Island of Exiles

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.