ing up the shore. He could hear the conversation of the men

above as perfectly as if he were sitting beside them.

The supporting beams—there were eight of them—rested

on large flat rocks covered with slimy moss. The three outer-

most supports disappeared into the lake water. Beyond was the

lake and darkness.

Someone—he did not recognize the voice—was saying in a

peevish tone, “You should really maintain your property better,

Taro. These boards creak alarmingly every time that fat servant

steps on them.”

Sakamoto sounded humble and apologetic. “I had no inten-

tion of ever using this place again after the tragedy. But the

present emergency—”

There was a snort of derision.

Kumo cut in, “We all agreed that this meeting needs the pri-

vacy which only this pavilion affords.”

Akitada smiled to himself and brushed off a mosquito with

muddy fingers. More of the pesky insects hovered in the thin

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

195

beams of light, and he considered slipping back into the water.

Someone moved above, and a thin cloud of dust descended. He

looked up, wondering how strong the old floor was.

They had fallen silent after Kumo’s words. Someone belched

loudly.

Then the first speaker—he guessed it was Taira—spoke again.

“I personally saw no need for all this fuss,” he said, his voice tight and bitter and the tone accusatory. “The worst possible thing you

could do was to draw attention to us at this juncture. The trial is next week, and I see no reason why it should not go the way we

expect. Tomo will make certain; won’t you, Tomo?”

Tomo? Oh, yes. Nakatomi, the physician.

“I shall testify to nothing but the truth,” a sharp, slightly

nasal voice responded.

Someone muttered something.

“Yes, Tomo,” drawled Kumo, “provided you can confine

yourself to the cause of death.”

“What else would a physician be asked about? I am not a

witness or a suspect. I was not here at the time, as you recall.”

“Suspect?” cried Sakamoto. “You think we are suspects? Dear

heaven, has it come to that? Oh, why did this have to happen?”

“Stop that foolish whining,” snapped Taira.

“What if the judge asks Nakatomi about the prince’s health?

What will we do then?” Sakamoto’s voice was tense and wor-

ried. “He was his personal physician, after all.”

“The only thing I worry about is a case of nerves like yours,”

Taira reproved him. “Such loss of self-control could ruin us all.”

There was a gasp, then Sakamoto’s trembling voice: “Forgive

me, my lord. You know you can count on me. It’s just that this

was not in the plan.”

Below, Akitada let out a soft sigh. So there had been a plan.

Perhaps there still was one. But the prince’s death had not been

part of their scheme. What had happened?

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Kumo said abruptly, “There is no need to quarrel among

ourselves. It strikes me, though, that Shunsei is not here, and

him I do worry about. He is emotional and not very bright. And he is a witness who will testify at the trial.”

Taira said, “Shunsei is not here because he is no part of this

and knows nothing for the reasons you have just stated. How-

ever, I have had a talk with him about his testimony.”

Two people spoke up at once. Akitada could not make out

their words.

Then Taira spoke slowly and clearly, as if to foolish children.

“No. Shunsei is completely loyal to the prince, whom he wor-

ships even more assiduously than the Buddha. I made it clear to

him that revealing any part of the prince’s private life would

destroy his memory. The fellow wept and swore by all that’s

holy that he would never besmirch the name of his beloved.”

Nakatomi laughed. He said something about splitting the

peach to find the Buddha, but Kumo warned, “Careful! Here

comes more wine.”

There was a short silence. Akitada heard the pavilion stairs

groaning and creaking. Then heavy slapping steps crossed

above. Apparently the fat barefooted youth had arrived to refill

the wine flasks. He looked up at the black-stained boards

above his head, and saw them bending. More clouds of dust de-

scended. The thought crossed Akitada’s mind that he might be

crushed underneath the combined weight of the pavilion, the

four conspirators, and the fat servant.

What happened was not quite that bad, but bad enough.

Sakamoto cried, “Watch out, you oaf!”

Next there was a heavy thump, and a sharp cracking sound,

then a tearing and splintering. One of the wide boards split and

a fat naked leg descended to the accompaniment of a terrific

squeal of pain. Akitada stared at a dirty foot, dangling and

twitching inches from his face. Above, all hell broke loose. Men

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

197

shouted, dishes clattered, more steps caused more dust and

splinters to descend. And the fat servant still wailed. He wailed

steadily for more than a minute before he settled down to

moaning and sobbing.

Akitada withdrew to a corner near the outer edge of the

pavilion.

Upstairs, the other servant joined the fracas and shouted at

the unfortunate fat youth to get his leg out of the hole. Akitada

could see that the dangling limb was bleeding slightly. The fat

upper thigh was held in place by a large splinter which threat-

ened to penetrate more deeply if the leg was pulled upward. The

youth explained his predicament amid loud groans and sobs.

“Well, go down there and free him,” snapped Kumo.

The other servant protested shrilly that he could not swim.

The lakeside balustrade creaked, and Kumo pointed out that the

water was quite shallow. Kumo, and perhaps the others, were

scanning the surrounding lake and shore. Akitada was trapped

under the pavilion, and the surly servant was about to join him.

Discovery was imminent. Keeping close to the corner support,

Akitada let his body slip into the water until only his head

protruded.

Sounds from the stairs suggested that some of the guests

were abandoning the pavilion for safer ground from which to

watch the rescue operation. Next came the telltale squelching as

the servant approached through the mud from the lake side. He

had to bend to squeeze under the pavilion. Akitada could see

him only as a darker blob against the faintly lit grayness outside.

The man muttered under his breath, then called out, “Where

the devil are you? I can’t see a thing.”

The fat leg wiggled, and a pained voice cried, “Here. Be care-

ful! It hurts dreadfully.”

The older man found the leg and gave it an exploratory

push upward, which resulted in an earsplitting scream. The

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I . J . P a r k e r

rescuer abandoned the leg and splashed back to the edge of the

pavilion.

“Got to cut it off,” he shouted to someone on top. “I’ll need

a knife and a saw.”

The unfortunate youth above started babbling wildly that

he did not want it cut off. A lengthy discussion followed, suc-

ceeded by a tense wait during which the older servant could be

heard slapping mosquitoes and muttering imprecations against

gluttony and stupidity. Above, the soft sobbing and moaning

continued. And Akitada waited tensely.

In time someone passed tools to the resentful rescuer below.

He returned to the twitching leg and proceeded to saw and cut

the boards, while the fat youth squealed and pleaded. Sakamoto

added his own shouts from a safe distance, encouraging one