Read Online Flask of the Drunken Master by Susan Spann - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Spann
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Father Mateo stopped at the gates but did not bow.
“We have come to see a prisoner named Ginjiro,” Hiro said. “We were told that he is here awaiting trial.”
“Ginjiro?” the white-haired d ō shin repeated. “Yes. I will ask if he can see a visitor.”
The d ō shin entered the gates and locked them again from the opposite side. His companion, who remained behind, watched the priest with the mute alarm of a Japanese man who had never seen a foreigner.
Father Mateo nodded to the guard but didn’t speak. Hiro noted the behavior with approval. The lowest-ranking samurai drew the assignment to guard the prison gates. No man of rank would engage them in conversation without need.
After several awkwardly silent minutes, the ancient d ō shin returned. This time, he didn’t lock the gate.
“You may see the prisoner,” he said, “but only briefly.”
“Acceptable,” Hiro replied, “we don’t need long.”
“And thank you,” Father Mateo added, to Hiro’s minor disapproval.
“Follow me.” The elderly d ō shin led them into the prison yard.
The ammonia-rich scent of human waste assaulted Hiro’s nostrils with the force of a physical blow. He coughed but stifled it quickly. Coughing showed weakness. More importantly, coughs required deep inhalation, which renewed the assault on Hiro’s senses.
The acrid smell rose up from puddles in the dozens of wooden cages that lined the yard and ringed the compound walls. The cages measured three feet across and as tall as Hiro’s shoulder—too short for a man to stand erect and not quite wide enough to sit or kneel. Some of the cages stood empty, but most held a single, miserable prisoner. Without a night-soil bucket, the prisoners’ waste ended up on the ground, creating puddles that even the flies avoided.
“How long do they keep these men in those tiny cages?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese.
“Until the magistrate hears their cases,” Hiro replied in the Jesuit’s language, glad to keep the conversation private.
“And after that?” the Jesuit asked.
“Fines, or flogging, or execution, depending on the crime.”
Near the middle of the compound, three wooden posts stood upright in the center of an open space. Each post measured as tall as a man and almost a foot in diameter, and had a pair of shackles secured to the top by a length of rusted chain. Dark red spots on the whipping posts attracted swarms of iridescent flies. Hiro didn’t need to get close to know the spots were blood.
Just in front of the whipping posts, the d ō shin took a left and led the visitors to a row of cages near the compound wall.
Ginjiro crouched in a wooden cage near the end of the row, feet half-buried in mud and human waste. He kept his eyes on the ground as the jailer approached, in part because of the cage’s height but also, no doubt, in shame.
The d ō shin stopped and called, “Ginjiro, identify yourself!”
The brewer raised his head. “I am Ginjiro.” His mouth fell open in shock, eyes wide, at the sight of Hiro and Father Mateo. He struggled to bow, but the narrow cage made courtesy impossible.
“Matsui- san, ” Ginjiro said, “I am honored, and shamed, by your visit.”
“You have five minutes,” the d ō shin said.
“May we approach him?” Father Mateo asked.
“If you choose,” the d ō shin said. “I wouldn’t. The prisoners throw filth if you get too close.”
Hiro and Father Mateo walked to Ginjiro’s cage as the d ō shin departed.
“Tomiko asked us to help you,” Hiro said.
Father Mateo added, “—to prove your innocence.”
Hiro wished the priest wouldn’t promise results when the truth remained uncertain.
“We have asked the magistrate to delay your hearing,” Hiro said.
Father Mateo looked up and down the row of cages. “Chikao’s family granted us four days to investigate.”
“After that, you answer to the magistrate,” Hiro said. “So if you know who killed Chikao, tell us now.”
“I didn’t
“We have come to see a prisoner named Ginjiro,” Hiro said. “We were told that he is here awaiting trial.”
“Ginjiro?” the white-haired d ō shin repeated. “Yes. I will ask if he can see a visitor.”
The d ō shin entered the gates and locked them again from the opposite side. His companion, who remained behind, watched the priest with the mute alarm of a Japanese man who had never seen a foreigner.
Father Mateo nodded to the guard but didn’t speak. Hiro noted the behavior with approval. The lowest-ranking samurai drew the assignment to guard the prison gates. No man of rank would engage them in conversation without need.
After several awkwardly silent minutes, the ancient d ō shin returned. This time, he didn’t lock the gate.
“You may see the prisoner,” he said, “but only briefly.”
“Acceptable,” Hiro replied, “we don’t need long.”
“And thank you,” Father Mateo added, to Hiro’s minor disapproval.
“Follow me.” The elderly d ō shin led them into the prison yard.
The ammonia-rich scent of human waste assaulted Hiro’s nostrils with the force of a physical blow. He coughed but stifled it quickly. Coughing showed weakness. More importantly, coughs required deep inhalation, which renewed the assault on Hiro’s senses.
The acrid smell rose up from puddles in the dozens of wooden cages that lined the yard and ringed the compound walls. The cages measured three feet across and as tall as Hiro’s shoulder—too short for a man to stand erect and not quite wide enough to sit or kneel. Some of the cages stood empty, but most held a single, miserable prisoner. Without a night-soil bucket, the prisoners’ waste ended up on the ground, creating puddles that even the flies avoided.
“How long do they keep these men in those tiny cages?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese.
“Until the magistrate hears their cases,” Hiro replied in the Jesuit’s language, glad to keep the conversation private.
“And after that?” the Jesuit asked.
“Fines, or flogging, or execution, depending on the crime.”
Near the middle of the compound, three wooden posts stood upright in the center of an open space. Each post measured as tall as a man and almost a foot in diameter, and had a pair of shackles secured to the top by a length of rusted chain. Dark red spots on the whipping posts attracted swarms of iridescent flies. Hiro didn’t need to get close to know the spots were blood.
Just in front of the whipping posts, the d ō shin took a left and led the visitors to a row of cages near the compound wall.
Ginjiro crouched in a wooden cage near the end of the row, feet half-buried in mud and human waste. He kept his eyes on the ground as the jailer approached, in part because of the cage’s height but also, no doubt, in shame.
The d ō shin stopped and called, “Ginjiro, identify yourself!”
The brewer raised his head. “I am Ginjiro.” His mouth fell open in shock, eyes wide, at the sight of Hiro and Father Mateo. He struggled to bow, but the narrow cage made courtesy impossible.
“Matsui- san, ” Ginjiro said, “I am honored, and shamed, by your visit.”
“You have five minutes,” the d ō shin said.
“May we approach him?” Father Mateo asked.
“If you choose,” the d ō shin said. “I wouldn’t. The prisoners throw filth if you get too close.”
Hiro and Father Mateo walked to Ginjiro’s cage as the d ō shin departed.
“Tomiko asked us to help you,” Hiro said.
Father Mateo added, “—to prove your innocence.”
Hiro wished the priest wouldn’t promise results when the truth remained uncertain.
“We have asked the magistrate to delay your hearing,” Hiro said.
Father Mateo looked up and down the row of cages. “Chikao’s family granted us four days to investigate.”
“After that, you answer to the magistrate,” Hiro said. “So if you know who killed Chikao, tell us now.”
“I didn’t
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