Seas of Fortune(100)
“No, I am fine.” She motioned him closer. “Don’t forget what I told you,” she whispered. “Don’t show your gold to anyone on board, or even speak about it.”
“I will remember.” She watched him board the Valdemar.
Hearing a commotion behind her, she turned. Ah, there Henrique was, with Maurício and Kasiri. The lesser African chiefs followed, at a respectful distance.
Maria sighed. She could only offer Henrique a professional partnership, not a marriage; she couldn’t compete with his relationship with his half-brother. But at least he was here in time to say farewell.
“Here you are at last, Henrique. I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
“It would be very difficult for me to get to Copenhagen, if I didn’t come. I am not that good a swimmer, you know.”
“You’re coming!”
“Someone has to keep you out of trouble. You’ll go to Asia, see a butterfly perched on top of a tiger’s tail, and next thing you know, you’ll be holding that tail . . .”
“It will be a splendid adventure.”
Henrique turned to his half-brother. “Goodbye, Maurício.” He offered his hand.
Maurício took it. “I am glad to know that you’ll keep Maria out of trouble. But who, exactly, will keep you out of trouble?”
“Come, Maurício,” said Henrique, “is that the best you can do? There must be a Latin maxim that is apropos to this occasion.”
“Ubi bene, ibi patria,” Maurício declared. Where you feel good, there is your home.
The Rising Sun
Where the Cuckoo Flies
February 1633 to January 1634
Where the cuckoo flies
till it is lost to sight—out there
a lone island lies.
—Matsuo Basho (1688)1
Nagasaki, Island of Kyushu, Japan,
Kan’ei 10, first month, sixth day (February 14, 1633)
Four down, one to go. Yamaguchi Takuma felt sweat beading on his brow, but he didn’t dare wipe it off.
The hissha, the ward scribe, called out the next name: “Hiraku.” Hiraku was Takuma’s son, the youngest member of the household and therefore the last to be summoned. He had only recently turned seven, the age at which a Japanese child was considered a member of the community. Until that age, “children belong to the gods.”
Mizuki, Takuma’s wife, took Hiraku by the hand and led him in front of the otona, the ward headman, and his assistants. When she started to leave, he clutched her uncertainly. She gently took his hands in hers and whispered to him, “Remember what you must do.” Then she let go of his hands and backed away.
Hiraku stared down at the carved stone blocks which the monban, the bearers of the images, had placed on the floor. One showed the crucified Christ, the other, a praying Mary.
He started to cry.
The otona frowned. One of the assistants whispered to him. Takuma bit his lip, wondering whether saying something would make matters worse.
Mizuki made a deep bow to the council. “He is only a small boy, seeing the images of the ‘Evil Sect’ frightens him. Allow me to assist him.” The otona nodded.
She took Hiraku by the hand, and led him so that he walked over the Christian images, thus desecrating them, just as his mother, father, and grandfather had done already.
“There, it is done!” she cried.
The otona clapped his hands, and beckoned to Yamaguchi. The scribe pointed to a blank spot on the register, and Yamaguchi applied his name seal to it. The otona coughed, and all the members of the household bowed. Then the otona rose, somewhat creakily, to his feet. “This efumi is concluded. You have reaffirmed your status as good Buddhists, and good Japanese. I congratulate you. Remember to report any suspicious activity to one of my assistants.”
He turned to his nichi gyoshi, the ward messenger, who was seated near the door. “Go at once to the house of Matsumoto the matmaker. Tell him that we just finished with Yamaguchi-san, and we are on our way to Tanaki-san. Tell Matsumoto-san that we expect to visit him at the hour of the monkey. Then meet us at Tanaki’s house.”
The nichi gyoshi bowed, and departed on his errand. The monban packed up the fumie, the Christian images, in their cases, and began the procession to Tanaki’s. They in turn were followed by the scribe, the assistant headmen, and lastly, the otona.
After they were out of earshot, Takuma whispered to his wife. “Tomorrow is the last day of the efumi. The following night, we’ll perform the rite of atonement.”
Edo Castle, the residence of the Shogun, in Edo (Old Tokyo), capital of Japan,
Kan’ei 10, fifth month (August 1633)
Pieter van Santen, the chief Dutch factor in the Land of the Rising Sun, shook out the exotic garment. “And this, Great Lord, is what the up-timers call a ‘rain poncho.’ They wear it to keep dry when it rains.”