“I don’t know … whether they are a poison or a palliative. But for a long while we Japanese have avoided the Kirishitan teachings as a kind of toxin. You mustn’t forget that.”
“I am well aware of the fact, Lord Hondō.”
“Then allow me to ask you a question…. In the Kirishitan teachings, is the breaking of a promise considered righteous behavior or an evil act? Which is it?”
“It is, of course, evil.”
“Then …” Shuntarō set his coffee cup on the table and quietly replied, “I would appreciate it if you kept your promises.”
“My promises?”
“Yes. The magistrate gave you permission to build a Kirishitan temple here in Ōura … but only for foreigners, not for Japanese. You need to keep that promise with exactness.” His voice was soft, but there was force in it. Petitjean was flustered and blushed.
“Now, then,” Shuntarō said, as if nothing at all had transpired, “shall we resume our lessons?” He adjusted himself in his chair.
Ichijirō had been planning in the near future to run some errands to Nagasaki and to check up on his sister Mitsu and cousin Kiku.
He wanted to praise them for enduring the harsh winter and carrying out their first employment responsibilities without incident. He also needed to pick up some medicine for Granny, whose cough had worsened.
He kept putting off his departure, thinking, “I’ll go tomorrow,” “I’ll go tomorrow,” until one day an acolyte from the Shōtokuji Temple came to summon him as he worked in the fields.
“His Eminence … wants to see me urgently, you say? What could it be about?” he mused, but the acolyte pleaded ignorance and hastened back along the road that had brought him here.
Ichijirō set down his hoe and headed straight for the Shōtokuji.
The chief priest of the temple was seated in a parlor adjoining the main hall, conversing with a samurai, but when he noticed Ichijirō come through the garden and kneel outside the doorway, he called out, “Ah, you’re here,” and turned to say to the samurai, “This is the Ichijirō from Magome I was telling you about. His younger sister works at a commercial house in Nagasaki.”
Then to Ichijirō he said, “This is Lord Itō Seizaemon from the magistrate’s office. I asked you to come here because I have received orders from the magistrate to send them a young man who could be useful to them, and after mulling it over, I thought you would do well.” He gave an artificial smile.
Ichijirō could not imagine what this might be about, and it worried him that they might force him into doing some backbreaking labor, but he kept his head bowed.
“Ichijirō,” Itō Seizaemon spoke between sips of tea, “it’s just as His Eminence has said. Will you lend a hand to the magistrate?” He spoke as if it were a trifling thing.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not a particularly difficult task,” the priest inserted himself in the conversation. “But it appears that some of the people in Nakano and Motohara are behaving suspiciously of late. As you know, for many long years now we’ve been discovering Kirishitans, or Kuros, as we call them, in those villages. After numerous interrogations we thought that we were rid of them, but lately the foreigner at the Nambanji in Nagasaki has been secretly visiting there. We’d like you to keep an eye on them.”
“That’s correct,” Itō Seizaemon nodded at the priest’s side. “If we sent someone from the magistrate’s office, they’d be wary of him. But if we send a farmer from the same area, they’re likely to open up to you and perhaps even expose their secrets. Will you do this? We’ll reward you, of course.”
It was a request Ichijirō could never have anticipated. His eyes widened in astonishment.
Ichijirō was, by nature, an honest man with a strong sense of justice, and he despised those who divulged the secrets of others or informed on someone else. Whether these people were Kuros or Kirishitans or whatever, so long as they weren’t causing him any harm, he didn’t like the idea of spying on them.
“Sir.” He curled up his lips and grudgingly gave a vague response.
“You’ll do it, then.” The chief priest of the Shōtokuji stood up, as though it were a foregone conclusion that Ichijirō would agree to the request. “Lord Itō, that’s all we need to talk about here. But it’s been a long time since we’ve played …” He held up his fingers as though he were grasping a go checker piece.
“It has.” Itō Seizaemon also stood up, and the two men disappeared into a different room.
That night Ichijirō’s father, who was pounding straw to soften it, noticed that his son seemed disheartened, so he asked, “Has something happened? You don’t look well.”
When Ichijirō explained what had transpired that day, his father was silent for a time, but then with some bitterness he muttered, “Can’t be helped.” “Can’t be helped”—the words of resignation a peasant utters when he is left with no choice. Ichijirō’s own feelings were that it “can’t be helped.”
He was in no hurry to visit Nakano or Motohara Villages. A feeling of guilt and a heaviness of heart were weighty shackles on his feet.
But ultimately one must do what one has been ordered to do. To a peasant such as Ichijirō, an order from the magistrate was absolute.
One evening he finished his labors in the fields early, and telling only his father where he was going, he crossed over the Urakami River that formed the border between Magome and Nakano.
The scene at twilight was nothing out of the ordinary. Backed by groves of trees, fields, and hills, the squashed-looking thatched roof houses huddled together in small clusters here and there.
He walked into a thicket of trees, trying to avoid being seen. With the coming of spring and the eruption of new buds, the grove smelled verdant. He plucked one of the buds and put it into his mouth.
For a time he leaned against the trunk of a tree, staring at the houses and following the movements of a child leading a cow, but soon he wearied of that. Ichijirō had never had the desire or the curiosity to be a spy.
There’s nothing here. It’s no different from Magome. He thought that’s what he would report to the chief priest at the Shōtokuji. Then he could quickly be relieved of this vexing assignment.
But just then—
He realized that an adult was walking by, concealed by the cow that the child was leading along. It was a tall adult.
This was no peasant. But the man didn’t appear to be a samurai or a merchant, either. It was a foreigner dressed up as a farmer. The foreigner was wearing the work clothes of a peasant.
Suddenly he gasped. He had seen this foreigner somewhere before. He felt he had met him. He tilted his head and thought, and then suddenly the memory revived. At Ōura … at the Nambanji. When he had taken his sister and Kiku to see the renowned Nambanji at Ōura, this young foreigner had appeared through the doorway. So it’s him. I guess they were right …
Apparently the suspicions of the officials at the magistrate’s office were not unfounded. Otherwise, there would be no reason why the foreigner from the Nambanji would come all the way out here to Nakano Village, even going to the trouble of dressing in work clothes and hiding himself behind a cow.
The foreigner, the child, and the cow all came to a stop in front of one house, then studied their surroundings. The door of the house swung open, and someone swiftly poked his head out. The foreigner swept through the door as though it had swallowed him up, and the cow and the child began walking again as though nothing had occurred.
This is serious!
He didn’t know just what was serious, but Ichijirō felt the words “This is serious!” swirling like a whirlpool inside his head.
He clung to the tree he’d been resting against, concealing himself behind it, and squinted his eyes to see.
There was nothing else unusual at the house the foreigner had entered. But before long, two peasants came walking nonchalantly past before vanishing into the house.
They were followed by three women who came from
a different direction, and they, too, went inside the same house. Subsequently a number of other men and women evaporated into the house.
“Hmmm.” It was now perfectly clear to Ichijirō. The residents of Nakano were in that house having some sort of criminal conversation with the foreigner.
What could they be talking about?
He thought of moving closer and trying to listen in on them. But he concluded that all his efforts would be for naught if he approached the house and were discovered, so he decided that for today he would go back to his village.
When he returned to Magome, stars were already glistening in the sky, but he shouted through the doorway to his house that he was going to the Shōtokuji and scurried over to the temple.
“Indeed? I thought they were up to something, but … so that’s what it is.” The chief priest set down his chopsticks and pondered.
“Is that all you need from me?” Ichijirō was hoping that his work as a spy would be terminated here, but instead the priest upbraided him. “All we need? You’ve got to keep a sharp eye now and find out what those people are up to.”
“If they’re such a concern, why haven’t you already arrested the people in Nakano?”
“We have orders to let them be for now. To let them be and watch what they do. We have to have them do something they can’t excuse away. In any case, the foreigner has joined them now, so the magistrate has ordered us to proceed with caution.”
It wasn’t a work to his liking, but Ichijirō subsequently paid three or four additional visits to investigate the activities in Nakano.
The foreigner appeared perhaps once in every five days, and when he went into that house, one by one the people of Nakano, from old men to youngsters, gathered there. Sometimes even a mother or sister carrying a baby on her back would attend the gathering.
He had no idea what went on inside the house. He tried to find out, but he realized they had someone on watch, so he would hurriedly find a place to hide.
It was clear that the people of Nakano were up to something, doing something that involved the foreigner as the key player.
Still, Ichijirō couldn’t help but feel that what he was doing was shady. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t begin to regard it as a good thing.
Ichijirō’s purpose in going to Nagasaki after such a long absence was to go to market to sell the straw sandals and baskets that the family had woven over the winter. But he was also eager to see his relatives there and to try to forget his feelings of self-loathing for spying on these people. He was certain that his spirits would rise if he could just get a glimpse of Mitsu’s honest face.
As always, he left the house at daybreak, and pulling a cart laden with sandals and baskets, he crossed the Nishizaka mountain pass. When he arrived at Nagasaki, he unloaded his cargo at a shop that would accept the items for sale, and once he had finished his work, he hurried directly to the Gotōya shop.
Since it wasn’t proper to walk right in and ask to see one of the shop’s employees, he waited around at the back entrance for a while until someone came out.
Nearly an hour later, a maid about the same age as Mitsu and Kiku stepped outside.
“Otome-san!” He recognized her as the girl who had accompanied them when he took Kiku and Mitsu on a tour of the city on the day of the Doll Festival, so he called to her from the shadows.
“Oh goodness!” For some reason this girl from the Gotō Islands covered her face with hands swollen from chilblains and scrambled back into the shop.
Before long, Mitsu gleefully poked her head out the rear entrance. “Ichijirō!”
“Ah, Mitsu! Have you been working hard?”
“I certainly have!” She grinned pertly. His younger sister would always be a child in Ichijirō’s eyes.
“Dad and Mom are doing fine. Granny’s all right. And how’s Kiku?”
“Kiku is …” Mitsu hesitated for a moment. She stared at the ground as she muttered, “She’s not doing so well.”
Taken aback, Ichijirō asked, “Is she sick?”
“No, she’s not sick. It’s just that …” Mitsu let her words trail off.
Ichijirō pressured his sister. “Tell me what’s going on. What’s happened to Kiku?”
Mitsu looked up at her brother with resignation. “You can’t tell Dad or Mom. Promise you won’t.”
“I won’t.”
“Kiku’s miserable ’cause she hasn’t seen Seikichi.”
“Seikichi? Who’s he?”
“He comes by here selling things in the morning. I think you’d remember him …”
After Mitsu reminded him that Seikichi was the young man who had saved Kiku years earlier when she couldn’t get down from the tree but ended up being scolded for it, Ichijirō recalled the clever-looking face.
“She’s a little too forward for her age.” Ichijirō gave a wry smile as he thought of how precocious Kiku was compared with the late-blooming Mitsu. Then abruptly he asked, “Say—wasn’t he from Nakano?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not!” There was a fierceness in his voice that startled and frightened Mitsu. “This can’t be. She can’t be allowed even to think about someone like him.” Some of the rage in his voice came from his own guilt over spying on the young man’s village. “You’ve got to be very clear with Kiku about this. A girl from Magome absolutely must not fall in love with someone from Nakano, no matter what!”
“Ichijirō, what are you so angry about? And why can’t a girl from Magome love a man from Nakano?”
“They’re Kuros, that’s why! I’ve told you this a hundred times. They secretly worship that forbidden Kirishitan nonsense. What’s to become of her if she gives her heart to a man who’s going to end up arrested before long and dragged off to the magistrate’s office? She can’t do it!” No sooner had the words escaped from Ichijirō’s mouth than he regretted saying it. The only people who knew for sure that Nakano Village was made up of Kirishitans were himself, the chief priest of the Shōtokuji, and the magistrate, and he had been warned to say absolutely nothing about it to anyone.
Flustered, he tried to seal his sister’s lips. “Mitsu. You mustn’t say what I just told you to anybody.”
“Not even to Kiku?”
“To Kiku …? No, not even to Kiku. Just tell her that your brother says he won’t allow her to fall for a man from Nakano. Give her that message.” When he finished with that admonishment, he realized he had frightened her. “I’ll be back again soon. Next time I come, I’ll bring you some boiled taro, OK?” With those strained words of consolation, he hurried away.
When Kiku found out from her cousin that Ichijirō had come for a visit, she railed, “And why would he leave without seeing me?!”
Helplessly, Mitsu told her everything.
Seikichi’s a … a Kirishitan … Dazed, she mused over what her cousin had said. Seikichi is a Kirishitan….
To a girl from Magome, being a Kirishitan more than anything meant death. She pictured a menacing prisoner who has been condemned to die. Until now she’d simply believed that a Kirishitan was a criminal who broke the law by believing in something that was forbidden.
When she learned that Seikichi was one of those Kirishitans, she felt as she would have had she just been stirred from an unattainable daydream.
It just can’t be! She muttered lifelessly.
But—
It wasn’t as though nothing had happened to make her suspect Seikichi. Those kinds of memories came flooding back into her mind.
The rumors that everyone spread about Nakano. Seikichi’s peculiar gestures at the Nambanji. Each memory served as evidence that what Ichijirō said was true.
“Then …,” she asked Mitsu in a frail voice, “do you think Seikichi will be arrested by the magistrate soon?”
Mitsu was dumbstruck and lowered her eyes. It was as though she, too, could picture Seikichi with both hands tied behind him, hoisted onto a bareback horse and paraded through the streets of the town.
>
Why did he become a Kirishitan …? Kiku couldn’t begin to understand it. It made no sense at all for Seikichi to join a heretical sect that the authorities had strictly banned, a religion so despised that every citizen was forced to trample on the fumie at the beginning of every year.
“Ichijirō said that the magistrate knows everything?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then I’ve got to warn Seikichi right away …”
Mitsu’s eyes showed genuine fear at Kiku’s declaration. “My brother will really light into me if you do that….”
“Fine. It’s all my fault. You don’t have to say anything.”
For the rest of that day, whether she was doing the cleaning or helping Oyone in the kitchen, Kiku was mute and lost in thought. Mitsu glanced nervously over at her cousin’s face as Kiku stared at some point in the void, and she feared for what might happen. Ever since their childhood together, she knew that Kiku was the sort of girl who would never waver once she had announced her intentions. Over the years she had grown accustomed to the fact that once Kiku had made a decision, she would invariably follow through on it.
That night, after they had gone to bed and the rest of the house had quieted down, Mitsu tried to talk to Kiku in the hope that she might change her mind, but Kiku ignored her and pretended to be asleep.
It was raining the following morning. Mitsu noticed that Kiku, who had been at work just moments before, had suddenly disappeared. She had fled the store without permission.
With no umbrella to protect her from the drizzle, Kiku had broken into a trot as she headed toward the Nambanji in Ōura.
If there was anywhere Seikichi might happen to show up, the Nambanji was the place. That’s what Kiku had concluded after thinking it through.
Tucking up her damp skirts and baring her white legs, she ran at nearly a gallop along the ocean road. That road no longer exists. Even that part of the ocean was later filled in through land reclamation.
The rain-swept ocean washed the shore with melancholy laps of its waves. Four or five fishing boats were still out in the dark sea. The gray roadway dotted with puddles wound its way between the sloping houses of the fishermen and continued as far as Ōura.