text: The boat slipped down the coast, pulling in as the passengers wished at small villages along the coast. They rounded Cape Shionomisaki and watched a flotilla of whaling boats put out to sea. Their near-naked crewmen waved at the boat while their harpooners, no less naked than the standing oarsmen, stood silent and proud at their prows. Satsuki and Rosamund both had delicious shivers, perhaps from different reasons, when Okiku mentioned casually that the men of Taiji, whence came the best whaling crews, had been equally famous as pirates in the olden days.
  
  Past Oshima Island the seas were rougher. Fantastically shaped rocks marked their passage, worn by sea and wind and the will of the kami into the shapes of demon castles and magical beasts.
  
  They put into the Nachi river. The small village at the river mouth was abustle with life. Banners were flying, and drumming could be heard across the waters. Their usually taciturn boatman grinned a gap-toothed grin of delight.
  
  "The dengaku dance! It's the thirteenth of the seventh month; the shrine's festival is tomorrow!"
  
  "We'll not find an inn for us here," Okiku commented mournfully. She had been seasick for the latter part of the trip, and the others had laughed at her unmercifully.
  
  They strolled through the town in the sunset, shoulder to shoulder with groups of pilgrims who had come to join the festivities. Nowhere was there an empty inn room or, for that matter, barn or shed. They retired to their boat discouraged.
  
  Rosamund woke from a light sleep. Myriad itches assaulted her. The droplets of Jiro's sperm drying on her thighs and golden hair itched, and the weight of Midori's thighs on hers was oppressive. As quietly as she could she slid out of the tangle of limbs and moved off the boat. Ahead in the dark she could hear the beat of drums and the squeal of a flute. She moved purposely in that direction.
  
  Peering from the dark she could see a long line of dancers circling a bonfire. Onlookers crowded round. The dancers were dressed alike in colorful blue-dyed marine-pattern robes and striped sashes. It was impossible to tell if they were men or women: they all wore black masks, only eye slits showing that living beings, and not dolls, were responding to the music. Above the dancers a group of near-naked musicians pounded their music into the night from a drum tower.
  
  Rosamund looked around. The dancing seemed like fun, and she wished she could join. Under the tower she noted a pile of clothing, apparently discarded by the sweating drummers. It was the work of a moment to steal one of the robes and the mask that lay on it. Dressed for the dance she glided through the night past groups of onlookers—mostly town and village folk, one or two groups of armed samurai—and joined the circle.