Pathway to Japanese Literature

On a spring evening, Padre Organtino walked alone through the garden of Nanban-ji, trailing the hem of his long cassock (abito). In the garden, among pines and cypresses, were planted roses, olives, laurels, and other Western plants. The roses that had just begun to bloom, amidst the twilight that softened the trees, wafted a faintly sweet fragrance. That seemed to lend the garden’s silence an inexplicable charm—something un-Japanese.

Organtino walked along the red sandy path with a lonely air, vaguely lost in reminiscence. The great cathedral of Rome, the port of Lisboa, the sound of lyres, the taste of almonds, the hymn “Lord, Mirror of My Anima (Soul)”—such memories had imperceptibly brought homesick sorrow into the heart of this red-haired monk. To dispel that sorrow, he softly chanted the holy name of Deus (God). But not only did his sorrow not vanish—it began to spread an even heavier air through his chest than before.

“The scenery of this country is beautiful—”

Organtino reflected.

"The scenery of this country is beautiful. The climate is generally mild. The natives—compared to those yellow-faced dwarfs—might still be better than blacks. However, their general disposition is also largely amiable. Not only that, but the number of converts had recently grown to tens of thousands. Indeed, even in the very center of this capital, such a temple stands tall. If that is so, then living here, even if not pleasant, should not be unpleasant—is that not the case? But there are times when I sink into the depths of melancholy. There are times when I think: I want to return to the city of Lisboa; I want to leave this country. Is this merely the sorrow of homesickness? No—even if it were not Lisboa, I think I would go to any land at all, so long as I could leave this country. China, Sashitsu, India—in other words, homesickness is not the entirety of my melancholy. I simply feel I want to escape from this country as soon as possible. But—but the scenery of this country is beautiful. The climate is generally mild.……”

Organtino sighed. At that moment, his eyes chanced upon pale cherry blossoms scattered on the moss in the shade of the trees. Cherry blossoms! Organtino, as if startled, stared into the dim grove between the trees. There, amidst four or five palm trees, a single weeping cherry tree with drooping branches was hazing its blossoms like a dream. “Lord, protect me!”

Organtino tried for an instant to make the sign of the exorcism cross. At that very moment, to his eyes, the weeping cherry tree blooming in the twilight appeared so eerie. Eerie—or rather, this cherry tree, which somehow filled him with unease, appeared to him as Japan itself. But after a moment, when he discovered it was nothing mysterious at all—merely a cherry tree—he returned with an embarrassed, bitter smile to the path he had come from, his steps listless and quiet.

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Thirty minutes later, he was in the inner sanctuary of Nanban-ji, offering prayers to Deus. There was only a lamp hanging from the domed ceiling. In the lamplight, on the frescoed walls surrounding the inner sanctuary, Saint Michael contended with the devil of hell over the corpse of Moses. But tonight—whether due to the hazy light—even the valiant archangel, let alone the roaring demon, appeared strangely more elegant than usual. Perhaps it was also because of the fragrance emanating from the fresh roses and broom flowers offered before the altar. Behind that altar, he kept his head bowed and fervently concentrated on this prayer.

“Homage to the Great Merciful and Compassionate Deus Tathagata! Since I set sail from Lisboa, I have devoted my entire life to You. Therefore, whatever hardships I encountered, to make the Cross’s divine glory shine forth, I have advanced without faltering a single step. This, of course, is not something I could have achieved on my own. All of this—Lord of Heaven and Earth—is Your divine grace. But during my time living in Japan, I have gradually come to realize just how difficult my mission is. In this country, in the mountains, in the forests, or in the towns lined with houses, some mysterious force lurks. And it is hindering my mission in the shadows. Otherwise, I would not have sunk into the depths of such baseless melancholy as of late. As for what that force is, I do not know. But in any case, that force has spread throughout this entire country, just like an underground spring. First, I must destroy this force—O Great Merciful and Compassionate Deus Tathagata! The Japanese people, deluded by heresy, may never come to worship the splendor of the heavenly realm (Tenkai). For this reason, these past few days, I have been piling torment upon torment. Please grant Your humble servant, Organtino, courage and patience.—”

At that moment, Organtino suddenly thought he heard the crowing of a rooster. But paying no heed to it, he continued his prayer thus. “To fulfill my mission, I must fight the force lurking in this country’s mountains and rivers—and likely the spirits invisible to human eyes. Long ago, You sank the armies of Egypt to the depths of the Red Sea. The spiritual power of this country is no less than the armies of Egypt. Please—like the prophets of old—grant that I too may triumph in this battle against the spirits.………”

The words of prayer had vanished from his lips before he knew it. This time, a raucous crowing of roosters was suddenly heard around the altar. Organtino looked around his surroundings suspiciously. And there, directly behind him, was a single rooster with a white tail drooping limply—perched atop the altar, puffing out its chest—raising a battle cry once more as if heralding dawn even in the dead of night! No sooner had Organtino jumped up than he frantically tried to drive out the bird, spreading both arms of his habit. But after taking a few steps, he cried out “Lord!” in a broken voice, then stood there frozen in bewilderment. In this dimly lit inner sanctuary, countless roosters filled the space—though when or from where they had entered, he could not tell—some flying through the air, others darting about here and there, until as far as his eyes could see, they formed a sea of crimson combs.

“Lord, grant me Your protection!”

He tried again to make the sign of the cross. But his hand, as if caught in some vise-like grip, would not budge even slightly. Gradually within the inner sanctuary, a crimson glow akin to bonfire light began seeping forth from unseen sources. Gasping raggedly, Organtino discerned a hazy figure materializing through the luminous haze just as this radiance emerged. The figure sharpened rapidly before him. It resolved into a crowd of rustic men and women, their faces wholly unfamiliar. They all wore necklaces of threaded beads around their throats as they laughed and caroused in merriment. The myriad roosters crowding the sanctuary redoubled their triumphant cries when these figures clarified, their crows echoing exultantly. Simultaneously, the inner sanctuary walls—those frescoed with Saint Michael’s image—dissolved into night’s embrace like mist. In their place—

Japan’s Bacchanalia drifted before the dumbfounded Organtino like a mirage. In the red bonfire’s glow, he saw Japanese people clad in ancient attire exchanging drinks and forming a ring. In the very center, he saw a woman—a woman of stately build unlike any he had ever seen in Japan—dancing wildly atop a large overturned barrel. Behind the barrel, like a small mountain, he saw another robust man calmly holding aloft a seemingly uprooted sacred tree branch from which beads and mirrors hung. Around them, he saw hundreds of roosters, rubbing their tail feathers and combs together, crowing joyfully without cease. And beyond that—Organtino could not help but doubt his eyes, as if only now realizing. Beyond that, within the night mist, a massive boulder resembling the entrance to a rocky cave loomed imposingly.

The woman atop the barrel never ceased her dance. The vine entwined in her hair fluttered through the air. The beads hanging around her neck clashed together like hail time and again. The small bamboo branch she held in her hand whipped through the wind in every direction. And her exposed chest! In the red bonfire’s glow, the two glisteningly prominent breasts seemed to Organtino’s eyes as nothing but lust itself. While invoking Deus, he tried with all his might to turn his face away. But still, his body—whether due to some mysterious curse—could not even move an inch.

Suddenly, silence descended upon the phantom men and women. The woman atop the barrel too, as if regaining her senses once more, finally ceased her frenzied dance. No—even the roosters that had been crowing in rivalry now stretched their necks and fell utterly silent all at once. Then, within that silence, an eternally beautiful woman’s voice came solemnly from somewhere. “Had I hidden myself here, would not the world have been plunged into darkness?” “Yet the gods appear to delight in this spectacle—laughing and reveling.”

As the voice vanished into the night sky, the woman atop the barrel cast a fleeting glance over the assembly and replied with unexpected grace.

“That has triumphed over you as well, and because there is a new god, we are rejoicing together.” This “new god” might be referring to Deus. For a brief moment, encouraged by this thought, Organtino gazed at the shifting phantom with a hint of interest.

The silence remained unbroken for some time. But no sooner had the flock of roosters raised a unified war cry than the monolithic rock—resembling a cave entrance that had been holding back the night mist—began to slowly part left and right. And then, from that fissure, countless indescribable rays of hazy light surged forth like a flood.

Organtino tried to shout. But his tongue would not move. Organtino tried to escape. But his legs would not move. He felt only an intense dizziness surging from the blinding radiance. And within that light, he heard the voices of a multitude of men and women rejoicing surge upward to heaven.

“Amaterasu Ōmikami! “Amaterasu Ōmikami!” “Amaterasu Ōmikami!”

“There is no such thing as a new god.” “There is no such thing as a new god.” “Those who defy you shall perish.” “Behold. “The darkness vanishing.” “As far as the eye can see—your mountains, your forests, your rivers, your towns, your seas.”

“There is no such thing as a new god.” “Everyone is your servant.” “Amaterasu Ōmikami! “Amaterasu Ōmikami!” “Amaterasu Ōmikami!” Amidst the surging voices, Organtino—drenched in cold sweat—let out an anguished cry and finally collapsed there. ………

As midnight approached that night, Organtino finally regained consciousness from the depths of unconsciousness. In his ears, the voices of the gods still seemed to resound. But when he looked around, in the inner sanctuary where no human sound could be heard, only the light of the dome-shaped ceiling lamp continued to dimly illuminate the murals as before. Organtino, groaning repeatedly, slowly left behind the altar. What meaning that vision held, he could not comprehend. However, one thing was certain—the one who had shown him that vision was not Deus.

“To fight against this country’s spirits…”

Organtino, while walking, involuntarily let slip a quiet soliloquy.

“Fighting against the spirits of this country seems more difficult than I had imagined.” “Will I win, or will I lose again—” Then, at that moment, something whispered these words into his ear. “You’ve lost!”

Organtino peered uneasily in the direction from which the voice had come. But there, as ever, aside from dimly lit roses and broom flowers, he could see nothing resembling a human figure.

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Organtino was walking in the garden of Nanban-ji again on the evening of the following day. Yet in his blue eyes lingered a faint glimmer of joy. This was because three or four Japanese samurai had joined the ranks of converts in the span of a single day.

The olive and laurel trees in the garden stood silently towering into the evening dusk. The only thing that disturbed the silence was the sound of wings in midair—likely temple pigeons returning to the eaves. The scent of roses, the dampness of sand—all was as peaceful as those ancient evenings when winged angels, “having seen the beauty of human women,” descended to seek wives, just as they had in those twilight hours of old.

“After all,” he thought, “it appears that even Japan’s defiled spiritual forces find it difficult to claim victory before the divine authority of the cross.” But what of last night’s vision?—No, that was merely an illusion. Had not Satan shown such phantoms even to Saint Anthony? As proof of this fact alone—today several converts had already been made! “Before long,” he murmured with conviction, “sacred temples of Deus shall rise across every corner of this land.”

Organtino, thinking so, walked along the red sandy path. Then someone from behind softly tapped his shoulder. He immediately turned around. But behind him, only the twilight lingered faintly over the young hackberry leaves lining both sides of the path. “Lord. Grant Your protection!”

After muttering this, he slowly turned his head back.

And then, beside him—having somehow stealthily approached without notice—there was an old man with jewels coiled about his neck, just as in last night’s vision, his form hazed as though veiled in smoke, slowly making his way forward. “Who are you?”

Caught off guard, Organtino involuntarily stopped in his tracks. “I—it matters not who I am. “I am one of the spirits of this country.” The old man replied with a smile, his tone kind. “Well, let us walk together. “I have come out to speak with you for a time.”

Organtino made the sign of the cross. But the old man showed not the slightest fear at that sign. “I am not a demon. Behold this jewel and this sword. If they had been scorched by hell’s flames, they would not remain so pure. Come now, you should stop reciting incantations and such.”

Organtino had no choice but to reluctantly fold his arms and start walking alongside the old spirit. “You have come to spread Catholicism, haven’t you—” The old spirit calmly began to speak. “That may not be a bad thing.” “However, even Deus will surely be defeated in the end if He comes to this country.”

“Deus is the almighty Lord, so for Deus—”

Organtino began to say this, then as if suddenly remembering something, he adopted the polished tone he always used toward the converts in this country.

“There should be none who can defeat Deus.”

“However, in reality, such beings do exist.” “Now, listen well.” “It is not only Deus who has come from afar to this country.” “Confucius, Mencius, Zhuangzi—and many other philosophers from China came to this country.” “Moreover, at that time, this country had only just been born.” “The philosophers from China brought not only the Way but also various things such as silk from the state of Wu and jade from the state of Qin.” “No, they even brought mystical script—more precious than such treasures.” “But did China succeed in conquering us because of that?” “Take writing, for example.” “Instead of writing conquering us, it was conquered for our sake.” “Among the natives I knew long ago, there was a poet called Kakinomoto no Hitomaro.” “The Tanabata song that man composed still remains in this country. Read that for yourself.” “Altair and Vega cannot be found within it.” “The lovers sung of there are none other than Hikoboshi and Tanabata-tsume.” “What resounded at their pillows was the clear sound of the Milky Way’s rapids, just like the rivers of this country.” “It was not the roaring waves of the Milky Way resembling China’s Yellow River or Yangtze.” “But I must speak not of songs, but of writing.” “Hitomaro used Chinese characters to record that song.” “But they were characters used for their pronunciation rather than their meaning.” “Even after the character for ‘boat’ was introduced, ‘fune’ remained ‘fune’.”

“Otherwise, our language might have become Chinese.” “This was of course not Hitomaro’s doing, but the power of our country’s gods who protected Hitomaro’s heart.” “Not only that, but the philosophers from China also transmitted calligraphy to this country.” “Kūkai, Michikaze, Sari, Yukinari—I always went secretly to where they were.” “The models they followed were all the ink traces of Chinese men.” “However, from their brush tips, a new beauty gradually emerged.” “Their characters had, unbeknownst to anyone, become neither those of Wang Xizhi nor Chu Suiliang—they had transformed into Japanese characters.” “However, our victory lies not only in writing.” “Our breath, like the sea breeze, even mellowed the Way of the aged Confucians.” “Ask the natives of this country.” “They all believe that Mencius’s writings, being prone to incurring our wrath, will surely cause any ship carrying them to capsize.” “Shikado no Kami has never once committed such mischief.” “But even within such beliefs, the power of us who dwell in this country should be dimly perceptible.” “Do you not think so?”

Organtino blankly gazed back at the old spirit’s face. To him, unversed in the history of this country, even the old spirit’s earnest eloquence remained half incomprehensible.

“After the philosophers of China came Prince Siddhartha of India.—”

While continuing to speak, the old spirit plucked a rose from beside the path and sniffed its scent with evident delight. Yet where the rose had been plucked, the flower remained perfectly intact. Only the blossom in the old spirit’s hand—though identical in hue and form—hung hazily like mist.

“The fate of Buddha was no different.” “But dwelling on each of these matters may only weary you further.” “What I must caution you about is the doctrine of honji suijaku.” “That teaching led the natives of this land to regard Amaterasu Ōmikami as identical to Dainichi Nyorai.” “Does this mark Amaterasu Ōmikami’s triumph?” “Or rather Dainichi Nyorai’s?” “Consider this—even if most natives today know nothing of Amaterasu Ōmikami yet recognize Dainichi Nyorai.” “Might not her essence linger in their visions of that Buddha more than any trace of his Indian origin?” “I walk with Shinran and Nichiren beneath flowering sal trees.” “The Buddha they worshipped bore no dark visage crowned by a halo.” “He stood kin to Prince Shōtoku—radiating tender majesty.” “But let us abandon this protracted discourse as agreed.” “In brief, I mean to say: even Deus shall find no victory here.”

“Now, wait a moment.” “You say that, but—”

Organtino interjected.

“Just today, two or three samurai converted to your faith at once.” “Anyone would convert to that.” “If mere conversion suffices, then most natives of this country have already converted to Siddhartha’s teachings.” “Yet our power lies not in destruction.” “It resides in transformation.”

The old spirit threw the rose. No sooner had the flower left his hand than it vanished into the twilight.

“Ah, the power to remake? However, that isn’t something limited solely to you all. In any country—for example, even the demons in that land referred to as the gods of Greece—”

“The Great Pan has died.” “No, Pan too may yet revive someday.” “However, as you can see, we are still alive.” Organtino cast a sidelong glance at the old spirit’s face with curiosity.

“Do you know Pan?”

“Oh, it was in a Western-script book brought back by the children of daimyo from the western provinces.” “Though even that is recent—even if this power to remake is not limited solely to us—still we must not lower our vigilance.” “No, rather, it is precisely why I tell you to take heed.” “We are ancient gods, you see.” “Gods who witnessed the world’s dawn, like those of Greece—that we are.”

“But Deus should prevail.”

Organtino defiantly declared the same thing once again. But the old spirit, as though he hadn’t heard it, continued to speak slowly like this.

“I encountered a Greek sailor who had landed on the shores of the western provinces just four or five days ago.” “That man is not a god.” “He is merely a human.” “I sat upon a moonlit rock with that sailor and listened to various tales.” “Stories of being seized by a one-eyed god, tales of a goddess who turns people into swine, accounts of a mermaid with a beautiful voice—do you know that man’s name?” “That man became one of the natives of this country from the moment he met me.” “He now reportedly calls himself Yuriwaka.” “Therefore, you too must take care.” “It cannot be said that Deus will surely prevail either.” “Even if Catholicism spreads far and wide, it cannot be said that it will surely prevail.”

The old spirit’s voice gradually grew softer.

“It may be that even Deus himself will become one of the natives of this country.” “China and India have also changed.” “The West must change as well.” “We are in the trees as well.” “We are in the shallow streams as well.” “We are in the wind that passes through the roses.” “We are in the twilight lingering on the temple walls.” “We are everywhere, and we are here always.” “Take care.” “Take care…”

No sooner had that voice finally ceased than the old spirit’s form vanished into the evening gloom, fading away like a shadow. At the same time, from the temple tower, the Ave Maria bell began to resound above Organtino, who stood frowning.

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Padre Organtino of Nanban-ji—no, it was not limited to Organtino alone.

The high-nosed, red-haired Westerner—who had been leisurely holding the hem of his habit—returned from amidst imaginary laurel trees and roses bathed in twilight’s lingering light to a pair of folding screens. To the old folding screen from over three centuries prior, depicting Nanban ships entering port.

Farewell. Padre Organtino!

You were now walking along Japan’s shore with your companions, gazing at the great Nanban ship raising its flag within golden-hued mist. Whether Deus would prevail or Amaterasu Ōmikami would prevail—even now this may not be easily determined. But in time our work shall become the question delivering judgment. From that shore of the past, quietly watch over us. Even should you lie sunken in oblivion’s slumber alongside the Captain leading his dog and the black child holding a parasol upon that same screen—the roar of our black ships’ cannons newly appeared upon the horizon will surely come shattering your antiquated dreams. Until then—farewell.

Padre Organtino! Farewell. Padre Organtino of Nanban-ji! (December of Taishō 10)