Tasman was sent northward, to see if the mouth could be spotted from the sea, and in due course he returned with the report that it was perhaps four miles up the coast . . . and that the land around the mouth was completely flat, and equally marshy.
Masamune decided that the southern site, with that hill, was marginally more defensible, and so the second settlement was made there. The “all clear” signal was given and the second contingent of colonists was brought ashore. Boats shuttled between the ships to the beach, disgorging men and women, as well as supplies, and returning for more. Haste was called for, because this site was unprotected from the wind.
A crude field fortification was erected on the low but steep-sided hill the scouts had spotted. By odd coincidence, this was Mulligan Hill, where, in the old time line, the Portola expedition of 1769 first sighted Monterey Bay. The new settlement was named Kawa Machi—“River City.”
The samurai’s horses were landed, and a dozen of the samurai swung themselves into the saddle and headed upriver.
* * *
Spirits are everywhere, according to the Ohlone Indians. The greater spirits are those of the sun, the moon, the sky, the sea, the mountains. But there are spirits in every bird, every mammal, every fish. Each of these spirits can help or harm.
And then there are the spirits of the dead. They may not be the most powerful of spirits, but they know our strengths and weaknesses. When they leave the body, they flee west, following the Path of the Wind to the Village of the Dead, across the sea. But they will return, and trouble the living, if they are not properly propitiated.
When a man of the Ohlone, the people living on Monterey Bay, died, he was buried that very day, and most of his belongings were buried with him. His widow cut off her hair, and smeared her face with ashes or asphalt. His name would not be spoken until it was formally given to one of his descendants, after the mourning ceremony, lest he be summoned back inadvertently.
If the death was of an unmarried man, or of a woman, her nearest female kin would perform the widow’s duties.
Each year, the mourning ceremony was held. The whole village gathered in the ceremonial house. It stood upon a rise in the land, and the area around it had been cleared with brush. In this way, if an enemy chose to take advantage of the distracting nature of the ritual, and attack at that time, they would see their foes approach.
As the sun set on the first day of the mourning ceremony for 1634, the leaders of the mourners, seated on the west side, the spirit side, began to wail. The village chief slowly circled the central fire, chanting.
“Don’t fail to hear me!
“Don’t fail to hear me!
“Make ready for the mourning.
“Make ready your offerings,
“Your offerings to the dead.
“Be generous, be generous,
“So the dead need not return to beg;
“So the dead need not trouble the living.”
The fire flickered, and the smoke rising from it seemed, now and then, to form the faces of the departed.
The leaders rose and followed the chief, and they were now followed by other women, perhaps half a dozen. Around and around they went. Sometimes the chief gave an order, and they faced in one direction and gesticulated, or turned about and circled in the opposite direction.
But they never rested.
Occasionally, one of the onlookers would scuttle forward and cast an offering into the fire.
At last, three more women, each with blackened faces, came out of the darkness of the spectator circle, and each grabbed one of the walkers. Each pair sat, holding each other’s shoulders, at the foot of one of the roof posts, and swayed back and forth, crying as they did so.
At last, the remaining marchers retreated into the outer circle, leaving only the chief as the center of attention. He spoke of the history of their tribelet, its triumphs and tragedies, and at last he sat down himself.
The next night, the mourning ceremony continued. Old men and women partnered up and cried together, then danced one by one about the fire. They were followed by the three widows, each of whom did the same and then was led away, crying, by another woman.
On the morning of the third day, the chief harangued the mourners before sunrise, and then some of the women filled a basket with water. They fished hot stones out of the fire and tossed them into the water. The chief and the eldest of the woman, each holding a cloth, sat facing each other, on either side of the basket.
The three widows were led up to them. The first woman leaned over, and waited expectantly. The two cloth-holders dipped their cloths in the hot water and wiped her face, taking care that the water would drip only outside the basket. She was now free of mourning restrictions.
The next woman came up, but her lean was perfunctory. She quickly straightened and backed away. This was expected, her husband had died only a moon before. She would mourn until the “cry” of the next year.