Welcome, Martin Roth!
By Martin Roth
Prologue
Yamagata, Japan
Anjiro knew what they did to Christians, and he was
not going to let it happen to him. But first he had to evade the two samurai
who had been tracking him for the past four days.
“Move it, you old sack of beans.” He urged on his
steed, but in the driving rain and the mud she was rapidly tiring. His lead
over his pursuers, once half a day at least, was probably now no more than half
an hour.
Since the shogun Tokugawa began the great
persecution, militias had been hunting down Christians mercilessly. Now the
shogun’s bloodthirsty grandson Iemitsu was in charge, and he had shown himself
to be even more ruthless in his determination to eradicate the foreign religion
of Christianity from Japanese soil. Already many hundreds of believers had been
tortured and executed. Thousands more were in hiding.
The downpour
was cutting through Anjiro’s straw cloak, biting him to the bone, as finally he
reached the grassy incline and the forest of towering pines. It was the foot of
the mountains. Not much further to go now.
“Won’t need you any more,” he muttered. The stolen
mare had served him well, despite her age. But from now it would be on foot all
the way, through the trees and up the steep slope.
He dismounted. His bag of possessions - cooked rice,
a few pickles, a water bottle and his precious holy cross, carved from wood and
costing him a month’s wages - were in a cotton bag that he had slung over his
shoulder.
He slapped the horse. “Get out of here.” But the
animal was fatigued and clearly wished to rest. She bent her neck to chew at
some grass.
“I know how you feel,” growled the youth. “But you
can’t stay here. They’ll find you. And me.”
Over to one side stood a grove of maples. He
suspected a stream might be there. He led the horse forwards, and then moved
behind and shoved her on the rump. Then he slapped her again, hard. This time
the beast kept walking.
He turned and tried to peer through the rainstorm
for any sign of the enemy, but little was visible.
Precious Jesus have mercy on my soul, he prayed
inwardly as he began making his way up the steep hillside. Holy Mary, protect
your servant.A flash of lightning flared above him and once again
he was filled with a chill dread. He did not relish trekking up through the
towering pines in the middle of a thunderstorm. But he knew this was his only
chance.
The samurai were charged with capturing him, and
they would fight to the death - his or theirs - to achieve this. Failure was
not an option for them. They might even be required to commit seppuku - harakiri, ritual
self-disembowelment - should they not return with his head.
Anjiro was a powerful swordsman. But he was a
commoner, and was only permitted to own a shikomizue,
a cane with a hidden blade. This would be no match for the steel katana of the samurai, forged by the finest swordsmiths
of the land. He knew that despite his skills they would eventually prevail, and
would surely cut him to ribbons.
Water was rushing down the hillside in rivulets, and
he cursed as he stepped into a stream of mud that sent him skidding face
forward to the ground. He grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled himself to
his feet, then resumed his odyssey.
What if he surrendered? Gave himself up without a
fight? The samurai might choose to keep him alive, in order to carry him back
with them to Edo. Torturing the Christians, forcing them to recant their
beliefs, was a spectator sport there, as it was throughout Japan. Their reward
for bringing him back alive might be more than simply returning with his head.
And if that happened, could he withstand the
torture? Might he too eventually give in and tell the Buddhist interrogators
that he no longer believed?
Father Lopez, the gentle Spanish missionary priest
with the white beard and red face, had whispered to him the horror stories.
“You need to know, Anjiro-san,” he had said. “You
must prepare yourself. But my son, you are blessed with youth and strength, and
you are single. You can escape.”
Father Lopez told him about the first martyrs,
twenty-six of them, way down south in Nagasaki, who had been roughly crucified
on makeshift crosses. One of them was a twelve-year-old boy, Ibaragi Kun. An
official urged him to recant his faith. Instead the youngster replied that it
would be better for the official to become a Christian, so he too could go to
heaven. Then looking the man in the eye he asked, “Sir, which is my cross?”
When directed to the smallest of the crosses on the
hill the young man knelt in front of it and embraced it. He sang praises to God
as the jeering soldiers trussed him to the cross and then lanced him to death.
As he continued his climb, Anjiro silently prayed
that he too might have strength to be a powerful witness to God’s love.
He knew that, if captured alive, he would be ordered
to undertake fumie - demonstrate his apostasy by
stepping onto a picture of Jesus or Mary.
But once he refused, as surely he would - well, then
the torture would commence. He knew that the torture methods had become
increasingly refined.
Simple crucifixion was no longer enough. Sometimes
the soldiers would crucify people upside-down, or at sea, where the rising tide
steadily engulfed the martyrs over many hours. Others were chopped into pieces,
or slowly burned - the fire deliberately lit some distance away so it engulfed
them only slowly - or scalded to death in one of Japan’s many hot springs.
Worst of all, according to Father Lopez, was being
left to dangle upside-down over a pit filled with excrement. For those who were
strong and healthy, like Anjiro, blessed death might take a week to arrive.
His thoughts were interrupted as suddenly Anjiro
found himself in a clearing, a small plateau with bushes and some red and
yellow mountain flowers, and with a view through the downpour, down the
mountainside. He was weary from the pursuit and from the climb, but when he
peered down he realized to his shock that the two samurai had already arrived.
They had tethered their steeds with his, and were surely even now climbing up
after him. He could not afford to pause for a rest.
He had memorized his route, and his arrival at this
plateau told him he was on the right path. Now he veered off to the right,
along a narrow track of soggy pine needles that led to a stream. He jumped
over, and then the path once more headed straight up the mountain.
For at least another thirty minutes he trudged
upwards, the rain pounding down on him in an unrelenting torrent, as if trying
to crush him like an ant. And then, once more, he emerged at some kind of
plateau.
It was like entering another world. Perhaps this was
heaven. The rain still thundered down. But instead of the darkness of the
forest he was now standing on the edge of an idyllic landscape. Over to one
side stood a minka, a large wooden homestead with
a high thatched roof, capable of housing several families. Land had been
cleared around it and crops planted. A small lake over to the other side ran
into a rice paddy.
He had arrived.
A couple of children playing under a covered
verandah at the front of the minka had spotted
him, and cried out. Quickly two men appeared. Anjiro approached.
“I am a believer,” he panted. “Father Lopez has sent
me.” He pulled out the tiny metallic crucifix that he wore around his neck and
held it up.
The men both appeared to be in their thirties, and
were almost certainly brothers. They looked at him. More kids had appeared, and
they too were staring.
“I am being followed,” said Anjiro. “Two of them.
Tell me if you want me to keep running.”
“Come inside, brother,” said one of the men. “You
are safe with us.”
He beckoned for the youth to follow him inside.
“Take off your clothes.”
Anjiro stripped to his cotton undergarment. The man
shouted to a lady, who came with a quilted gown. She helped him into it.
Then they led him across tatami
mats to a large central room. At least a dozen people were sitting around the irori, a hearth in the center of the room with a
soft-burning fire. Smoke rose to a makeshift vent, high up in the roof. The
room was dark and hazy.
The people around the room nodded their heads in
greeting at Anjiro, almost as if they were responding to the return of a family
member, rather than the abrupt arrival of a bedraggled and exhausted fugitive.
“You are safe with us,” said an old lady. She took a
worn pottery cup, and from an iron kettle she poured him a hot drink.
Anjiro spoke. “What if the men try to enter the
house? What if they bring reinforcements?”
“We have many hiding places,” said one of the men.
“But you are believers too. They will find
evidence.”
“We are a simple family who worship the Kannon,”
replied the man, a grin on his face. He pointed to one side of the room. A
carved wooden statue of the Kannon - the Buddhist goddess of mercy - rested
against a wall. She was standing, dressed in flowing Japanese robes and wearing
an ornate, jeweled headdress. Her soft eyes were almost closed and her thin
lips were curved in a beatific smile. In her arms she cradled a small baby.
Now Anjiro also smiled. He recognized this. “Maria
Kannon,” he murmured.
It was at
this moment that loud shouting could be heard from outside. Anjiro stood and
walked to the side of the room, near the Kannon. A hole in the wall allowed him
to spy on the scene outside.
It was his first close look at his pursuers. They
were young men, both drenched. One was tall and skinny, and he was doing the talking.
“We are looking for a runaway,” he said. “A
Christian. He came this way. You must have seen him.”
“We have not seen anyone. But please come inside. We
will serve you a hot meal.”
“There is only one path. He must have come this way.
You are lying.”
“There are many paths on this mountain. We have not
seen anyone.”
“You are lying. You are trying to help him. We are
going to search this house.”
“We are farmers. We…”
“You are lying,” screamed the man, and he drew his
sword. His companion did the same. “Are you Christians too? Bring forward this
man now.”
Now a woman spoke. “We are just farmers,” she said.
“Please let us serve you dinner. You are so wet. You can sleep here tonight.”
“You are Christians,” shouted one of the men,
thrusting his sword forward. “You know what happens to Christians. We are going
to search this house and then we shall put you all to the sword.”
Anjiro felt the first pangs of alarm. He had brought
this upon the household. Father Lopez had told him he would find sanctuary
here. But he should not have come until he knew that he had thrown off his
pursuers. Now they were all in danger.
His hand reached out to the Maria Kannon beside him
and he said a silent prayer. Mother Mary, save me. Save us. Protect this home.
I beg it of you. In the name of the Holy Father.
Outside, the shouting continued, the words drowned
by the roar of thunder. One of the samurai was pointing his sword at the throat
of a man from the house.
Mother Mary protect us. Anjiro maintained his silent
prayer, watching with horror as the men advanced.
“We shall destroy this house and we shall kill
everyone inside,” shouted the skinny man.
It was at that instant that another loud thunderclap
rent the sky, rocking the house. At the same instant a blinding flare of
lightning illuminated the entire plateau in a vivid white glow.
Then came another noise, an eerie grating sound like
the rasping babble of a thousand angry ghosts, and without warning one of the
giant pines toppled downwards.
The two men realized too late what was happening.
They did not even have time to scream before the tree crushed them both.
Anjiro still had his hand on the wooden statue
Now he looked at it. His eyes were teary. He stroked
the head of the statue.
“Maria Kannon. You have saved me.”
About the Author:
Martin Roth is a veteran journalist and
foreign correspondent whose reports from Asia have appeared in leading
publications around the world. He is the author of many books.
