The road to Minato continued through the rich plain between the two mountain ranges. This was the “inside country,” the most populated area of the island, where the rice paddies extended on both sides to the mountains, their green rectangles swaying and rippling in the breeze like waves in an emerald sea.
Peasants moved about their daily chores among them, bare-legged and the women often bare-chested, and half-naked children stopped their play to watch round-eyed as the riders passed.
In all their journey that day, they saw only one other horseman. The rider stayed far behind, traveling at the same moderate speed. Osawa, who started to feel better as time passed, was eager to reach Minato before dark, and they made better time than the day before. Halfway, they took a brief rest at a shrine to water their horses and eat some of the rice dumplings provided by Kumo’s cook. They had just dismounted and led their horses under the shrine gates into the shady grove when they heard the other rider. A moment later he passed, hunched in his saddle, incurious about the shrine, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The man looked vaguely familiar. Akitada searched his memory as to where he might have come across a short fellow with a large nose but failed.
The sky clouded over after that, and in another hour the wind picked up. Osawa grumbled to himself, but Akitada breathed the moisture-laden air with pleasure. He caught the first hint of the sea and knew they were close to the coast. Soon after, the rain began to fall.
“I have no rain cape,” complained Osawa. “The weather was so fine when we left that I refused the offer of one. And now there won’t be another village till we reach Minato.” A gust of wind drove the heavy drizzle into their faces, and he added irritably, “If we reach it today.”
They reached Lake Kamo in spite of the rain and muddy road, but the heavily overcast sky had caused dusk to fall early, and there was still half the lake to skirt to reach Minato on the opposite shore.
Minato turned out to be a large village between the lake and the ocean. Its inhabitants were mostly fishermen who fished both the open sea and the lake. Minato was well known for its excellent seafood, and its houses and shrines looked more substantial than those of other villages.
But the travelers were by then too miserable to be interested in anything but shelter, a change of clothes, and some hot food and wine. The rain had soaked their robes until they clung heavily to their cold skin, and Osawa and Genzo were so exhausted that they were in danger of falling from the saddle.
On the deserted village street, Akitada stopped a barefoot old woman under a tattered straw rain cape to ask directions to Professor Sakamoto’s house. She pointed across the lake to the shore on the outskirts of Minato where several villas and summerhouses overlooked the water. When they had wearily plodded there, Sakamoto’s residence turned out to be walled and gated. Unfortunately, the servant who answered Osawa’s knocking claimed his master was absent and he had no authority to admit strangers. He seemed in a hurry to get out of the rain.
Osawa started to berate the man but was too exhausted to make much of a job of it. The servant merely played dumb and refused to admit them or provide any information.
“Perhaps an inn for tonight?” Akitada suggested to the desperate and shivering Osawa. “We passed a nice one on our way here.” Osawa just nodded.
An hour later, Osawa, dry, bathed, and fed with an excellent fish soup provided by the proprietress, took to his bed in the inn’s best room, and Genzo went to sleep over his warmed wine in the reception room of the inn. Akitada, more used to riding than the others, had washed at the well and then borrowed some old clothes from the inn’s owner. His own robe and trousers were draped over a beam in the kitchen, and he now sat by the fire, dressed in a patched shirt and short cotton pants held by a rope about his middle, devouring a large bowl of millet and vegetables. Not for him the delights of the local seafood or warmed wine, or even of decent rice, but he was hungry.
Their hostess was a plain, thin woman in her thirties. His borrowed clothes had belonged to her dead husband. She was not unkind, but too busy with Osawa to pay attention to him. Besides, Genzo had informed her immediately that the fellow Taketsuna was only a convict. After that it had taken all of Akitada’s charm to beg a change of clothes. She drew the line at feeding him a meal like the one she had prepared for Osawa.
Instead she busied herself with starting the rice for the next morning and grinding some dumpling flour with a large stone mortar and pestle.
When he was done with his millet, Akitada went into the scullery and washed his bowl, drying it with a hemp cloth. Then he took a broom and swept the kitchen. That chore done, he headed outside to bring in more firewood, and looked around for other work.
She had watched him-at first suspiciously in case he might steal something, then with increasing astonishment. Now she asked, “Aren’t you tired?”
“A little,” he said with a smile. “I noticed that you don’t have much help, so I thought I’d lend a hand before I rest.” A smile cracked her dour face, and she wiped her hands on her apron. “I lost my husband, but I’m strong.” Then she went to a small bamboo cabinet and took out a flask and a cup.
“Here,” she said. “Sit down and talk to me while I make the dumplings. How do you like your master?” He sat and thanked her. “Mr. Osawa? He’s fair enough, I guess. A good official, but he claims he’s overworked.” The wine was decent. Akitada sipped it slowly, savoring its sweetness and warmth, wondering if she had saved it for a special occasion.
“Is he married?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Ah. Poor man. And you? Where are you from?” He gave her a heavily altered story of his life. Only what he told about his family was the truth, because he suspected that she, being a woman, would catch him in a lie most easily there.
As it was, talking about Tamako and his baby son caused a painfully intense longing for them, and his feelings must have shown, for when he paused, she shook her head and muttered,
“What a pity! What a pity! It’s terrible to be alone in this life.” Perhaps this small comment more than anything he had seen or heard brought close what exile to this island meant to the men who were condemned to spend their lives here, working under intolerable conditions if they were ordinary criminals, or just measuring out their days in enforced idleness if high-ranking court nobles.
“Will you play a song for me?” she asked with a glance at the flute, which he had laid beside him.
He obliged, gladly. She was inordinately pleased when he was done. Perhaps he had touched a long-since-abandoned chord of romance in her. In any case, she unbent some more.
“I hear you were turned away at the professor’s place,” she said, her nimble fingers shaping perfect white spheres. When Akitada mentioned Osawa’s disappointment, she said with a sniff, “The professor’s getting drunk in the Bamboo Grove as usual.”
“In this rain?” he asked, misunderstanding.
She laughed and became almost attractive. “The Bamboo Grove is a restaurant. Haru’s place. Besides, it’s stopped raining.”
“I heard the professor keeps company with the good people.
Glad to hear that he’s friendly with the common folk, too.”
“Only when he’s drinking. The rest of the time he stays to himself in that fine house of his. He’s writing a great history book about Sadoshima. Sometimes the good people visit him and then he has dinner parties. You know the Second Prince was murdered at his house? You should have seen all the fuss to get ready for that party. We were all put to work cooking and carrying. The professor’s a bit of a skinflint, but he spent his money then. The best wine, the finest delicacies, the best dishes, whatever the prince wanted.”
“You prepared some of the food?”
“Yes. Rice cakes filled with vegetables, salted mushrooms, pickled eggplant, and tofu in sweet bean sauce.”
“You must be a fine cook. I hope they didn’t blame you for the death?”
“No. They arrested the governor’s son. Some people say he didn’t do it.”
Akitada waited for more, but the landlady took her time.
She finished her dumplings, wiped her hands on her apron, and carried the large wooden tray to a shelf. Then she took off the apron, shook it out, and put it away. He was about to remind her of her last words when she came to join him in a cup of wine.
“People talk,” she said, sipping. “And they talk mostly about the good people. Some people say the governor’s son’s been set up. Others think he killed the prince because the prince wrote to His Majesty about the governor stealing the government’s silver. And some-” She broke off and shook her head.
“And some? Go on!” urged Akitada.
She leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t tell anybody, but some say the governor made his son do it. Can you imagine?” Akitada could and felt grim. “The ones who think he’s been framed, do they mention names?”
She shook her head. “It’s only gossip. Good deeds won’t step outside your gate, they say, but evil will spread a thousand leagues.” She refilled their cups. “Some of the good people here would like to get back at the governor. He’s not very popular.”
“It’s a great puzzle,” Akitada said, shaking his head. He was beginning to feel pleasantly warm and sleepy and had a hard time concentrating. “How was the Second Prince killed, do you think?”
“Oh, it was poison, but nobody knows for sure what kind. I thank the gods they didn’t suspect me.” She smirked a little.
“They say Haru made the special prawn stew the governor’s son took to the prince. A dog died from licking the bowl.”
“Is this the same Haru who owns the restaurant where the professor is drinking?”
“Yes. The Bamboo Grove.” She sniffed. “Haru’s husband is just a fisherman, but she thinks she’s something special because the good people buy their fish from them and stop at her place
for a meal after one of their boating or hunting parties. She’s nothing special that I can see, but men like her. All that brag-ging, and now look at the trouble she’s made for herself.”
“But they did not accuse her of anything?”
“No. Seems like some of her customers said they ate the same stew and it was fine.”
“Maybe it was an accident. Say some poisonous mushrooms . . . or . . . I don’t suppose blowfish could have got in the stew?”
She sat up and stared at him. “Blowfish? Funny you should say that. The prince used to buy that from her. Serve her right if she made a bad mistake with blowfish. But the poison was in the dish the governor’s son brought, and that was prawn stew.”
“Well, I was just wondering. Do many of the good people live around here?”
“Oh, yes. It’s the lake. They came and built their villas here.
You know already about the professor. And the prince’s doctor has a place here, and some of the lords, like Iga and Kumo, have summerhouses here.”
“I thought the exiles were forbidden to use their former titles.” She yawned and stretched. “They may have had their titles taken away, but to us they’re still great men.” She got to her feet. “Well, it’s bedtime for me. I’ve got to be up early to start the fire. There’s bedding in that trunk. It’ll be warm near the fire pit.”
Akitada rose and thanked her. He, too, was very tired. As soon as she had left, he took out the bedding and spread it before the fire. It looked inviting, but he did not lie down. Instead he tucked the flute into it and then slipped outside, closing the kitchen door softly behind him.
Though the rain had stopped, it was still cloudy and very dark. The rain-cooled air had caused a thick mist to rise from the surface of the lake, and this crept over the low roofs of
the silent houses and filled the streets and narrow alleys between them. Akitada stood still for a moment and listened.
He thought he had heard a stealthy sound somewhere, but the silence was broken only by the soft dripping of moisture from the roof behind him. The mist muffled noises; he could no longer hear the sound of the surf on the nearby coast. Cautiously he started down the road. He planned to pay a quick visit to Haru’s restaurant before retiring.
Minato, though considered a village, was almost a small town. No doubt this was due in equal parts to the lake’s attrac-tions and to the fishing off the Sadoshima coast. Nighttime entertainment, totally lacking in ordinary villages, could be found here in a wine shop or two and in the Bamboo Grove.
The street passed between the single-storied houses, mostly dark now and built so close together that the alleyways between them were too narrow for more than one person. Now and then there was a small break to allow for a roadway to the lake or to accommodate a temple or shrine. Akitada had paid little attention to these details earlier, being too preoccupied with the condition of his companions. Now he took note that the Buddhist temple, though small, was in excellent repair, its pillars painted and gilded, and its double doors studded with ornamental nails. It was closed now, but a little farther on the houses made room for a small shrine surrounded by pines and a stand of tall bamboo.
Akitada had always had a strong affinity for shrines. Though he was not a superstitious man, he had found them a source of peace during troubling times in his life. On an impulse he decided to pay his respects to the local god. Turning in under the torii, two upright beams spanned by two horizontal ones, marking the threshold between the unquiet world of men and the sacred precinct of the god, he found amid the dripping trees a small building of unpainted logs with a roof of rain-darkened cedar shingles. It brooded silently in the gloom. The smell of wet earth and pine needles was all around. Ahead the almost-darkness was broken by one small, eerie point of light. As Akitada approached, he found that it was an oil lamp flickering in a niche of the shrine building. It illuminated a grotesque birdlike creature which seemed to crouch there watchfully. The bird was the size of a four-year-old child and seemed to ruffle its brown feathers and fix him with a malevolent and predatory eye. Akitada stopped, then relaxed. A trick of the flickering light had given momentary life to the wooden carving of a tengu, a demonic creature believed to inhabit remote places and play very nasty tricks on unsuspecting humans. A few crumbs of rice cakes, now soggy from the rain, still lay near the oil lamp, and someone had placed a wooden plaque against the image, inscribed with the words: “Eat and rest, then go away!” This shrine was no restful place, and Akitada retraced his steps without addressing the god. He was about to emerge into the street again when he heard footsteps. Since he had no desire to explain what he was doing wandering around Minato in the middle of the night, he ducked under some bamboo which, heavy with rain, drooped low and screened him from the road.
A man was walking past. The bamboo’s slight rustle drenched Akitada in a cold shower and caused the passerby to swing around and stare suspiciously at the shrine entrance.
It was difficult to see clearly in the murk, but for a moment Akitada thought the tengu had flown off its perch to look for victims. The man was small, his shoulders hunched against the cold mist. He had a nose like a beak, and his clothing also was as dark brown as the carved plumage of the tengu. Perhaps the sculptor had found his model in this local man. Akitada smiled to himself. The passerby was probably himself nervous about the demon bird of this shrine, for he stared long and hard before continuing on his way.
It was late and Akitada was tired. He was glad when he found the Bamboo Grove by following one of the narrow roads down to the lake. A sign hung by its door and a dim glow and the sound of male voices raised in song came from inside.
Haru’s restaurant was still open, and among its late revelers was, perhaps, their elusive host, the professor.
But Akitada could hardly walk in as a customer. Besides, he carried only a few copper coins, hardly enough for an evening’s carousing and too precious to be wasted on wine. For once he felt a sympathetic concern for the plight of the poor workingman.
He peered into the Bamboo Grove’s interior through one of the bamboo grilles which covered the windows.
The large room contained the ubiquitous central fire pit, where a handsome buxom female stirred a pot with a small ladle. Her guests were neither poor nor working class, to judge by their clothes. From time to time, they would extend an empty cup which the hostess filled with warm, spiced wine. Its aroma drifted tantalizingly through the grille.
The four men reclined or sat cross-legged around the fire, their faces flushed with wine and warmth, their hands gesticu-lating as they sang, or chatted, or recited poetry. The quality of their performances varied sharply and there were both loud laughter and applause. A corpulent elderly man with thin white hair and beard dominated the entertainment. He was quite drunk and his speech slurred, but he recited well and from a memory that revealed an excellent education. Akitada guessed that this was Sakamoto.
The exchanges were mildly entertaining, but Akitada heard nothing of interest and was glad when the gathering broke up.
Somewhere in the fog a temple or monastery bell was marking the hours of devotion. Inside, the hostess cocked her head, then laid down her ladle and clapped her hands. “Closing time, gentlemen!”
Akitada watched from the corner as the guests departed, then followed them.
The four men stayed together for a little, chatting and breaking into snatches of song, and then, one by one, turned off toward their homes. Eventually only the professor was left. He seemed to have difficulty walking and was talking to himself as if he were still carrying on a conversation with his friends.
For some reason, the cool night air turned what had seemed mild inebriation into staggering, falling-down drunkenness, and Sakamoto proceeded homeward by starts and stops, with Akitada following behind.
In this manner they passed through the village and were still a distance from his villa when the professor suddenly rolled into a ditch and stayed there.
The rain had filled the ditches with water, and when Akitada caught up, he found Sakamoto face down and blowing bubbles while his hands scrabbled at the sides of the muddy gully. Jumping in, he hauled him out, a strenuous job since the man was heavy and his water-soaked robe added more weight. Once he sat on the side of the road, Sakamoto looked considerably the worse for wear, his face and beard covered with mud, and wet leaves and weeds sticking out of his topknot. He gagged, coughed up water and wine, then vomited copiously, holding his belly. Akitada helped the process along by slapping his back smartly.
“Wha . . . mph,” croaked the professor. “S-stop it. Oarghh.
Dear heaven, I f-feel awful. I’m all wet. Wh-what happened?”
“You fell into a ditch and almost drowned,” said Akitada, and delivered another unsympathetic smack for good measure.
“Ouch. Drowned? Ditch?” Sakamoto turned his head and peered blearily at the water, then flung both arms around Akitada’s knees. “You saved my l-life. Sh-shall be rewarded. S-silver. At my house.”
An invitation to Sakamoto’s house was tempting, but Akitada was tired. Besides, it might raise questions when he returned with Osawa the next day. On the whole, he preferred to remain a ragged stranger encountered on a dark night.
Putting his arm around Sakamoto’s back, he hauled him to his feet.
Their progress was not much quicker than before because Sakamoto became talkative again and insisted on stopping every few yards to recite poetry or bits of a sutra. The realization that he could have died but for the intervention of this kind stranger put him into a maudlin mood.
“To die forgotten in a ditch somewhere, how s-sad,” he muttered mournfully. “An exile in a distant land, dead on the strand of this s-sad world.” He stopped and raised his face to the cloudy skies. “All dead, every one of us, not a one left to tell our tale. F-forgotten. Gone. Like dewdrops. Snowflakes. Mere wisps of s-smoke.” Bursting into tears, he clutched Akitada’s hand and peered up at him blearily. “You’re a young man. Wh-what’s your name?”
“I have no name,” Akitada said, hiding a smile.
“No name?” Sakamoto pondered this, then nodded wisely.
“M-much better not to have a name.” Stepping away from Akitada, he flung his arms wide and recited, “ ‘Oh you, who now have gone to dwell among the clouds, do you still call yourself by the old name?’ ”
Akitada took hold of him firmly and managed to take him a little way before Sakamoto stopped again.
“He died well, you know. A warrior’s death. But what good is it now? S-so sad. All of life is a road towards death.” He nodded to Akitada and recited in a tragic voice, “ ‘I, too, am already deeply entered on the pathway of the gods and wonder what lies beyond.’ Do you think I shall find him there?”
“Find whom?”
“Him. My true sovereign. Oh, never mind.” He clutched at Akitada’s arm. “I’m sleepy. Take me home.” Akitada shared the feeling. He was exhausted himself. Fortunately, Sakamoto was no more trouble after that, and his servant received him with the unsurprised expression of long-suffering. Hardly glancing at the muddied figure of Akitada, who wisely kept his face in the shadow, he supported his master with one arm and fished a single copper coin from his sash.
Handing this to Akitada with a curt, “Thanks,” he slammed the gate in his face.
So much for the promised silver, Akitada thought, adding the copper to his small supply, then turned his steps toward the inn.
But soon he stepped off the stony roadway and continued on the grassy strip next to the ditch. In the silence, he now heard it clearly: someone else’s steps softly crunching on the gravel.
He thought that he had been trailed for quite a while. At first he had paid no attention. Others had the same right as he to take a stroll before bedtime. And when he had followed Sakamoto, he had assumed another reveler was on his way home. But now, on this quiet street leading to the lakeside villas, he knew someone had been watching and following them, and had done so from the time they left the Bamboo Grove.
The steps ceased abruptly. Either the other man had stopped or, like Akitada, he was walking on the soft grass. Akitada stepped back into the street and resumed his walk but increased his speed. As soon as he reached the first houses of Minato, he slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings and waited.
Nothing happened.
The other man was too wily. Well, he had time, and his pursuer had two choices. He could either give up the pursuit and go home, or he could come and investigate what had become of Akitada. A long time passed. The great bell at the temple sounded again, its deep peal muffled in the mist. It was wet where Akitada crouched; cold water dripped steadily down his back from the roof of one of the houses. He moved a little, but found more drips, and his legs began to cramp. Rising to his feet, he decided to give up, when he heard the crunching of gravel again.
The small man in the brown clothes walked past. He was almost close enough to touch and scanned the houses opposite.
For a moment, Akitada was tempted to jump out and force some answers from him, but he knew that the man would simply deny having followed him. The other’s face was not visible, but Akitada knew he was the birdlike individual he had seen earlier at the shrine. And now he noticed also that this man had a very slight peculiarity in his gait. His right leg seemed stiffer than the left.
Keeping to the dark shadows of the houses, Akitada followed silently, but eventually he lost him to the darkness.
Somewhat uneasy, he returned to the inn and let himself quietly into the kitchen, where he took off his wet shirt and pants and reassured himself that the flute was safe. Then he slipped into the bedding, falling instantly into an exhausted sleep.