes into storage in the gar-rison until it is shipped to the mainland. But the landowners do their own mining under special permits. This created a problem in the past. There is very little minted currency in Sado, and people began to barter in silver, which caused it to become devalued, even the silver coins minted by the emperor, and so it was thought best to control the matter by allowing people to trade their silver for rice from the government storehouses.

Now the value of the silver is fixed. In addition, many people are leaving their valuables in our hands for security. There are, after all, many criminals on this island.” Akitada thought he had a pretty good idea what had plunged Yamada into sudden but temporary poverty. The man was trying to make restitution before the next inspection. For the time being Akitada had to let the matter rest. There were far more urgent worries on his mind.

After the evening meal, Akitada made his way in the dark to a storage shed and climbed on its roof. From here he could see over the tribunal walls down to the city and the peaceful bay.

The moon was nearly full and shone very brightly on the shimmering water. Below him huddled the dark roofs of the houses of the city, and beyond rose the dusky headlands which stood between him and his home and loved ones. The bay looked like molten silver where the moonlight touched it. The distant coast of Echigo was hidden behind the dark mountains, but he fixed his eyes on the faint silver line which marked the separation of land and sky and thought of Tamako and their son.

He had almost died on the way here, and he might die in the attempt to carry out his orders. The possibility of never seeing his wife or child again threw him into a stomach-twisting panic, and he was tempted to give up this mad assignment and go home.

Oh, how he longed for safety from the tangled and deadly schemes of men, and from the tear-drenched eyes of a brave and lovely girl.