Rhythmic splashing noises penetrated his stupor. Voices called. Yanagisawa opened his eyes. Sun and blue sky dazzled them. He saw a boat coming toward him across the water. It was a fishing boat manned by two peasants. Behind them Yanagisawa saw land in the distance. The tide must have carried him in.
The boat drew near. The fishermen hauled Yanagisawa into their boat. As they rowed him shoreward, he had barely enough wits to be grateful that he’d been rescued.
They took him to their village and laid him in a hut. Their womenfolk poured water into him and slathered healing balm on his sunburn. Fever enflamed Yanagisawa. He suffered delirious nightmares of sea monsters, fires burning, and warring armies. The women forced bitter herb tea down his throat. Gradually the fever receded. One morning he awoke with a clear head. He was lying on a mattress in a room cluttered with fishing nets, pails, and kitchen utensils. Gulls screeched outside. Yanagisawa saw an old woman kneeling by the hearth.
“Where am I?” he said, his voice an almost inaudible croak.
The woman turned; a smile deepened the wrinkles in her face. “Good, you’re awake. This is Matsuzaki Village.”
That was on the Izu Peninsula, a knob of land that extended from Japan’s southern coast, Yanagisawa recalled. “How long have I been here?”
“Seven days.”
Yanagisawa was disturbed that so much precious time had passed. “Thank you for saving my life. I have to go now.”
He pushed back the quilt and tried to sit up, but his muscles were too weak. The old woman said, “You must wait until you’re stronger.”
She fed him hearty fish stews, and day by day he recovered his health. The villagers asked him where he’d come from, who he was. He pretended he didn’t know, he’d lost his memory. He didn’t want the authorities to find out that their most notorious exile had returned. When he walked on the beach for exercise, he went after dark in case Lord Matsudaira’s spies should happen by. He let the hair grow on his crown and face. After a month, Yanagisawa was as fit as he’d ever been, but nobody he knew would recognize him. Dressed in worn clothes given him by the fishermen, he looked like one of them.
All he had left of his former wealth was a few gold coins smuggled to him after Lord Matsudaira had had him arrested. He’d smuggled them to Hachijo and carried them sewn into the hem of his robe. He gave the villagers one coin as payment for their kindness and some food for his journey. The rest he hoarded. He left the village in the third month of the year and made his slow, exhausting way on foot up the Izu Peninsula then along the main highway that led east toward Edo.
How he missed traveling on horseback, in high style! Now the other travelers took him for a beggar, which was the truth. His food ran out, and he subsisted on alms they gave him or scraps from garbage outside lodging houses. That he’d been reduced to scavenging like a stray dog! When he grew tired, he slept in the woods. Lord Matsudaira would pay for this!
After nearly a month he reached a temple north of Totsuka, a day’s journey short of the capital. It was past sunset, the priests had retired, and the lush spring temple gardens were deserted. Doves cooed in the eaves. Yanagisawa trudged up to the abbot’s residence, a villa landscaped with blossoming cherry trees. He knocked on the door. The abbot let him inside.
“Are you surprised to see me?” Yanagisawa said as he wolfed a meal of rice, vegetable soup, and tea.
“Not really,” the abbot said. “The strong do survive.” He was an ageless man who wore a saffron robe with a brocade stole. His shaved head was as round and shiny as a pearl. “How may I be of assistance?”
Yanagisawa had built this temple and supported the sect for ten years. The abbot owed him. “First I need a bath, some clean clothes, and a place to stay.”
The abbot nodded. “You are welcome to the guest cottage as long as you wish.”
“I also need news,” Yanagisawa said. “What’s the situation in Edo?”
“To make it brief,” the abbot said, “Lord Matsudaira is holding his own. And Sano Ichiro has your job.”
This was bad, but Yanagisawa intended to change it. “Will you send a message to Edo for me?”
“Of course.” The abbot scrutinized Yanagisawa. “We must do something about your appearance. That’s a good disguise, but you look like a tramp.”
Yanagisawa agreed. “I have an idea for a better disguise.”
The next morning he shaved his face and head. He donned a saffron robe and smiled at his reflection in the mirror. He looked the perfect priest. Then he relaxed in the cottage, waiting for his message to be sneaked into Edo Castle and a response to come. On his fourth evening at the temple, he was strolling in the garden when three samurai approached him. One was a beautiful young man, the others crabbed with old age.
“Excuse me, Your Honorable Holiness,” the young man said, “I received a message saying that if I wanted important news about my father, I should come here.”
He took a closer look at Yanagisawa, and his expression registered shock and disbelief. “Father!” he cried. “It’s you! Did you send me that message?”
“Yes, Yoritomo.” During his exile, Yanagisawa had often thought of his son but hadn’t known how much he missed him until this moment. Now his heart filled with such warm, intense love that he actually trembled as he beheld his son, a twenty-four-year-old image of himself.
“Oh, Father, I’m so glad you’re back!” Radiant with joy, Yoritomo fell to his knees before Yanagisawa and wept.
Tears stung Yanagisawa’s own eyes. He raised Yoritomo up and they embraced fiercely. “Are you well, my son?” he said in a voice gruff with affection. He held Yoritomo at arm’s length, the better to feast on the sight of him. “How has the shogun been treating you?”
“I’m fine. His Excellency is very kind.” In three years Yoritomo had become a full-fledged adult, but he retained his boyish air of innocence. “I’m still his favorite companion.”
Yoritomo was more than just a companion; he was the shogun’s lover. The shogun had had a long romantic liaison with Yanagisawa, who’d parlayed his influence over the shogun into control over the regime. Now Yoritomo held the same advantageous position. The shogun’s fondness had protected him after Lord Matsudaira had defeated Yanagisawa. Although Lord Matsudaira had exiled Yanagisawa’s family, Yoritomo remained in Edo because the shogun had insisted on keeping him.
“I’m delighted to hear that you’re still close to the shogun,” Yanagisawa said.
He was even more relieved. Yoritomo represented his second chance at gaining permanent power over Japan. Yoritomo had Tokugawa blood-from his mother, a relative of the shogun-and rumor had said that he was heir apparent to the dictatorship. Yanagisawa had started the rumor himself. He meant to make it a reality and rule Japan through Yoritomo someday. But even though Yanagisawa would use Yoritomo as he used everyone he could, his son was more than just a tool. He’d never cared as much for anyone as he did Yoritomo. He had three other sons, but Yoritomo was more than just his flesh and blood.
“I thought I’d never see you again!” Yoritomo exclaimed.
“So did we,” said the old men.
Yanagisawa turned to Kato Kinhide and Ihara Eigoro, members of the Council of Elders, Japan’s supreme governing body and the shogun’s top advisers. His message had asked Yoritomo to bring them along. They’d opposed Lord Matsudaira and supported Yanagisawa during the war. They had survived the purges by latching onto Yoritomo, whose influence with the shogun protected them from Lord Matsudaira. Now they looked as amazed to see Yanagisawa as if he’d risen from the dead, and not especially pleased.
“What’s the matter?” Yanagisawa said. “I thought you’d be glad I’m back.”
“Yes, of course we are,” said Ihara. He was short and hunched, simian in appearance. “This is just such a shock.”