by I. J. Parker
Seeing his condition, Yutaka sent him home.
Later Akitada had little recollection of how he had crossed the yard and collapsed on the bare floor of his small room. He passed out or fell asleep, and did not return to full consciousness until a touch on his bruised head made him jerk away. This movement caused such a jangling and ringing in his head that he sucked in his breath and closed his eyes again.
But not before he had caught a glimpse of Masako’s face, bent over him with an intense look of concern on her pretty features.
“What happened to you, Taketsuna?” she asked, her voice trembling and cool fingertips touching his cheek. The gentle caress almost brought tears to his eyes, and he snatched at her hand. After a moment, she pulled it from his grasp. “Can you speak?” she asked.
“I . . . yes. It was all a misunderstanding. Yutaka was asleep at his desk and thought I meant him harm. He called for help and his clerks gave me a beating.”
“Oh.” She looked at him from her large, soft eyes, a spot of color in her cheeks. “We should have warned you. You see, he really was attacked last year. One of the prisoners went mad, and Yutaka got cut pretty badly. But that he should have set the clerks on you is outrageous. We must report it to the governor. And you need a doctor.” She rose with a rustle of silk.
“No!” Akitada snatched at her hem and begged, “Please don’t mention this to Dr. Ogata or the governor. It was nothing, and Yutaka apologized. Please! I don’t want to lose my job in the archives.”
She stood, frowning in indecision. Then she nodded. “Very well. I’ll get some water and salve and see what I can do.”
When the door had closed behind her, Akitada stared at it in confusion. Something had just happened between them, something that had made his heart beat faster and heated his blood. When she had touched him, he had felt a powerful attraction to her, a desire that was more than physical. Only two women in his life had moved him this way. He had lost the first one and been wretched. The second he had taken for his wife. Perhaps the beating had robbed him of his sanity. He loved Tamako. His reaction to this girl seemed like a betrayal, and he was suddenly afraid of being alone with her, of letting her touch him again. Sitting up, he saw his own robe lying neatly folded on the trunk in which his bedding was kept. He tried to rise, but a blinding pain shot through his skull.
He tensed at the sound of returning steps in the corridor and was ridiculously relieved when the door opened and he saw that Masako was not alone. The white-robed nun he had seen that morning in young Toshito’s cell followed her into the room.
“This is the reverend Ribata,” Masako announced, setting down a bowl of water next to Akitada. “I found her at the well and brought her because she has great skill with wounds.”
Intensely aware of the girl, Akitada kept his eyes on the nun. “Th-there was no need,” he stammered, staring into the strange black eyes, which regarded him fixedly.
“We have met,” Ribata said, in that beautiful, cultured voice of hers. “You are the new prisoner from the capital who has made himself useful to the governor.”
She was well informed for an ordinary nun. But then this was no ordinary nun. She came from a background as good as his own, perhaps better. What had brought her to this godforsaken outpost in the Northern Sea?
She came forward and crouched on the floor next to him to examine his head. Her hands were so thin from age and deprivation that they looked more like the claws of some huge bird of prey. But her touch was not ungentle, though certainly more businesslike than Masako’s. The comparison was unfortunate, because it made him glance at the younger woman’s anxious face on his other side. She was leaning forward a little, and the collar of her robe revealed a smooth white neck. The soft silk hid the rest, but as she bent toward him, it was easy enough to imagine her full breasts where the fabric strained against them. 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 pungent, 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 swor
dsman?”
“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.”