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.
“Yoshimine Taketsuna.”
The shrimp’s eyes grew round. “Two names. A gentleman.
No wonder you act like you own the place. How come they sent you here?”
“I killed someone.”
“Ah!” They looked at each other and nodded understanding.
Introductions followed. The small man with the bandages was Jisei; he had just returned from a work detail digging tunnels deep into the earth and bringing out rocks. His knees and elbows had become infected after a year’s crawling on all fours.
“I’ll be reassigned now,” he told Taketsuna importantly. “Maybe I’ll even get to go home.” He looked away, across the top of the stockade, a dreamy smile on his lined face.
Haseo, a huge burly man, spat. The others introduced him; apparently he rarely spoke himself and appeared to take little interest in the conversation. They only knew his name and imagined that he, too, must be a convicted killer. Haseo did not correct them.
They passed the long hot afternoon in desultory conversation interspersed with naps.
The two big fellows, one crippled with a badly set leg, the other one-eyed, were pirates, Kumaso and Yoshi. They passed the time telling of adventure at sea, of stolen treasure, monsters of the deep, and apparitions of floating fairies. According to Jisei, they also had an uncanny talent for predicting the weather.
Jisei, the shrimp, had been on Sadoshima longest, having been sent here for stealing a golden scepter from the hand of a temple statue.
All of them awaited reassignment, though none was as optimistic as Jisei. They expected to be put to work building roads, digging irrigation canals, building stockades, or repairing public buildings.
Taketsuna wanted to ask about Jisei’s strange tunneling when shouts sounded outside the gate. The guards rushed to throw open both sides of the double gate and stood to attention. A contingent of uniformed runners entered at a trot, carrying the banner of the governor of Sado. His Excellency followed on a fine horse, and more runners brought up the rear. “Make room for the governor!” shouted the frontrun-ners in unison, and the prisoners immediately prostrated themselves.
All but one, that is. Taketsuna wanted a good look at the man who ruled this island in the emperor’s name. The governor was an elderly man with a clean-shaven, intelligent face and eyes which roamed around the yard until they found the prisoners. For a moment he locked eyes with Taketsuna, then the new prisoner quickly prostrated himself with the rest. He had seen the expression on the other man’s face and wondered if he looked worse than he felt.
The governor’s visit was short and did not seem to concern the prisoners. The great man and his escort left after only the briefest stop in the guardhouse.
This was not the only excitement of the day, for an hour later there was another shout outside the gate. This time the guards were in no rush to admit the visitor. They exchanged some unintelligible words with someone outside and finally cracked the gate grudgingly to admit a fat man in the black robe of a minor official. He was followed by a ragged youngster with a bamboo case.
The fat man also cast a glance toward the prisoners and then waddled to the guardhouse.
“That’s the doctor,” Jisei informed Taketsuna. “Hope he looks at my knees. They been getting worse. What do you think?” Jisei lifted one of the stained rags around his knees.
Taketsuna looked and averted his eyes. A huge area of swollen, dirt-encrusted flesh, ringed by angry purplish red skin, oozed a bloody liquid and yellow pus. If Jisei did not get some medical attention soon, he would get a fever and die from the infection.
Moments later, one of the guards emerged from the guardhouse and strode briskly toward the prisoners. Jisei scrambled to his feet.
But the guard’s eye was on Taketsuna. “You,” he barked. “Get up. You’re to see the doctor.”
Taketsuna rose and followed him into the building, past disinterested guards, and into the far corner of the open space, where two screens of woven bamboo had been set up to create some privacy. The arrangement astonished the prisoner, but he was grateful for it. His present condition was still so novel that he found it difficult to put aside past habits of modesty.
The doctor proved, on closer inspection, less confidence-inspiring. The black gown was covered with stains, his finger-nails were dirt-rimmed, and his eyes bleary and bloodshot.
“Harrumph,” said the doctor. “I’m Ogata, physician and medical officer for the prisoners. Was told to have a look at you.
You’re Taketsuna? No family names here, I’m afraid. Strictly forbidden. You don’t look too good. What happened?”
“I’m all right. We ran into a storm coming over, and I’m not used to sailing. But there’s a man outside whose wounds have become infected.”
The doctor nodded, then stepped closer to peer at Taketsuna’s face. A strong smell of sour breath and wine assailed the prisoner’s nose and made him flinch.
“Hmm. I suppose the welcoming committee issued its usual warning,” the physician said, probing Taketsuna’s cheekbone and jaw with surprisingly gentle fingers. “Open your mouth.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Eating will be a bit painful for a while, but you should get over that.” Taketsuna smiled a little, painfully. “So far there has been no food. Only water. I could eat raw greens at this point.” He wondered if the physician had heard his comment about little Jisei.
The physician cocked his head. “When did they feed you last?”
“A bowl of gruel on the ship after the storm. It was all the food I’ve had in three days. I was seasick.”
“No wonder you’re swaying on your feet. Never mind. You’ll get fed. And, as soon as I’ve checked the rest of you, you can sit down. Take off those filthy rags.”
The prisoner glanced at the doctor’s stained gown and smiled again, but he complied without protest.
“Heavens,” muttered the physician, stepping back and walking around the patient. “You’ve got muscles. Ever do any wrestling?”
“Just for exercise.”
“They’ll put you to hard labor if they see that. You’d better keep your clothes on at all times and slouch a bit when you walk.”
“What sort of labor?”
The physician was feeling the bruised ribs. “Roads. Dikes.
Mines. Lifting and carrying rocks. Not healthy unless you’re used to it.” He moved around to the prisoner’s back and pressed near the lower spine. “Does this hurt?” The prisoner shook his head, and the physician came around to face him again, prodding about the abdomen, asking about pain. Again the prisoner shook his head.
“You can get dressed now,” the doctor said, digging about in his medicine case and pulling forth a stoppered flask. “My guess is . . .” he said, pausing to take a long swig from the bottle before extending it to Taketsuna, “that you have never done a day’s hard physical work in your life, and the sort of forced labor the stronger prisoners do here will cripple or kill a man like you.
Have you any skills?”
