Island of Exiles

by I. J. Parker

Akitada suppressed a smile and sat down again. Yutaka opened the box and extracted a thin roll of paper. This he unrolled partially before Akitada. Then he moved a sheet of clean paper, brushes, water, and an inkstone toward him. “Can you read this?” he asked, pointing to the document.

  The document began with the usual formalities, and Akitada quickly ran his eye over these, unrolling it further to get to the text. “It appears to be a report on the flooding of Lake Kamo and the damage done to rice fields there.”

  “Harrumph,” grunted Yutaka and poked a thin, bent finger at one of the characters. “What’s that?”

  Suppressing another smile, Akitada pronounced the character in Chinese.

  “What? Oh, well. I suppose that one’s too hard. It signifies ‘forced labor.’ The high constable is requesting His Excellency to supply him with more prisoners to help dam the lake waters. Let’s see you write that character.”

  Akitada poured a little water into the ink dish and rubbed the ink stone in it. When the ink was the proper thickness, he selected a brush, dipped it, and with a flourish wrote the character on the paper.

  “Too big! Too big!” cried Yutaka. “You wasted the whole sheet. Make it very small.”

  Akitada selected another brush and wrote it again on an unused corner, this time as small as he could.

  Yutaka picked up the paper and brought it close to his eyes. Without comment, he laid it down. “Come with me,” he said and took Akitada to meet the other two clerks, neither of whom was a prisoner and therefore regarded the new clerk with disdain. Yutaka assigned Akitada to one of the empty desks, with instructions to copy a set of tax accounts from one of the districts. For the rest of the day, as Akitada labored, he appeared on silent feet, peered over the prisoner’s shoulder, muttered, “Harrumph,” and disappeared again.

  Akitada made good progress, but after several hours the unaccustomed work caused his back to ache and his wrist to cramp. His stomach growled. After more time passed, his feet had gone to sleep, and his belly ached with hunger. Apparently he was not entitled to a midday rice break.

  Or rice, either. That was reserved for better people. Near sunset, a gong sounded somewhere in the compound. Akitada heard his fellow scribes rustling papers and shuffling off rapidly. He continued until he had finished the final page of a document he was working on and stretched. Suddenly Yutaka appeared.

  “You didn’t hear the gong,” he said accusingly.

  “I heard it. Why?”

  “Time for the prisoners’ evening meal.”

  Akitada said, “Oh.” He started to wash out his brush.

  “Never mind,” said Yutaka irritably. “Give it to me and run, or you’ll be too late. Masako doesn’t tolerate stragglers. No. Doesn’t tolerate them at all.”

  “Run where?” asked Akitada, rising.

  “The jail. Where else?” Yutaka pointed vaguely. “I think you’ll be too late,” he added glumly.

  Akitada bowed. “Thank you. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  When he found the jail, or more precisely the jail kitchen, it was empty except for a very shapely young maid who was stacking dirty bowls into a basket.

  “I was told that the prisoners eat somewhere around here,” said Akitada.

  She swung around, and he saw that she was very pretty, with a round face and sparkling eyes. At the moment they sparkled with anger. “Well, you’re too late,” she snapped. “The gong sounded an hour ago.” A threadbare cotton robe, much too big and too short for her, was firmly tied around her small waist, its sleeves rolled up to reveal work-reddened hands and arms, and her hair was pinned up under a kerchief. Surprisingly, the skirts of a pale blue silk gown peeked forth underneath the rough covering.

  “I didn’t know. I am new,” he offered hopefully, staring at the silken hem.

  She relented a little. “The fire’s out. You’ll have to eat the soup cold.”

  He smiled at her with relief. “I don’t mind.” Her speech was more refined than he had expected in a kitchen maid, and his eyes went again to the pale silk hem. As she moved, a dainty bare foot, dirty but white and slender, appeared for a moment.

  She scooped something from a large iron kettle into a bowl and handed it to him. Whatever it was, it looked and smelled unappetizing—some kind of millet mush with a few wilted greens. Akitada held the dripping bowl gingerly away from his clothes and looked about for a place to sit. Finding none, he leaned against the kitchen wall and raised the bowl to his lips. But the mush had thickened, and he had trouble drinking it.

  “Would you happen to have some chopsticks?” he asked the girl, who was sweeping the floor in a haphazard fashion.

  She stopped and stared at him. “Chopsticks? For a prisoner?”

  “A little joke.” He chuckled. “I suppose there’s not much hope in asking for wine, so maybe I’d better settle for water, right?”

  “Right!” She pointed to a large bucket in the corner.

  He did not dare ask for a cup. Instead he used the dipper to pour some water into his food, stirred it with his finger, and then drank it down in several hungry gulps. It had little taste, but he gladly accepted the refill she offered. This, too, he mixed with water, and when he was done, he poured more water in the bowl, took it outside to rinse it, and refilled it to drink.

  The girl had watched him surreptitiously. When he returned the bowl to her with a bow and a smile, he said, “Thank you. My name is Taketsuna. You’re very kind. And very pretty. May I ask your name?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m Masako,” she snapped. “And my father’s the superintendent, so you’d better watch yourself.”

  He was so astonished, he was speechless. The superintendent of a provincial jail, though of low rank, was still an official. How could such a man allow his daughter to work in the prison’s kitchen? It occurred to him that she might be the result of an affair with a native woman, and he said, “Certainly. I’m to report to him. Can you show me the way?”

  “You’ll have to wait. I have to finish cleaning up first.” She put his bowl into the basket and bent to pick it up.

  “Allow me to carry that for you. Perhaps I could help you wash up?”

  She regarded his tall figure thoughtfully for a moment. Her lip twitched. “All right. You can do with a wash yourself. Come along, then, Taketsuna.”

  He followed her across the courtyard to the well and hauled buckets of water, while she washed the bowls and restacked them in the basket. “Now take off your robe,” she told him. “You won’t get a bath tonight, so you’d better wash here.”

  He glanced around. The courtyard was empty, so he obeyed, draping his stained gown carefully over the rim of the well while he stood in his loincloth, sluicing himself down with the cold well water, uncomfortably aware of her eyes on his body. When he reached for his robe, she snatched it away. “It’s filthy. I’ll wash it for you later. Get the basket and come with me.”

  “B-but,” he stammered, looking down at his wet self, “I can’t go like this. I have nothing to wear.”

  She was walking away. “Nonsense. Nobody cares what a prisoner wears,” she snapped over her shoulder.

  He picked up the basket and followed. The guards outside the gate threw it open as they passed, and two constables appeared, carrying a litter between them. Behind them waddled Ogata, the fat physician.

  Masako stopped, and Akitada quickly hid behind her, clutching the basket to his body.

  As the litter passed, he saw that the slight shape on it was hidden under a woven grass cover. A dead child? He recalled that Ogata was also the local coroner. The child’s death must have been suspicious, or Ogata would hardly take this kind of interest in the corpse.

  For once Ogata’s eyes were alert and sharp. He recognized the prisoner instantly and halted, letting his eyes move from the girl to Akitada and back again. “Are you keeping company with half-naked men now, Masako?” he drawled. “In broad daylight, too. Must have a talk with your father.”

  Akitada
saw the color rise in Masako’s pale neck. “If you go worrying Father, Uncle,” she cried, raising a clenched fist, “I’ll . . .”

  “Oho! Is that the way the wind blows? A secret affair.” Ogata raised his brows comically.

  Masako dropped Akitada’s robe and picked up her skirts to rush at Ogata. The doctor held her away easily, laughing while she shouted at him.

  The constables stopped and put down their litter to watch. They, too, began to laugh, looking from the half-naked Akitada to the angry girl. Guards peered in at the gate and people came from buildings to stare.

  Akitada put down the basket and snatched up his robe. Slipping it on, he joined the doctor and the girl. “Is a suspicious death an occasion for mirth on Sadoshima?” he asked.

  Masako dropped her arms, looked at the stretcher, and stepped away from Ogata, who continued to chuckle helplessly.

  After a moment the doctor choked back another peal and wiped his face. “Sorry,” he gasped, looking mildly shamefaced. “The sight of you with our lovely Masako here drove this other matter from my mind for a moment. Masako’s my goddaughter, by the way, which accounts for my teasing her.” His eyes narrowed speculatively. “As a man like you knows how to use a brush, come along. I’m to do a postmortem on this man. You can take notes.” With a wave of the hand, he set the constables and their litter in motion and they moved off.

  Akitada looked at Masako and the basket.

  “Never mind,” she said crossly, still rosy with embarrassment. “You go along. I can manage. Come to the house when you’re done.” She pointed out a modest building which huddled under some trees behind a bamboo fence.

  Akitada followed the litter into another low building not far from the kitchen. It contained only a long table, raised to waist height, a low desk with writing implements and paper, and several rough shelves with lanterns, oil lamps, and assorted medical instruments.

  Ogata directed the constables to place the body on the table, and then to light the lanterns. He placed these himself so that the still-covered body was brightly illuminated. When all was arranged to his satisfaction, he turned to Akitada.

  “Squeamish?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen death before.”

  “This man you know,” said Ogata and whipped aside the cover.

  The corpse was nude and very small. Yellowish gray in death, his ribs and bones unnaturally prominent, his face contorted as if in pain, and his eyes mere slits, he lay childlike on his side with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped about his belly. The only wounds apparent were on both knees and elbows. It was little Jisei, the prisoner.

  Akitada stifled an exclamation. “What happened?” he asked, stepping closer. “He was well yesterday. He said the ointment you had me apply eased the inflammation in his wounds. He looked forward to being released. How could he have died so quickly?”

  “Not sure. That’s why we’re here.” Ogata told the constables to turn the body on its back and straighten the limbs. When one of them was careless and broke an arm, he snarled at the man, “I’ll make sure to deal roughly with your carcass when your time comes. Which may be sooner than you think.” The constable blanched.

  There were faint marks on the poor thin body in addition to the gruesome wounds on his knees and arms. Ogata said, “He got those crawling in and out of badger holes. When a prisoner’s as small as this one, that’s the work they make him do.”

  “Badger holes? Why?”

  “Mines. There’s silver in the mountains. The men tunnel in and bring it out. It’s grueling work. But that’s not what killed him.”

  He began to study every inch of the naked body, taking special note of the sunken area just below the rib cage, ordering the constables to turn Jisei on his stomach and then back again. He pursed his lips and next gave his attention to the skull, feeling all over it carefully. Lifting the lids, he peered at Jisei’s eyes. Finally, he pried open the dead man’s mouth with a thin ivory implement. When he straightened up, his face was filled with angry disgust. The sudden movement caused the flames in the lanterns to flicker, and for a moment it seemed as though Jisei smiled.

  “What is it?” asked Akitada. But Ogata did not answer. He stared at the dead man, then looked at the constables. “You can go,” he said harshly. “It seems to be a natural death after all.”

  They trooped out.

  Akitada stepped forward and bent to peer at Jisei’s mouth. It was filled with blood. He straightened. “I think this man has been tortured,” he said flatly. “I don’t know how, but he’s bitten through his tongue.”

  Ogata was still angry. “No. He was beaten to death. Hit in the stomach where the marks don’t show. He may have bitten his tongue also, but he would have died from the ruptured organs inside. The fools thought I wouldn’t notice.” Suddenly he looked old and defeated. Pulling the mat back over the pathetic corpse, he muttered, “Not that it makes any difference. Let’s go.”

  Akitada said, “But the man was murdered.”

  “It will be reported as a fight between prisoners.”

  “A fight? This man would never fight. Look at him.”

  Ogata laid a finger on his lips. “Ssh. You know it and I know it, but knowledge can kill. Forget it and watch your step, young man.”

  “You mean you won’t do anything about this?” Akitada was outraged. “How can you allow the murder of a human being to go unpunished?”

  Ogata sighed. Blowing out the flame in one of the lanterns, he said sadly, “Here a human being is nothing but a candle in the wind. Remember it well, Taketsuna.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE NUN

  Akitada’s awakening was much more pleasant than the previous ones. He woke to the chatter of birds and the brightness of sunshine outside the shutters of a small, neat room, comfortable in soft bedding and aware of the good smell of food.

  For just a moment, he imagined himself home, but instantly the ugly image of the emaciated and abused body of the prisoner Jisei superimposed itself on his fantasy. He sat up. Where he had dropped his own filthy robe the night before lay, neatly folded, a new blue cotton robe and a white loincloth. He unfolded the clothes in wonder, then looked about for his own things. They were gone, and he was seized by a sudden fear for his documents. Day by day, events proved his undertaking more foolhardy and impossible. It should have occurred to him that his clothes might get lost or stolen.

  Dressing quickly in the new robe, he pushed back the shutter. Outside was a vegetable plot, its plantings of radish, cabbage, onions, and melons stretching higgledy-piggedly in all directions. The sun was fully up; he would be late for his duties in the archives. This puzzled him as much as the new clothes. Someone should have come for him—some guard with a whip for the lazy prisoner.

  Stepping down into the garden, he looked around. Never mind the mouthwatering smells and the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. He must find out what happened to his clothes and then run across to the archives where Yutaka, no doubt, had already raised an alarm.

  He turned the corner of the house quickly and halted in dismay before a private family scene. On a small veranda sat a balding man with pendulous cheeks and a small paunch, his host, no doubt. To judge by the sloping shoulders and downcast expression, the superintendent was in very low spirits. Across from him knelt Masako. She wore her blue silk gown today, and her shining hair hung loose. The difference from the girl in the prison kitchen was startling. She looked charming and entirely ladylike as she urged her father to sample a dish she was filling from several bowls on a small tray.

  Akitada attempted to withdraw, but a scraping of the gravel beneath his feet caused both to turn their heads simultaneously. Akitada bowed, thought better of it, and knelt instead, bending his head to the ground.

  “Ah,” said the superintendent. “Is that our guest, daughter? Good morning to you, sir. Please join us.”

  Akitada sat back on his heels and looked at the superintendent in astonishment, wondering if whatever weighed on the man’
s mind had unbalanced his reason. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “Please forgive the intrusion. I lost my way. I am not a guest, only a prisoner. Having overslept, I was on my way to the archives to report for work.”

  Masako now said very pleasantly, “Please take some gruel first.”

  He stood up slowly, not understanding. “Thank you, but there is no time. Allow me to express my thanks for your hospitality and for lending me these new clothes.”

  The superintendent cleared his throat and looked at his daughter. “Er, don’t mention it,” he said. “Please accept our food, such as it is. It’s only some millet gruel and fruit from the plum tree in the backyard. But my daughter is a fine cook as well as a good judge of men.”

  “It would not be proper. I’m a prisoner, sir,” Akitada protested and became suspicious about his lost papers.

  The superintendent waved the objection away. “Masako says that you are of good background. Whatever brought you here was, no doubt, due to some careless association, or even perhaps a noble act. These are politically troubled times, and many a good man is deprived of home, office, income, and happiness.” He gave his daughter a sad nod.

  Akitada was faced with a dilemma. He looked at Masako, who kept her eyes lowered, blushing modestly. This certainly was not the fiery, sharp-tongued girl he had met in the prison kitchen. “I am deeply honored by the young lady’s good opinion,” he said, “but I was sent here because I murdered a man. Under the circumstances, I fear that both you and I will suffer if I accept your generosity. And I am already late for work.”

  Masako now said softly, “Please do not worry. You need not report to Yutaka until later today. Come, there is plenty for both of you. Father’s appetite has been poor lately.”

  Bemused, Akitada obeyed and took his place on the veranda, accepting a bowl of millet gruel, and feeling uneasy about this change of attitude. The success of his assignment depended on his being taken for an exile and a dangerous individual. He tried to think of a way to introduce the subject of his missing clothes, but Masako spoke first.

  “Were you of some use to the doctor last night?”