Today again the sky was clouded. It looked as if it was going to be hot. Crows circled over my head persistently; and when I stopped for a moment their darkly ominous cawing would cease; but when I began to walk they would come after me again. Sometimes one of them would settle on the branch of a nearby tree and, fluttering its wings, it would watch me. Once or twice I threw stones at the cursed birds.
About noon I reached the foot of the crescent-shaped mountain. I kept choosing a road from which I would not lose sight of the sea and the coast; I wondered if there were any villages on those islands in the sea. In the murky sky, rainclouds flowed slowly along like huge ships. I sat down in the grass and began to chew the dried rice I had stolen from the village and cucumbers I had picked up along the way. The juice of these cucumbers restored my strength and courage somewhat. The wind was blowing over the fields; and then, when I closed my eyes, I sensed the smell of something burning. I stood up.
It was the remains of a fire. Someone had passed this way before me and had gathered twigs to light a fire. I put my fingers into the ashes and found some sense of warmth remaining at the heart.
For a long time I pondered. Should I go back or go on? I had spent but one day without meeting a single person, wandering through that desolate village and these brown mountains. It had only been a day, yet now I seemed to have lost my energy and courage. Any man at all—if only he was a man—I would like to meet him. Such was my first thought, followed by a realization of the dangers that such a course of action would bring. But at last, after long reflection, I yielded to the temptation. Even Christ, I reflected, could not overcome this temptation; for he descended from the mountain and called men to his side.
I could tell immediately the direction in which the man who lit the fire had gone. Only one route was possible—the opposite direction from that along which I had come. Looking up at the sky I saw the white sun flashing in the murky clouds in which the crows were cawing with raucous voices.
Carefully I hastened my steps. Over the plain were scattered all kinds of trees. Sometimes they took on the shape of a man and I, all confused, would come to a standstill, while the hoarse cawing of the pursuing crows kept arousing in me an ominous and ugly presentiment. To distract my attention I kept on walking, looking carefully at the various trees as I passed. From childhood I have loved botany and, since coming to Japan, I have been able to distinguish immediately all kinds of trees that I know. There are some trees which God has planted in every country; but here I found others of a kind I had never set eyes on until now.
In the afternoon, the sky brightened a little, reflecting tiny clouds in the pools of blue and white water which remained on the ground. Squatting down I stirred the water to dampen my neck, now bathed in sweat. The clouds disappeared from the water and instead there appeared the face of a man—yes, there reflected in the water was a tired, hollow face. I don’t know why, but at that moment I thought of the face of yet another man. This was the face of a crucified man, a face which for so many centuries had given inspiration to artists. This man none of these artists had seen with his own eyes, yet they portrayed his face—the most pure, the most beautiful that has claimed the prayers of man and has corresponded with his highest aspirations. No doubt his real face was more beautiful than anything they have envisaged. Yet the face reflected in this pool of rainwater was heavy with mud and with stubble; it was thin and dirty; it was the face of a haunted man filled with uneasiness and exhaustion. Do you realize that in such circumstances a man may suddenly be seized with a fit of laughing? I thrust my face down to the water, twisted my lips like a madman, rolled my eyes, and kept grimacing and making ludicrous faces in the water.
Why did I do such a crazy thing? Why? Why?
In the woods a cicada was singing hoarsely. Everywhere else was silent. The sun gradually grew weak; the sky clouded again, and as the shadows lengthened on the plain I gave up hope of ever catching up with the man who had built the fire. ‘Weary it proved, the reckless way of ruin, lonely were the wastes we travelled. … ’ Only the words of the Scripture arose in my heart; and I sang them to myself as I dragged my feet along. ‘The sun rises and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it rises. The wind blows to the south, and goes round to the north; round and round goes the wind. … All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full … All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.’
But now there arose up within my heart quite suddenly the sound of the roaring sea as it would ring in my ears when Garrpe and I lay alone in hiding on the mountain. The sound of those waves that echoed in the dark like a muffled drum; the sound of those waves all night long, as they broke meaninglessly, receded, and then broke again on the shore. This was the sea that relentlessly washed the dead bodies of Mokichi and Ichizo, the sea that swallowed them up, the sea that, after their death, stretched out endlessly with unchanging expressions. And like the sea God was silent. His silence continued.
No, no! I shook my head. If God does not exist, how can man endure the monotony of the sea and its cruel lack of emotion? (But supposing … of course, supposing, I mean.) From the deepest core of my being yet another voice made itself heard in a whisper. Supposing God does not exist. …
This was a frightening fancy. If he does not exist, how absurd the whole thing becomes. What an absurd drama become the lives of Mokichi and Ichizo, bound to the stake and washed by the waves. And the missionaries who spent three years crossing the sea to arrive at this country—what an illusion was theirs. Myself, too, wandering here over the desolate mountains—what an absurd situation! Plucking the grass as I went along I chewed it with my teeth, suppressing these thoughts that rose nauseatingly in my throat. I knew well, of course, that the greatest sin against God was despair; but the silence of God was something I could not fathom. ‘The Lord preserved the just man when godless folk were perishing all around him. Escape he should when fire came down upon the Cities of the Plain.’ Yet now, when the barren land was already emitting smoke while the fruit on the trees was still unripe, surely he should speak but a word for the Christians.
I ran, slipping down the slope. Whenever I slowed down, the ugly thought would come bubbling up into consciousness bringing an awful dread. If I consented to this thought, then my whole past to this very day was washed away in silence.
I felt a drop of water on my cheek, and looking up saw a huge black cloud like a finger floating across the surface of a sky that had now become leaden and murky. The drops became more numerous until at last a blanket of rain enveloped the whole plain like the strings of a harp. Catching sight of a copse of trees quite near to me I ran into them with all speed. Out flew a number of birds like an arrow from the bow and sped off in search of shelter. The rain struck the leaves where I stood, making a noise like pebbles pattering on a roof. My peasant clothes were completely drenched; the treetops, swaying in the silver rain, looked just like seaweed. And then, far beyond those swaying branches on the shore I caught sight of a hut. Probably the villagers had built it as a place for cutting wood.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. Once again the plain became white and the birds began to sing as though wakened from sleep. Great drops of rain continued to fall from the leaves of the trees and I, wiping from my forehead the water which was flowing down into my eyes, approached the hut. As soon as I looked inside the door I was greeted with a foul stench, and I saw a cloud of flies swarming around the entrance. They were clustering around some human excrement.
I realized immediately that not too long before a man had been here, had rested, and had gone on his way. But truth to tell I felt angry at the fellow who had been so uncivilized as to use the only shelter in such a way. But the situation had its ludicrous side, too; and I burst out laughing. My apprehension about this fellow grew less.
Stepping further inside I saw that the wood was still smoldering. I was glad that there was a remnant of fire
before which I could dry out my drenched clothing. Even if I spent some time here, I felt, it would not be too difficult to catch up with the fellow in front; for obviously he was not travelling fast.
When I left the hut, the plain and the trees that had sheltered me were bathed in golden light, while the leaves of the tree, now dry like sand, were filled with song. Picking up a withered branch I used it as a staff and proceeded on my way until finally I arrived at the slope from which could be seen the coast line down below.
There was no change in the languid sea, sparkling like a needle and biting at the curved strand like the huge arc of a bow. One part of the coast held milk-white sand, while another formed an inlet of black rocks. Within the inlet was a tiny landing place where three or four fishing boats were pulled up on the sand. To the west was a fishing village surrounded by trees. It was the first sign of a community I had seen since morning.
Sitting down on the slope I clasped my knees and looked intently at the village with the bold stare of a wild dog. Perhaps the fellow who had left the firewood in the hut had gone down into this village; and I also could run down the slope following in his footsteps. But was this a Christian village? I strained my eyes for any sign of church or cross.
Valignano and the other missionaries at Macao had warned us not to imagine that the churches in this country were the same as those at home. The feudal lords had told the priests to use as churches the mansions and temples that were already there. Indeed it sometimes happened because of this that the peasants confused Christianity with Buddhism, thinking that they were the same thing. Even Xavier, because of the mistake of an interpreter, came near to failure on this point. Some Japanese, hearing his sermons, thought that our God was the sun which the people of this country had revered for many generations. Consequently, the fact that I saw no buildings with spires attached did not mean that there were no churches here. Among the mud cabins down below there might well be one that was a church. And it might well be that the poverty-stricken Christians were hungering for a priest to administer the Blessed Sacrament, hear their confessions and baptize their children. In this desert from which missionaries and priests had been expelled the only one who could give the water of life to this island tonight was myself. Yes, only myself, dressed in these dirty, tattered rags with my arms clasping my legs. ‘Lord, everything that You have created is good. How beautiful are your dwellings!’
Violent emotion surged up within my breast, as supporting my body with my staff I slithered down the slope still wet from the rain and ran toward my parish—yes, this was my parish, this was the charge Our Lord had entrusted to me. But as I ran, suddenly from one corner of the village surrounded by pine trees there came the voice of a man. It seemed to rise up from the depths of the earth. Staff in hand I stopped in my traces only to see clearly the dull red flame of a fire. Instinctively realizing that something had happened I ran back up the slope down which I had been sliding so fast. There on the far side of the slope what did I see but the figure of a man dressed in grey peasant clothing and fleeing from me with all his might. Then the fellow looked in my direction and came to a standstill. The hollow terrified face looked at me with something of relief: ‘Father!’ He waved his hand as he shouted the word. Then again screaming something he pointed to the village. He was signalling to me with his hand to conceal myself. Running up the hill as fast as I could, I tried to hide myself like a wild animal in the shadow of a great rock. I was panting and trying to control my breathing. I heard the sound of footsteps; and then from between the rocks beyond appeared the dirty, mouse-like little eyes of the fellow watching me.
I went to wipe away the perspiration that was rolling down my face; but when I looked at my hand I saw that it was not perspiration but blood. I had struck up against something while jumping down.
‘Father!’ From the shadow of the rock the little eyes were peering at me. ‘Father, how glad I am to see you … ’
The servile laugh. The attempt to curry favor. The stubble sticking out from the chin, ‘It’s dangerous here,’ he said. ‘But I’ll look after you.’ Silently I looked into that face. Kichijirō, the whipped dog, was smiling at me with furtive eyes. Plucking the grass, pushing it into his mouth and biting it with his yellow teeth, it’s terrible,’ he muttered as he looked down at the village.
As I looked at him, it dawned on me that this was the fellow who had lit that fire in the terraced fields, the fellow who had dirtied the hut. But why was he roaming through the mountains just like me? He had trampled on the fumie; what had he to fear?
‘Father, why have you come to this island? This is a dangerous place. But I know a village where there are some hidden Christians.’
I kept staring at him in silence. Every village this fellow passed through had been surprised by the government officials. Suspicions from the past came crowding into my mind. Perhaps he was no more than a decoy. I had heard previously that apostates were used as puppets by the government; and the apostates willingly collaborated as though they felt they could justify their own ugly crime by adding one more to their number. Their way of thinking is akin to that of the fallen angels when they allure people into sin.
Evening began to enfold the surrounding mountains but in the village a red flame of light began to move silently around. Yet there was only silence. The village itself as well as its inhabitants seemed to be accepting its suffering without protest. Long inured to suffering, the people could no longer even weep and cry in their pain.
For me to abandon the village and go on my way was as painful as tearing the scab off a wound that had just begun to heal. Within my heart a voice cried out: ‘You are weak; you are a coward!’ Only to be answered by another telling me not to be carried away by a moment of excitement and sentimentality: ‘You and Garrpe are probably the only priests in this whole country. If you die, the Japanese church dies with you. You and Garrpe must live, no matter how great the injuries and sufferings that this life entails.’
Yet I wondered if this were just the voice of my own weakness. There arose in my mind a story I had heard while still in Macao. It was about a Franciscan priest who, escaping a martyr’s death, had carried on an underground apostolate—but then he had given himself up at the castle of the feudal lord, Omura. Because of his momentary rashness, the whole underground work of the mission was impaired and the safety of the Christians was jeopardized. This story was well known. Its moral was that a priest does not exist in order to become a martyr; he must preserve his life in order that the flame of faith may not utterly die when the church is persecuted.
Kichijirō followed after me like a wild dog. When I stopped he would stop too. ‘Don’t walk so fast,’ he would shout, ‘I’m sick. Tell me where you are going. The magistrate says that the man who finds a father will get three hundred pieces of silver.’
‘So my price is three hundred pieces of silver.’ These were my first words to Kichijirō, and as I spoke them a bitter laugh crossed my face. Judas had sold Our Lord for thirty pieces of silver; I was worth ten times as much.
‘It’s dangerous to go alone,’ he said. As though somewhat relieved, he caught up with me and kept beating the bushes with the branch of a tree as he walked along by my side. The crying of the birds broke through the darkness of the evening.
‘Father, I know a place where there are Christians. It’s safe there. Let’s go. Tonight we can sleep here; tomorrow we’ll set out.’
Without waiting for my answer, he squatted down, cleverly picked up twigs that were not damped by the evening mist, took out a flint-stone from his pouch and lit a fire.
‘You must be hungry,’ he said; and he took from his pouch a few dried fish. When my starving eyes caught sight of them, the saliva began to flow freely in my mouth. Since morning I had had nothing to eat except a little uncooked rice and cucumber, so that the food Kichijirō waved before my eyes was tempting indeed. As the fire broke into flame and the salted fish was slowly roasted, an unbearably delicious scent was wafted to m
y nostrils.
‘Won’t you eat?’
Baring my teeth, I greedily seized upon the dried fish. One slice was enough to make me compromise with Kichijirō. With a look half of satisfaction and half of contempt he stared at me as I ate ravenously. And all the time he kept chewing grass as though it were tobacco or something like that.
The surrounding country was now wrapped in darkness; the mountains began to grow chilly; the misty rain seemed to penetrate my body. I lay down beside the fire as though to sleep. But sleep was out of question; for if I once lost consciousness, Kichijirō would steal away. He would sell me as he had sold his companions. Perhaps he would do so tonight. For a penniless beggar like himself, three hundred pieces of silver was surely a tantalizing temptation. As I closed my eyes, behind my wearied eyelids there arose vividly the picture I had seen from the plateau, the picture of the sea and the islands: the sea glistening like a needle, the islands spread out over its surface. I had crossed over this beautiful sea blessed by so many missionaries. I recalled the days when the churches had been decorated with flowers, when the Christians had brought gifts of fish and rice. At that time there had been a seminary here where the students sang in Latin just as we had done in Portugal. Valignano had told us that there was even a time when they played on the harp and the organ, much to the delight of the feudal lords.
‘Father, are you awake?’
I made no answer, but from half-opened eyes I looked at my companion. If he were to steal off somewhere in the night, it would surely be to summon the government officials. He was watching my sleeping breath, and then little by little he began to move off. I watched him move stealthily away like an animal. This would be his chance to go away; but to my surprise he returned to the fire with a sigh. With both hands he kept piling fresh dry wood on the ashes, and all the time he kept sighing as though in anguish. The red flame of the fire fell upon his cheeks and I could see his silhouette in the night. And then overcome with the day’s exhaustion I fell asleep. Sometimes I would open my eyes, and always there was the figure of Kichijirō sitting beside the fire.