Island of Exiles

by I. J. Parker

  Akitada shook his head. “I do not think so. The journey to Sado Island from the capital is long and dangerous. In this instance, Your Excellencies appear to have undertaken the journey without escort and incognito. Would a minor squabble between two provincial administrators really cause His Majesty to send his most trusted advisors on such an assignment?”

  “Look here, young man,” blustered the short visitor, “you ask too many questions. We have explained as much as you need to know. Now it is up to you to find out who killed the prince and why.”

  Akitada bowed. Nobody said anything for a while.

  Finally the thin man sighed again. “As you know, Sadoshima is a notorious haven for pirates who ply the ocean up and down the coast. Not far to the north from here, our armies are fighting the Ezo warlords again. With the prince on Sadoshima, you can see what our enemies might do.”

  “You were afraid that the prince might become a hostage to the Ezo?”

  “That was one possibility,” agreed the thin man.

  Akitada suddenly saw the real danger and the full dilemma faced by his two noble visitors. The other, unspoken and unspeakable, scenario was that Okisada himself had been negotiating with the Ezo in another attempt to seize the throne. Akitada felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The bloodshed along the path of such an army led southward by a claimant to the throne would be unimaginable. The people of Echigo and his own small family would certainly be victims in such a war.

  The Ezo, their hostile barbarian neighbors to the north, had threatened the peaceful life of Japanese peasants for hundreds of years. Recently their chieftains had submitted to the emperor in Dewa and Mutsu Provinces, but the military strength and expertise of these warlords had grown. They rebelled often, and still posed a continuous threat to the nation.

  “Will you accept the assignment?” asked the thin man.

  Akitada bowed. “Yes, Your Excellency, provided that my doing so is properly authorized by you in His Majesty’s name.”

  “It is not likely that you will be told anything if you go there in an official capacity. Much better that you travel incognito.”

  Akitada said, “Perhaps I could travel as a peddler or peasant, carrying my papers sewn into my clothing. Nobody pays attention to common people. But I must have properly authorized documents.”

  They did not like it, but the thin man finally agreed. “Let us sleep over it. We are tired and you will wish to make preparations.” He looked at Akitada. “May I suggest that you stop shaving? Otherwise you will hardly convince anyone that you are a peasant or vagrant.”

  “There is one other small problem,” Akitada said nervously. “I have not received my salary since I arrived here with my family. My retainers have not been paid, though they have carried out the duties of secretary of the tribunal and constabulary officers. I have exhausted my own funds making repairs and cannot leave my people destitute.”

  They looked at him in amazement. It occurred to Akitada that they were probably so wealthy that they would never find themselves in his desperate situation.

  The short man said, “But why did you not draw on the provincial treasury for salaries and expenses? Everybody does.”

  “I had no authorization, Excellency.”

  The short man blurted, “That old law? Nobody follows that any longer. Don’t you know anything? It boggles the mind that—” The thin man put a restraining hand on his sleeve, and he concluded, “Hmph. Well, do so immediately. Collect what is owed you and enough to see your family and staff through the next week or two. You should be back by then.”

  The thin man said more gently, “These days provincial administrators are expected to draw funds from the local treasury, Sugawara. That is why they send an examining official to settle accounts when you leave your post.” He nodded to his companion, and they got to their feet.

  “Thank you.” Akitada was not sure whether he felt more ashamed of his ignorance or happy that his financial woes were solved. He decided on the latter. “Allow me to offer you my quarters,” he said in a spirit of wanting to share his good fortune. “They are not much, but my wife and I will do our best to make you comfortable.”

  The short man cast a glance at the patched ceiling and broken shutters of Akitada’s office. “Thank you, but we have already taken rooms at the local inn.”

  Akitada accompanied them to the front of the tribunal hall. From the height of its veranda, they could see across the tribunal walls and the roofs of the provincial capital all the way to the sea. On this clear day, it was just possible to make out the long hazy outline of Sadoshima on the horizon. It seemed another world.

  In the courtyard, the constables were just finishing their drill. When Tora, one of Akitada’s own men and their temporary lieutenant, looked up and saw them, he called the constables to attention. Arranging his cheerful face into sterner lines, he saluted stiffly as the two noble gentlemen descended 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 soldier. 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.

  Now Tora ran after him, boots pounding on the wooden planks and startling the clerks in the archives. “Well?” he demanded 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 coming 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.”

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

  “Don’t worry. I shall not be gone long, and perhaps something good may come of it.”

  But when the two noble visitors returned the following morning, his optimism vanished. They proposed an extraordinary plan which struck Akitada as both dan
gerous and uncertain.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE PRISONER

  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 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 recommencing with the next onslaught. He was conscious of little difference 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 subtle 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 proven horrible beyond his wildest imaginings, and he had little 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 destination. 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 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?”

  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 contemptuously, “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 attempt 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 rebellious character of a prisoner. You have escaped lightly this time.” He straightened up and snapped, “Take him away.”

  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 newcomer 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 nodded 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 prisone
rs snatched the bucket away.

  “Damn you,” he snarled, “for dirtying our drinking water with your stinking rags.”

  “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 behind 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 allowed. 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.

  “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 bitter laugh at the newcomer’s innocence. “What’s your name?” the small man asked.