'- or maybe . . .' The pistol's mouth plants a kiss on Uzaemon's temple.

It's now it's now it's now it's now it's now it's now it's now 'Animal terror,' a murmur enters Uzaemon's ear, 'has half dissolved your mind, so I shall provide you with a thought. Music, as it were, to die to. The acolytes of the Order of Mount Shiranui are initiated into the Twelve Creeds, but they stay ignorant of the Thirteenth until they become masters - one of whom you met this morning, the landlord at the Harubayashi Inn. The Thirteenth Creed pertains to an untidy loose end. Were our Sisters - and housekeepers, in fact - to descend to the World Below and discover that not one of their Gifts, their children, is alive or known, questions may be asked. To avoid such unpleasantness, Suzaku administers a gentle drug at their Rite of Departure. This drug ensures a dreamless death, long before their palanquin reaches the foot of Mekura Gorge. They are then buried in that very bamboo grove into which you blundered this morning. So here is your final thought: your childlike failure to rescue Aibagawa Orito sentences her not only to twenty years of servitude - your ineptitude has, literally, killed her.'

The pistol rests on Ogawa Uzaemon's forehead . . .

He expends his last moment on a prayer. Avenge me. Avenge me.

A click, a spring, a strangled whimper nothing now but Now Now Now Now now now now now nownownow-- Thunder splits the rift where the sun floods in.

PART III.

The Master of Go Go.

The Seventh Month in the Thirteenth Year of the Era of Kansei

XXVII.

Dejima

August, 1800.

Last trading season, Moses whittled a spoon from a bone. A fine spoon, in the shape of a fish. Master Grote saw the fine spoon, and he told Moses, 'Slaves eat with fingers. Slaves cannot own spoons.' Then, Master Grote took the fine spoon. Later, I passed Master Grote and a Japanese gentleman. Master Grote was saying, 'This spoon was made by the very hands of the famous Robinson Crusoe.' Later, Sjako heard Master Baert tell Master Oost how the Japanese gentleman had paid five lacquer bowls for Robinson Crusoe's spoon. D'Orsaiy told Moses to hide his spoon better next time, and trade with the coolies or carpenters. But Moses said, 'Why? When Master Grote or Master Gerritszoon hunt through my straw next time, they find my earnings and take them. They say, "Slaves do not own. Slaves are owned." '

Sjako said that masters do not allow slaves to own goods or money because a slave with money could run away more easily. Philander said that such talk was bad talk. Cupido said to Moses that if he carves more spoons and gives them to Master Grote, Master Grote will value him more and surely treat him better. I said, those words are true if the master is a good master, but for a bad master, it is never true.

Cupido and Philander are favourites of the Dutch officers, because they play music at the dinner parties. They call themselves 'servants' and use fancy Dutch words like wigs and laces. They talk about 'my flute' and 'my stockings'. But Philander's flute and Cupido's fat violin and their elegant costumes belong to their masters. They wear no shoes. When the Vorstenbosch left last year, he sold them to the van Cleef. They say they were 'passed on' from the Old Chief to the New Chief, but they were sold for five guineas each.

No, a slave cannot even say, 'These are my fingers,' or 'This is my skin.' We do not own our bodies. We do not own our families. Once, Sjako would talk about 'my children back in Batavia'. He fathered his children, yes. But to his masters they are not 'his'. To his masters, Sjako is like a horse, who fathered a foal on a mare. Here is the proof: when Sjako complained too bitterly that he had not seen his family for many years, Master Fischer and Master Gerritszoon beat him severely. Sjako walks with a limp now. He talks less.

Once, I thought this question: Do I own my name? Do I own my name? I do not mean my slave-names. My slave-names change at the whims of my masters. The Acehnese slavers who stole me named me 'Straight Teeth'. The Dutchman who bought me at Batavia slave-market named me 'Washington'. He was a bad master. Master Yang named me Yang Fen. He taught me tailoring and fed me the same food as his sons. My third owner was Master van Cleef. He named me 'Weh' because of a mistake. When he asked Master Yang - using fancy Dutch words - for my name, the Chinaman thought the question was 'From where does he hail?' and replied, 'An island called Weh,' and my next slave-name was fixed. But it is a happy mistake for me. On Weh, I was not a slave. On Weh, I was with my people. I do not mean my slave-names. My slave-names change at the whims of my masters. The Acehnese slavers who stole me named me 'Straight Teeth'. The Dutchman who bought me at Batavia slave-market named me 'Washington'. He was a bad master. Master Yang named me Yang Fen. He taught me tailoring and fed me the same food as his sons. My third owner was Master van Cleef. He named me 'Weh' because of a mistake. When he asked Master Yang - using fancy Dutch words - for my name, the Chinaman thought the question was 'From where does he hail?' and replied, 'An island called Weh,' and my next slave-name was fixed. But it is a happy mistake for me. On Weh, I was not a slave. On Weh, I was with my people.

My true name I tell nobody, so nobody can steal my name.

The answer, I think, is yes - my true name is a thing I own.

Sometimes another thought comes to me: Do I own my memories? Do I own my memories?

The memory of my brother diving from the turtle rock, sleek and brave . . .

The memory of the typhoon bending the trees like grass, the sea roaring . . .

The memory of my tired, glad mother rocking the new baby to sleep, singing . . .

Yes - like my true name, my memories are things I own.

Once, I thought this thought: Do I own this thought? Do I own this thought?

The answer was hidden in mist, so I asked Dr Marinus's servant, Eelattu.

Eelattu answered, yes, my thoughts are born in my mind, so they are mine. Eelattu said that I can own my mind, if I choose. I said, 'Even a slave?' Eelattu said, yes, if the mind is a strong place. So I created a mind like an island, like Weh, protected by deep blue sea. On my mind-island, there are no bad-smelling Dutchmen, or sneering Malay servants, or Japanese men.

Master Fischer owns my body, then, but he does not own my mind. This I know, because of a test. When I shave Master Fischer, I imagine slitting open his throat. If he owned my mind, he would see this evil thought. But instead of punishing me, he just sits there with his eyes shut.

But I discovered there are problems with owning your mind. When I am on my mind-island, I am as free as any Dutchman. There, I eat capons and mango and sugared plums. There, I lie with Master van Cleef's wife in the warm sand. There, I build boats and weave sails with my brother and my people. If I forget their names, they remind me. We speak in the tongue of Weh and drink kava kava and pray to our ancestors. There, I do not stitch or scrub or fetch or carry for masters. and pray to our ancestors. There, I do not stitch or scrub or fetch or carry for masters.

Then, I hear, 'Are you listening listening to me, idle dog?' to me, idle dog?'

Then, I hear, 'If you won't move for me me, here's my whip!'

Each time I return from my mind-island, I am recaptured by slavers.

When I return to Dejima, the scars from my capture ache, a little.

When I return to Dejima, I feel a coal of anger glowing inside.

The word 'my' brings pleasure. The word 'my' brings pain. These are true words for masters as well as slaves. When they are drunk, we become invisible to them. Their talk turns to owning, or to profit, or loss, or buying, or selling, or stealing, or hiring, or renting, or swindling. For White men, to live is to own, or to try to own more, or to die trying to own more. Their appetites are astonishing! They own wardrobes, slaves, carriages, houses, warehouses and ships. They own ports, cities, plantations, valleys, mountains, chains of islands. They own this world, its jungles, its skies and its seas. Yet they complain that Dejima is a prison. They complain they are not free. Only Dr Marinus is free from these complaints. His skin is a White man's, but through his eyes you can see his soul is not a White man's soul. His soul is much older. On Weh, we would call him a kwaio kwaio. A kwaio kwaio is an ancestor who does not stay on the island of ancestors. A is an ancestor who does not stay on the island of ancestors. A kwaio kwaio returns and returns and returns, each time in a new child. A good returns and returns and returns, each time in a new child. A good kwaio kwaio may become a shaman, but nothing in this world is worse than a bad may become a shaman, but nothing in this world is worse than a bad kwaio kwaio.

The doctor persuaded Master Fischer that I should be taught to write Dutch.

Master Fischer did not like the idea. He said that a slave who can read might ruin himself with 'revolutionary notions'. He said he saw this in Surinam. But Dr Marinus urged Master Fischer to consider how useful I will be in the Clerks' Office, and how much higher a price I will fetch when he wants to sell me. These words changed Master Fischer's mind. He looked down the dining table to Master de Zoet. He said, 'Clerk de Zoet, I have the perfect job for a man like you.'

When Master Fischer finishes his meal in the Kitchen, I walk behind him to the Deputy's House. When we cross Long Street I must carry his parasol so his head stays in the shade. This is not an easy task. If a tassel touches his head, or if the sun dazzles his eyes, he will hit me for carelessness. Today my master is in a bad mood because he lost so much money at Master Grote's card-game. He stops, here, in the middle of Long Street. 'In Surinam,' he yells, 'they know know how to train stinking Negroid dogs like you!' Then he slaps my face, as hard as he can, and I drop the parasol. He shouts at me, 'Pick that up!' When I bend down, he kicks my face. This is a favourite trick of Master Fischer's, so my face is turned away from his foot, but I pretend to be in great pain. Otherwise he will feel cheated and kick me again. He says, 'That'll teach you to throw my possessions in the dust!' I say, 'Yes, Master Fischer,' and open the door of his house for him. how to train stinking Negroid dogs like you!' Then he slaps my face, as hard as he can, and I drop the parasol. He shouts at me, 'Pick that up!' When I bend down, he kicks my face. This is a favourite trick of Master Fischer's, so my face is turned away from his foot, but I pretend to be in great pain. Otherwise he will feel cheated and kick me again. He says, 'That'll teach you to throw my possessions in the dust!' I say, 'Yes, Master Fischer,' and open the door of his house for him.

We climb the stairs to his bedroom. He lies on his bed and says, 'It's too bloody damned hot in this bloody damned prison . . .'

There is much talk about 'prison' this summer because the ship from Batavia has not arrived. The White masters are afraid that it will not come, so there will be no trading season and no news or luxuries from Java. The White masters who are due to return will not be able to. Nor will their servants or slaves.

Master Fischer throws his handkerchief on the floor and says, 'Shit!'

This Dutch word can be a curse, or a bad name, but this time Master Fischer is ordering me to put his chamber pot in his favourite corner. There is a privy at the foot of the stairs, but he is too lazy to go down the steps. Master Fischer stands, unfastens his breeches, squats over the pot and grunts. I hear a slithery thud. The smell snakes its way around the room. Then Master Fischer is buttoning up his breeches. 'Don't just stand there, then, you idle Gomorrah . . .' His voice is drowsy because of his lunchtime whisky. I put the wooden lid on the chamber pot - and go outside to the Soil Barrel. Master Fischer says he cannot tolerate dirt in his house, so I cannot empty his chamber pot into the privy like other slaves do.

I walk down Long Street to the Crossroads, turn into Bony Alley, turn left at Sea Wall Lane, pass the Headman's House, and empty the chamber pot into the Soil Urn, near the back of the Hospital. The cloud of flies is thick and droning. I narrow my eyes like a Yellow Man's and wrinkle shut my nose to stop any flies laying their eggs there. Then I wash the chamber pot from the barrel of seawater. On the bottom of Master Fischer's chamber pot is a strange building called a windmill from the White Man's World. Philander says that they make bread, but when I asked how, he called me a very ignorant fellow. This means he does not know.

I take the long way back to the Deputy's House. The White masters complain about the heat all summer long, but I love to let the sun warm my bones so I can survive the winters. The sun reminds me of Weh, my home. When I pass the pig-pens, d'Orsaiy sees me and asks why Master Fischer hit me on Long Street. With my face, I say, Does a master need a reason? Does a master need a reason? and d'Orsaiy nods. I like d'Orsaiy. D'Orsaiy comes from a place called the Cape, halfway to the White Man's World. His skin is the blackest I ever saw. Dr Marinus says he is a Hottentot, but the master hands call him 'Knave o' Spades'. He asks me if I am going to study reading and writing at Master de Zoet's this afternoon. I say, 'Yes, unless Master Fischer gives me more work.' D'Orsaiy says that writing is a magic that I should learn. D'Orsaiy tells me that Master Ouwehand and Master Twomey are playing billiards in Summer House. This is a warning to walk briskly so that Master Ouwehand does not report me to Master Fischer for idling. and d'Orsaiy nods. I like d'Orsaiy. D'Orsaiy comes from a place called the Cape, halfway to the White Man's World. His skin is the blackest I ever saw. Dr Marinus says he is a Hottentot, but the master hands call him 'Knave o' Spades'. He asks me if I am going to study reading and writing at Master de Zoet's this afternoon. I say, 'Yes, unless Master Fischer gives me more work.' D'Orsaiy says that writing is a magic that I should learn. D'Orsaiy tells me that Master Ouwehand and Master Twomey are playing billiards in Summer House. This is a warning to walk briskly so that Master Ouwehand does not report me to Master Fischer for idling.

Back at the Deputy's House, I hear snoring. I creep up the stairways, knowing which steps creak and which do not. Master Fischer is asleep. This is a problem, because if I go to Master de Zoet's house for my writing lesson without Master Fischer's permission, he will punish me for being wilful. If I do not go to Master de Zoet's house, Master Fischer will punish me for laziness. But if I wake up Master Fischer to ask his permission, he will punish me for spoiling his siesta. In the end, I slide the chamber pot under Master Fischer's bed and go. Perhaps I will be back before he wakes.

The door of Tall House, where Master de Zoet lives, is ajar. Behind the side door is a large, locked room full of empty crates and barrels. I knock on the lowest step, as usual, and expect to hear Master de Zoet's voice calling, 'Is that you, Weh?' But today, there is no reply. Surprised, I climb the stairs, making enough noise to warn him that I am coming. Still there is no greeting. Master de Zoet rarely takes a siesta, but perhaps the heat has overcome him this afternoon. On the landing, I cross the side room where the house interpreter lives during the trading season. Master de Zoet's door is half open, so I peer in. He is sitting at his low table. He does not notice me. His face is not his own today. The light in his eyes is dark. He is afraid. His lips are half mouthing silent words. On my home-island, we would say that he has been cursed by a bad kwaio kwaio.

Master de Zoet is staring at a scroll in front of him.

It is not a White man's book, but a Yellow man's scroll.

I am too far away to see well, but the letters on it are not Dutch ones.

It is Yellow man's writing - Master Yang and his sons used such letters.

Next to the scroll on Master de Zoet's table is a notebook. Some Chinese words are written next to Dutch words. I make this guess: Master de Zoet has been translating the scroll into his own language. This has freed a bad curse, and this bad curse has possessed him.

Master de Zoet senses I am here, and he looks up.

XXVIII.

Captain Penhaligon's Cabin Aboard HMS Phoebus, East China Sea

Around three o'clock on the 16th October, 1800 Indeed it seems [John Penhaligon reads] [John Penhaligon reads] that Nature purposely designed these islands to be a sort of little world, separate and independent of the rest, by making them of so difficult an access, and by endowing them plentifully, with whatever is requisite to make the lives of their Inhabitants both delightful and pleasant, and to enable them to subsist without a commerce with foreign Nations . . . that Nature purposely designed these islands to be a sort of little world, separate and independent of the rest, by making them of so difficult an access, and by endowing them plentifully, with whatever is requisite to make the lives of their Inhabitants both delightful and pleasant, and to enable them to subsist without a commerce with foreign Nations . . .

The Captain yawns and cricks his jaw. Lieutenant Hovell declares there to be no better text on Japan than Engelbert Kaempfer's and never mind its age; but by the time Penhaligon staggers to the end of one sentence, its beginning has receded into fog. Through the stern window he studies the ominous, busy horizon. His whale's-tooth paperweight rolls off his desk, and he hears Wetz, the Sailing Master, ordering the topgallants trimmed. None too soon None too soon, thinks the Captain. The Yellow Sea has changed colour from this morning's robin's-egg blue to ordure-grey, with a sky of scabby pewter.

Where is Chigwin, he wonders, and where is my damn coffee? and where is my damn coffee?

Penhaligon retrieves his paperweight and pain bites his right ankle.

He squints at his barometer, whose needle is stuck to the g g of 'Changeable'. of 'Changeable'.

The Captain returns to Engelbert Kaempfer to pick at a knot of illogic: the corollary of the phrase 'Whatever is requisite' is that man's needs are universal whereas, in truth, a king's requisites differ radically from a reed-cutter's; a libertine's from an archbishop's; and his own from his grandfather's. He opens his notebook and, bracing himself against the swell, writes: What prophet of commerce in, let us say, the Year 1700 could have foreseen a time when commoners consume tea by the bucket and sugar by the sack? What subject of William and Mary could have predicted the 'need' of today's middling multitudes for cotton sheets, coffee and chocolate? Human requisites are prone to fashion; and, as clamouring new needs replace old ones, the face of the world itself changes . . .

It is too rough to write, but John Penhaligon is pleased and his gout has calmed down again, for now. A rich vein A rich vein. He takes out his shaving mirror from his escritoire. Sweetmeat pies have fattened the fellow in the glass, brandy reddened his complexion, grief sunk his eyes and bad weather blasted away his thatch, but what restores a man's vigour - and name - better than success?

He sketches his first speech at Westminster. 'One recalls that the Phoebus Phoebus,' he shall inform their enrapt lordships, 'one recalls that my Phoebus my Phoebus was no five-decked ship-of-the-line with an auditorium of thunder-spouting guns, but a modest frigate of twenty-four eighteen-pounders. Her mizzen had sprung in the Straits of Formosa, her cordage was tired, her canvas threadbare, half our supplies from Fort Cornwallis were rotted, and her geriatric pump wheezed like my lord Falmouth atop his disappointed whore, and to as little profit -' the chamber shall erupt with laughter as his old enemy flees to die of shame in his stoat-hole '- but her was no five-decked ship-of-the-line with an auditorium of thunder-spouting guns, but a modest frigate of twenty-four eighteen-pounders. Her mizzen had sprung in the Straits of Formosa, her cordage was tired, her canvas threadbare, half our supplies from Fort Cornwallis were rotted, and her geriatric pump wheezed like my lord Falmouth atop his disappointed whore, and to as little profit -' the chamber shall erupt with laughter as his old enemy flees to die of shame in his stoat-hole '- but her heart heart, my lords, was English oak; and when we hammered on the bolted gates of Japan, we did so with that resolve for which our race is justly notorious.' Their lordships' hush shall grow reverential. 'The copper we seized from the perfidious Dutch on that October day was but a token. Our truest prize, and the legacy of the Phoebus Phoebus, was a market, sirs, for the fruits of your your mills, mines, plantations and manufactories; and the gratitude of the Japanese Empire for rousing her from feudal somnambulance into our modern century. To claim that my mills, mines, plantations and manufactories; and the gratitude of the Japanese Empire for rousing her from feudal somnambulance into our modern century. To claim that my Phoebus Phoebus drew the political map of Eastern Asia anew is no hyperbole.' Their lordships nod their cluttered heads, and declare, 'Hear, hear!' Lord Admiral Penhaligon continues: 'This august chamber is cognisant of History's diverse instruments of change: the diplomat's tongue; treachery's poison; a monarch's mercy; a pope's tyranny . . .' drew the political map of Eastern Asia anew is no hyperbole.' Their lordships nod their cluttered heads, and declare, 'Hear, hear!' Lord Admiral Penhaligon continues: 'This august chamber is cognisant of History's diverse instruments of change: the diplomat's tongue; treachery's poison; a monarch's mercy; a pope's tyranny . . .'

By God, Penhaligon thinks, this is good: I must write it down later this is good: I must write it down later.

'. . . and it is nothing less than the greatest honour of my life that, in the first year of the nineteenth century, History chose one plucky ship, His Majesty's Frigate Phoebus Phoebus to open the doors of the most reclusive empire in the modern world - for the glory of His Majesty and the British Empire!' By now every last bewigged bastard in the place, Whig, Tory, cross-bencher, bishop, general and admiral alike shall be jumping to his feet and roaring with applause. to open the doors of the most reclusive empire in the modern world - for the glory of His Majesty and the British Empire!' By now every last bewigged bastard in the place, Whig, Tory, cross-bencher, bishop, general and admiral alike shall be jumping to his feet and roaring with applause.

'Cap-' outside his door, Chigwin sneezes '- tain?'

'I trust you disturb me with coffee, Chigwin.'

His young steward, the son of a master shipwright at Chatham who overlooked an awkward debt, peers in. 'Jones is grinding the beans now, sir: the cook's had Old Harry of a time keeping the stove alight.'

'It was coffee coffee I ordered, Chigwin, not a mug of excuses!' I ordered, Chigwin, not a mug of excuses!'

'Aye, sir: sorry, sir; it should be just a few minutes more . . .' a slug-trail of mucus glistens on Chigwin's sleeve '. . . but those rocks Mr Snitker made mention of are sighted to starboard, and Mr Hovell thought as you may wish to survey them.'

Don't chew the boy's head off. 'Yes, I should.'

'Would there be any instructions for dinner, sir?'

'The lieutenants and Mr Snitker shall dine with me tonight, so . . .'

They steady themselves as the Phoebus Phoebus plunges down a trough. plunges down a trough.

'. . . bid Jones serve us up those chickens that are laying no more. I have no space for idlers on my ship, not even feathered ones.'

Penhaligon hauls himself up the companionway to the spar deck where the wind slams his face and inflates his lungs like a pair of new bellows. Wetz has the wheel whilst lecturing a wobbly cluster of midshipmen on recalcitrant tillers in labouring seas. They salute the Captain, who shouts into the wind, 'What think you of the weather ahead, Mr Wetz?'

'Good news is, sir, the clouds're scattering to the west; bad news is, the wind's swung a point northerly and blows a couple of knots harder. Regarding the pump, sir, Mr O'Loughlan's fashioning a new chain, but he thinks there's a new leak - rats chewed the devil aft of the powder magazine.'

When not eating our victuals, thinks Penhaligon, they eat my ship they eat my ship.

'Tell the boatswain to hold a miller-hunt. Ten tails buys an extra quart.'

Wetz's sneeze sprays a downwind midshipman. 'The men'll enjoy the sport.'

Penhaligon crosses the rolling quarterdeck. It is in a slutty state: Snitker doubts the Japanese lookouts could distinguish an unkempt Yankee trader from a Royal Navy frigate with gun-ports blackened, but the Captain is taking nothing for granted. Lieutenant Hovell stands at the taffrail, next to the deposed former Chief of Dejima. Hovell senses the Captain's approach, turns and salutes.

Snitker turns and nods, like an equal. He gestures towards the rocky islet, passing at a fair clip and a safe four or five hundred yards. 'Torinoshima.'

'Torinoshima, Captain', thinks Penhaligon, but inspects the islet. Torinoshima is more a large rock than a little Gibraltar, plastered in guano and raucous with seabirds. It is cliff-bound on all sides, except for a stony scree-fall to leeward where a brave boat might attempt an anchorage. Penhaligon tells Hovell, 'Ask our guest if he ever heard of a landing.'

Snitker's answer takes up two or three sentences.

What a gagged, mud-slurping thing, thinks Penhaligon, is the Dutch tongue is the Dutch tongue.

'He thinks not, sir: he never heard of any attempted landing.'

'His reply was more involved than that.'

' "None but a bloody-minded simpleton would chance his longboat", sir.'

'My sensibilities are not so easily wounded, Mr Hovell. In future, translate in full.'

The First Lieutenant looks awkward. 'My apologies, Captain.'

'Ask him if Holland or any nation lays claim to Torinoshima.'

Snitker's response to the question contains a sneer and the word 'Shogun'.

'Our guest suggests,' explains Hovell, 'that we consult with the Shogun before planting our Union Jack up in all that bird-shit.' More follows, with Hovell paying close attention and verifying a detail or two. 'Mr Snitker adds that Torinoshima is referred to as the "signpost to Japan", and if this wind keeps up, tomorrow we'll catch sight of the "garden wall", the Goto Islands, subject to the Lord of Hizen, in whose dominion Nagasaki is located.'