We hid silently in a tiny hollow while Kichijirō went off to explore the situation. The sound of footsteps on the sand came near to where we crouched. As we clutched our wet clothes and held our breath, we saw passing just before us the figure of an old woman with a cloth on her head and a basket on her back. She did not notice our presence and went on her way. Her departing footsteps faded into the night, and once again the deadly silence descended on the shore. ‘He won’t come back! He won’t come back!’ exclaimed Garrpe tearfully, ‘Where has he gone, the weak-minded coward?’
But I was thinking of a more terrible fate. He had not fled. Like Judas he had gone to betray us. Soon he would appear again, and with him would be the guards.
‘A band of soldiers went there with lanterns and torches and weapons’, said Garrpe, quoting the Scriptures.
We reflected on the night at Gethsemane when Our Lord trusted himself without reserve to the hands of men. But the time dragged on so slowly that my spirit was almost crushed. It was fearful indeed. The perspiration flowed down my forehead and into my eyes. And then came the sound of footsteps. A group of people was approaching. The light of their torches burned dismally in the dark, and they came closer and closer.
Someone thrust a torch forward and in its light there appeared the ugly face, both red and black, of a small old man, while around him five or six young men with frightened eyes looked down on us.
‘Padre, Padre!’ The old man made the sign of the cross as he uttered the words, and in his voice there was a gentle note of solicitude for our plight. As for us, this ‘Padre’, spoken in our own beloved Portuguese tongue, was something we had never dreamt of hearing in this place. Needless to say, the old man could not know more Portuguese than this, but before our eyes he made the sign of the cross showing a bond of something that held us together. These indeed were Japanese Christians. All in a whirl I stood up in the sand. At last I had set foot on Japanese soil, and the realization of this fact swept over me with tremendous force.
Kichijirō was cowering behind the others with that servile smile of his. He always looks just like a mouse ready to scamper off at the slightest thing. I bit my lip with shame. Our Lord had entrusted himself to anybody—because he loved all men. And here I was with such a feeling of distrust toward this one man Kichijirō.
‘Quickly. Keep walking.’ It was the old man who was talking, and he urged us on with a whisper. ‘We can’t afford to be seen by the gentiles.’
‘The gentiles!’ Another word from our language now known to the Christians. Our forebears from the time of Xavier taught them these words. What sweat and toil it had taken to plunge the spade into this barren soil, then to fertilize it, to cultivate it until it reached this present stage. Yes, the seed had been sown; it sprouted forth with vigor; and now it was the great mission of Garrpe and myself to tend it lest it wither and die.
That night they kept us in hiding beneath the low ceiling of their house; nearby was a barn from which the stench was carried to where we lay. They assured us, however, that there was no danger. But how had Kichijirō been able to find the Christians so quickly?
The next day, while it was still dark, Garrpe and I changed into peasants’ clothes and together with the young men who had met us on the previous day we climbed up a mountain which lay behind the village. The Christians wanted to keep us hidden there; they had a safer place there, a charcoal hut. Thick, thick mist lay over the woods and over the path along which we walked. Eventually this mist turned into light rain.
Arrived at our destination we heard for the first time about the place in which we now found ourselves. It was a fishing village called Tomogi, not too far from Nagasaki. It contained about two hundred households and the greater number of the villagers had already received baptism.
‘And how are things now?’ I asked.
‘Yes, father.’ It was Mokichi who spoke, a young man who accompanied us; and looking back at his friend, ‘Now we can do nothing,’ he went on. ‘If it is found out that we are Christians we will all be killed.’
How shall I describe the joy that filled their faces when we gave them crucifixes that we had had around our necks. Both of them bowed to the very ground, and pressing the crucifixes to their foreheads spent a long time in adoration. Apparently they had not had such crucifixes for many, many years.
‘Is it possible that we have a priest in our midst?’ Mokichi held my hand clasped in his as he spoke. ‘And what about brothers?’
Needless to say, these people had met neither priest nor brother for six years. Until six years ago a Japanese priest, Miguel Matsuda, and a Jesuit brother, Mateo de Coros, had secretly kept in contact with this village and its immediate surroundings, but in November 1633, worn out by labor and suffering, they had both passed to their reward.
‘But what has happened during these six years? What about baptism and the sacraments?’ It was Garrpe who asked the question. And the answer of Mokichi stirred us to the very depths of our being. Indeed I want through you to convey to my Superiors what he said—and not only to my Superiors but to the whole Church in Rome. As he spoke, I recalled the words of the Gospel that some seed fell upon good ground and springing up it brought forth fruit, some tenfold, some thirtyfold, some sixtyfold and some a hundredfold. For the fact is that with neither priests nor brothers and in the throes of a terrible persecution at the hands of the government, they secretly made their own organization for the administration of the sacraments; and so they kept alive their faith.
For example, in Tomogi this organization was set up more or less as follows. From the Christians one of the older men was chosen to play the role of the priest. (I am simply writing to you without any embellishment what Mokichi said to me.) The old man we met yesterday at the shore (they call him ‘Jiisama’) holds the highest post of authority; he leads a blameless life, and the task of baptizing the children is entrusted to him. Beneath the Jiisama is a group of men known as ‘Tossama’ whose job it is to teach the Christians and to lead them in prayer. Then there are helpers known as ‘Mideshi’. All are engaged in this life-and-death struggle to keep the faith alive.
‘And all this goes on only in Tomogi.
…
?’ I asked the question with some enthusiasm. ‘I suppose other villages are preserving their faith in the same way and with the same kind of organization.’
This time Mokichi shook his head. Only afterwards did I realize that in this country where blood relationship is of such primary importance the people of one village, though closely united among themselves like one family, sometimes go so far as to look with hostility on the peoples of other villages.
‘Yes, father, I can only speak for the people of our own village. Too much contact with other villages might end up in accusation before the magistrate.’
But I begged Mokichi and his friends to look for Christians in the other villages also. I felt that as quickly as possible word should be sent out that once again a priest, crucifix in hand, had come to this desolate and abandoned land.
From that time our life has become more or less as follows. At dead of night we offer Mass, just as they did in the catacombs; and then when morning comes we climb the mountain again and wait in hiding for any of the Christians who may want to visit us. Every day two of them bring to us our ration of food. We hear confessions, give instruction, teach them how to pray. During the day we keep the door of our tiny hut tightly closed and we refrain from making the slightest noise lest anyone passing outside may hear it. Needless to say, it is out of question to build a fire lest any trace of smoke be seen. And then, just in case.
…
foreseeing every contingency Mokichi and his friend have dug a kind of cave under the very floor of our hut.
It is not impossible that there are still Christians in the villages and islands west of Tomogi, but under the circumstances we cannot so much as stir outside our hut during the day. And yet I am determined, come what may, to seek out and find the lonely and abandoned flock.
Chapter 3
(Letter of Sebastian Rodrigues)
IN this country June marks the beginning of the rainy season. I have been told that the rain falls continuously for more than a month. With the coming of the rain the officials will probably relax their vigilance, so I intend to make use of this opportunity to travel around the neighbourhood and search out the remaining Christians. I want to let them know as quickly as possible that they are not utterly abandoned and alone.
Never have I felt so deeply how meaningful is the life of a priest. These Japanese Christians are like a ship lost in a storm without a chart. I see them without a single priest or brother to encourage and console, gradually losing hope and wandering bewildered in the darkness.
Yesterday rain again. Of course this rain is no more than a herald of the heat that follows. But all day long it makes a melancholy sound as it falls in the thicket which surrounds our hut. The trees shake and tremble as they let fall the drops of rain. And then Garrpe and I, pressing our faces to the tiny cracks in the wooden door, try to peer out into the surrounding world. Seeing nothing but rain and more rain, a feeling like anger rises up within our breasts. How much longer is this life to continue? Certainly both of us become strangely impatient and jittery, so that when either one of us makes even the slightest faux pas the other turns on him a baleful eye. This is only the result of nerves stretched taut like a bowstring day after day after day.
But now let me give you some more detailed information about these people of the village of Tomogi. They are poor farmers who eke out a living by cultivating potatoes and wheat in little fields. They have no ricefields. When you see how the land is cultivated right up into the middle of the mountain facing the sea, you are struck not so much by their indefatigable industry as by the cruelty of the life they have inherited. Yet the magistrate of Nagasaki exacts from them an exceedingly harsh revenue. I tell you the truth—for a long, long time these farmers have worked like horses and cattle; and like horses and cattle they have died. The reason our religion has penetrated this territory like water flowing into dry earth is that it has given to this group of people a human warmth they never previously knew. For the first time they have met men who treated them like human beings. It was the human kindness and charity of the fathers that touched their hearts.
I have not yet met all the people of Tomogi. This is because from fear of the officials only two villagers can climb up to our little hut each night. Truth to tell in spite of myself I cannot help laughing when I hear the mumbling Portuguese and Latin words in the mouths of these ignorant peasants: ‘Deus’, ‘Angelus’, ‘Beato’ and so on. The sacrament of confession they call ‘konshan’; heaven they call ‘parais’; hell is ‘inferno’. Not only are their names difficult to remember, but their faces all look the same—which causes not a little embarrassment. We confuse Ichizo with Seisuke, and we get Omatsu mixed up with another woman called Saki.
I have already told you something about Mokichi, so I would like now to say a few words about a couple of the other Christians. Ichizo is a man of about fifty who comes at night to our hut—and he always wears on his face an expression which makes you think he is angry. While attending Mass, and after it is over, he says not a word. In fact, however, he is not angry at all; this is just his natural expression. He is extraordinarily curious, and he scrutinizes carefully every movement and gesture of Garrpe and myself with his narrow, wrinkled eyes.
Omatsu, I’m told, is Ichizo’s elder sister. Long ago she lost her husband and is now a widow. Twice she has come right up to our place with her niece, Sen, carrying on her back a basket with food for us. Like Ichizo, she too is extremely inquisitive and, together with her niece, scrutinizes Garrpe and me as we eat our meal. And what a meal! You couldn’t imagine how wretched it is—a few fried potatoes and water. And while Garrpe and I gulp it down, the two women look on, laughing with evident satisfaction.
‘Are we really so queer?’ exclaimed Garrpe once, flaring up in anger. ‘Is our way of eating so funny?’
They didn’t understand a word he said, but burst out laughing, their faces crumpling up like paper.
But let me tell you something more about this secret organization of the Christians. I have already explained about the offices of Jiisama and Tossama, that the Jiisama is responsible for the sacrament of baptism, and that the Tossama have the job of instructing the faithful in prayer and catechism. These Tossama have moreover made a calendar of all the feasts of the Church and teach the faithful accordingly. From what they say, the feasts of Christmas, Good Friday, Easter—all are celebrated by these Tossama. Needless to say, they cannot have Mass on these days since there are no priests; but they secretly set up a holy picture in one of the houses and recite their prayers in front of it (they say their prayers in Latin just like us—‘Pater Noster’, ‘Ave Maria’ and so on) and in the intervals between the recitation of their prayers they chat about everything and anything. Nobody knows when the officials may come bursting in; but if that should happen everything is so arranged that the Christians can say they were simply having some kind of meeting together.
Since the rebellion of Shimabara the Lord of this district has made an extremely thorough effort to hunt down the hidden Christians. Every day the officials go around making a thorough inspection of every village, and sometimes they will make a sudden swoop upon a house when no one is expecting it.
For example, since last year a decree has been issued forbidding anyone to make a fence or hedge between his house and that of his neighbour. They want everyone to be able to see into the house of his next-door neighbour and, if he notices any suspicious behaviour, to report it at once. Anyone who informs on us priests receives a reward of three hundred pieces of silver. For one who informs on a brother the reward is two hundred; and anyone informing on a Christian receives one hundred. I don’t need to tell you what a temptation such an amount of money must be for these destitute peasants. Consequently, the Christians have almost no trust in the people of other villages.