Pathway to Japanese Literature

One spring evening, Padre Organtino was walking alone through Nanban Temple’s garden, trailing the hem of his long Abitto (cassock). Among pines and cypresses in the garden grew Western plants—roses here, olives there, laurels beyond. The newly blooming roses especially suffused the twilight-softened trees with their faintly sweet fragrance. To the garden’s stillness it lent a certain charm—something inconceivable as Japan—a mysterious allure. With lonely bearing, Padre Organtino walked the red sandy path while drifting through reminiscence. Memories—Rome’s grand cathedral, Lisbon’s harbor, lute strains, almond flavors, the hymn “O Lord, Mirror of My Anima (Soul)”—these had unwittingly borne homesick sorrow into this red-haired missionary monk’s heart. To dispel that sorrow, he softly uttered Deus’s holy name. Yet far from vanishing, the sorrow began spreading through his chest an air heavier still than before.

“The scenery of this country is beautiful—.”

Padre Organtino reflected. "The scenery of this country is beautiful. The climate is also generally mild. The natives—they might be better than those yellow-faced dwarfs, perhaps even preferable to black people. However, even their general disposition has an amiable quality. Moreover, the converts have recently come to number in the tens of thousands. Indeed, even in the very center of this capital city, such a temple now stands tall. Given that, even if living here isn’t pleasant, shouldn’t it at least be tolerable? But at times, I find myself sinking into the depths of melancholy. There are moments when my thoughts turn toward returning home—to Lisbon City—and departing from Japan. Could this be merely the sorrow of homesickness? No—even if not Lisbon, if I could just leave this country, I would want to go anywhere. Whether in China, Shashitsu, or India—in other words, homesickness is not the entirety of my melancholy. I simply feel like escaping this country as soon as possible. But—but the scenery of this country is beautiful. The climate is also generally mild......"

Organtino sighed. At that moment, his eyes chanced to catch sight of faintly white cherry blossoms scattered on the moss in the shade of the trees. Cherry blossoms! Organtino gazed into the dimly lit grove of trees with a look of surprise. There, amidst four or five palm trees, a single weeping cherry with drooping branches stood enveloped in blossoms like a dream.

“Lord, grant me protection!” Padre Organtino momentarily attempted to make the demon-quelling sign of the cross. Indeed, in that moment, to his eyes, the weeping cherry blooming in the twilight appeared so eerily ominous. Eerie—or rather, this cherry tree, which somehow filled him with unease, appeared to him as Japan itself. But after a moment, he realized it was nothing mysterious or extraordinary—merely an ordinary cherry tree. With a self-conscious bitter smile, he quietly turned his feeble steps back toward the path he had come from.

×　　　　　　　　　　×　　　　　　　　　　× Thirty minutes later, he was in the sanctuary of Nanban Temple, offering prayers to Deus. There was only a lamp hanging from the domed ceiling. In the lamplight, upon the frescoed walls enclosing the sanctuary, Saint Michael grappled with a demon from hell over the corpse of Moses. Yet not only the valiant archangel but even the roaring demon appeared strangely more elegant than usual that night—perhaps an effect of the dim light. It might also have been due to the fragrance emanating from the fresh roses and broom flowers placed before the altar. He remained behind the altar, head bowed low, fervently concentrating on these prayers.

“Namu Daijihi Daiji no Deus Tathagata! From the moment I set sail from Lisbon, I have dedicated my life to you. Therefore, no matter what hardships I encountered, I have advanced without flinching a single step to make the glory of the cross shine forth. This is, of course, not something I alone could accomplish. All of this is by the grace of you, the Lord of Heaven and Earth. But during my time living in Japan, I have gradually begun to realize just how difficult my mission is. In this country—in the mountains, in the forests, even in towns lined with houses—some mysterious power lies hidden. And it is hindering my mission in the shadows. Otherwise, I would not have sunk into the depths of such inexplicable melancholy as of late. As for what that power is—that, I do not know. But in any case, that power has spread throughout this entire country like an underground spring. We must first destroy this power—O Namu Daijihi Daiji Deus Tathagata! Those Japanese entangled in heretical faiths may never behold the splendor of Paranirvisha (heavenly realm)—this I fear. For that very reason, these past days I have come to pile anguish upon anguish. Please grant your servant Organtino courage and patience.—”

At that moment, Organtino suddenly thought he heard the crowing of a chicken. But paying it no heed, he continued his prayer thus. “To fulfill my mission, I must fight against the force lurking in the mountains and rivers of this country—and likely against spirits unseen by human eyes. You once sank the Egyptian army to the bottom of the Red Sea. The spiritual forces of this country are no less formidable than the Egyptian army. Please—as with 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 chicken’s crow suddenly rang out near the altar. Organtino looked around suspiciously. There, directly behind him, was a single chicken with a ghostly white drooping tail—perched atop the altar with its chest puffed out—raising another raucous cry as if dawn had broken in the dead of night. No sooner had Organtino leapt up than he frantically tried to drive out the bird, spreading the sleeves of his habit. But after taking two or three steps, he gasped out “Lord!” and stood frozen in place, dumbfounded. Within this dim sanctuary—whence and how they had entered, he knew not—countless chickens now swarmed. Some took flight, others scurried about, until everything within his sight became a sea of crimson combs.

“Lord, grant me protection!”

He attempted to make the sign of the cross again. But strangely, his hand would not move freely, as if caught in a vise. Gradually, within the sanctuary, a red light resembling that of a bonfire began to flow forth from an unknown source. Padre Organtino, gasping for breath, discovered shadowy figures floating hazily into view just as this light began to spread. The shadowy figures grew distinct before his eyes. They were a group of men and women—all unfamiliar and plain. They all wore beads strung on cords around their necks, laughing merrily as they reveled. When their figures became clear, the countless chickens swarming in the sanctuary raised their cries even more loudly than before, many calling out in unison. At the same time, the sanctuary walls—the walls painted with Saint Michael—were swallowed by the night like mist.

In their place— The Japanese Bacchanalia drifted before the dumbfounded Organtino like a mirage. He saw Japanese people clad in ancient attire within the red bonfire's glow, exchanging drinks as they formed a circle. At the very center was a woman—a woman of stature never before seen in Japan—dancing wildly atop a large overturned barrel. Behind the barrel stood a burly man like a small hill, holding aloft an uprooted sacred sakaki branch adorned with dangling jewels and mirrors. Around them swarmed hundreds of chickens, rubbing tail feathers and combs together while crowing joyfully without cease. Beyond that—Organtino could not help but doubt his own eyes. Beyond that still, within the night mist, loomed a massive rock resembling a cave entrance.

The woman on the barrel never ceased her dance. The vine entwined in her hair fluttered lightly in the air. The beads hanging from her neck clattered together repeatedly like hail. The small bamboo branch she held in her hand swung through the wind in every direction. And that exposed chest! In the light of the red bonfire, the two glistening breasts that stood out appeared to Organtino’s eyes as nothing less than lust itself. He tried to turn his face away while invoking Deus. But still, his body—whether due to some mysterious curse—could not even move with ease.

Then, suddenly, silence fell upon the phantom men and women. The woman atop the barrel, as though regaining her senses once more, finally ceased her frenzied dance. No—even the chickens that had been crowing in competition now stretched their necks and fell silent all at once. Then, within that silence, an eternally beautiful woman’s voice came solemnly from somewhere.

“If I had hidden here, would not the world have fallen into darkness?” “The gods seem to take delight in this—laughing and making merry.”

When that voice vanished into the night sky, the woman atop the barrel glanced over the group and replied with unexpected grace. “It is because there is a new god who has triumphed even over you that we are rejoicing together.”

That “new god” might refer to Deus. For a brief moment, encouraged by this thought, Padre Organtino watched the shifting phantasmagoria with a flicker of interest.

The silence remained unbroken for some time. But no sooner had the flock of chickens raised a raucous cry in unison than the massive rock that had been holding back the night mist—resembling a cave door—began to slowly part left and right. And from that fissure, countless rays of indescribable hazy light gushed forth like a flood.

Organtino tried to shout. But his tongue would not move. Organtino tried to flee. But his legs also would not move. He felt only a violent dizziness rising from the great light. And within that light, he heard the rejoicing voices of a multitude of men and women roaring as they soared to the heavens.

“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 vanishes.” “As far as the eye can see—your mountains, your forests, your rivers, your towns, your seas.”

“There exists no such thing as a new god.” “All are your servants.”

“Amaterasu Ōmikami! “Amaterasu Ōmikami!” “Amaterasu Ōmikami!” Amid the surging voices, Organtino, now drenched in cold sweat, let out an anguished cry and finally collapsed there. ………

As the night again approached midnight, Organtino finally regained consciousness from the depths of his faint. To his ears, the voices of the gods still seemed to resound. But when he looked around, the sanctuary—devoid of any human sound—was illuminated only by the dome-ceilinged lamp's light, which dimly lit the wall paintings just as before. Organtino, groaning repeatedly, slowly moved away from behind the altar. He could not comprehend what meaning that vision held. However, it was certain that what had shown him that vision was not Deus.

“To fight against the spirits of this country…”

As he walked, Organtino inadvertently let slip a muttered soliloquy.

“To fight against the spirits of this country… seems more difficult than I thought.” “Will I win, or will I lose again—” At that moment, a whisper reached his ears.

“You lose!”

Organtino peered uneasily in the direction from which the voice had come. But there, unchanged besides the dimly lit roses and broom flowers, not even a shadow resembling a human figure could be seen.

×　　　　　　　　　　×　　　　　　　　　　× The following evening as well, Padre Organtino was walking in the garden of Nanban Temple. Yet in his blue eyes lingered a certain joyful glint. That was because, within this single day, three or four Japanese samurai had joined the ranks of the converts. The olive and laurel trees in the garden stood silent and towering in the twilight. The only thing that disturbed the silence was the sound of wings in the sky—likely the temple’s pigeons returning to their eaves. The scent of roses, the dampness of the sand—everything was as peaceful as in ancient days when winged angels, “seeing the beauty of human women,” had come down seeking wives.

“It seems that even Japan’s defiled spirits find it difficult to claim victory before the divine power of the cross.” But what of last night’s vision?—No—that was merely a vision. Did not the devil show such visions even to Saint Anthony? As proof, by today several converts had been made at once. “Before long, temples of the Lord will be built everywhere in this country as well.”

Organtino walked along the red sandy path, thinking such thoughts. Then someone tapped softly on the shoulder from behind. He immediately turned around. But behind him now lingered only the twilight’s glow, drifting faintly through the young sakaki saplings lining both sides of the path.

“Lord. Protect!”

After muttering this, he slowly returned his head to its original position. And then, beside him—how had he crept there unnoticed?—appeared an old man with jade beads around his neck, his form blurred hazily as he slowly walked onward, just as he had in last night’s vision.

“Who are you?”

Taken by surprise, Organtino unintentionally stopped there. “I am—it matters not who I am.” “I am one of the spirits of this country.” The old man smiled and replied kindly. “Come, 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. Look at this jewel and this sword. If they had been burned in hellfire, they would not remain so pure. Now, please stop reciting incantations.”

Organtino, having no choice, started walking together with the old man, his arms crossed in displeasure.

“You have come to spread Catholicism—”

The old man began to speak quietly. “That may not be a bad thing. However, even Deus will surely end up defeated if he comes to this country.” “Deus is the almighty Lord, so Deus—” Organtino, having started to say this, then—as if suddenly struck by a thought—adopted the courteous tone he always used with the converts of this country. “There should be none who can defeat Deus.” “But in reality, there are. Now, please listen. It is not only Deus who has journeyed from afar to this country. Confucius, Mencius, Zhuangzi—many other philosophers from China journeyed to this country. Moreover, at that time, this country had only just been born. The philosophers from China brought not only their teachings but also various things—silk from the land of Wu, jade from the land of Qin, and more. No—they even brought mystical characters more precious than such treasures. But did China succeed in conquering us because of that? Take writing, for example. Instead of the characters conquering us, they were conquered for our sake. Among the natives I once knew, there was a poet called Kakinomoto no Hitomaro. The Tanabata song that man composed still remains in this country. Please read it. Altair and Vega cannot be found within it. The lovers sung of there are none other than Hikoboshi and Tanabatatsume.”

“What resonated at their pillows was the pure murmur of the Milky Way’s current—just like this country’s rivers.” “It was not the roaring torrent of a galaxy resembling China’s Yellow River or Yangtze.” “Yet I must speak not of poetry but of writing.” “Hitomaro used Chinese characters to transcribe that song.” “But he employed them for their sounds rather than meanings.” “Even after adopting the character for ‘boat,’ ‘fune’ remained ‘fune.’” “Otherwise our tongue might have become Chinese.” “This was not Hitomaro’s doing but our power—we gods of this land who guarded his heart.” “Nor did China’s sages stop at letters—they brought calligraphy too.” “Kūkai, Tōfū, Sari, Kōsei—I always stole unseen to where they practiced.” “Their models were all Chinese ink traces.” “Yet from their brushes bloomed new beauty.” “Before anyone noticed, their script became neither Wang Xizhi’s nor Chu Suiliang’s—it ripened into Japanese writing.” “But our triumph extended beyond characters.” “Our breath softened even Confucian rigidity like sea-mist.” “Ask any native here.” “They all believe ships carrying Mencius’s texts capsize because his words provoke our wrath.” “The God of Shikido never played such tricks.” “Yet even in these superstitions, our presence lingers faintly—we who inhabit this land.” “Do you not agree?”

Organtino gazed back vacantly at the old man's face. To him, unfamiliar with this country's history, even the other's earnest eloquence had been half lost. "After the Chinese philosophers came Prince Siddhartha of India—"

While continuing to speak, the old man plucked a rose by the path and sniffed its scent with evident delight. But even where the rose had been plucked, the flower remained perfectly intact. Only the blossom in his hand—though matching in color and form—seemed somehow hazed like mist. “The Buddha met the same fate.” “But enumerating these matters may only weary you further.” “What demands your attention is the doctrine of Honji Suijaku.” “That teaching led this land’s natives to deem Amaterasu Ōmikami identical to Dainichi Nyorai.” “Is this Amaterasu’s triumph?” “Or Dainichi’s?” “Consider this: though many natives today know Dainichi Nyorai while remaining ignorant of Amaterasu Ōmikami—” “Even in the guise of Dainichi that visits their dreams, would they not glimpse Amaterasu more than any vestige of the Indian Buddha?” “I walk beneath sal blossoms’ shade alongside Shinran and Nichiren.” “The Buddha they worshipped with such ardor bore no haloed visage of ebony.” “They were brethren like Prince Shōtoku, brimming with tender majesty.” “But let us abandon this protracted discourse, as pledged.” “In brief: none who come to this land as Deus has shall prevail.”

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

Organtino interjected.

“Even today, two or three samurai converted in one go to the faith.” “That is something anyone would convert to.” “If it’s just a matter of conversion, the natives of this country have mostly converted to Siddhartha’s teachings.” “However, our power is not a destructive force.” “It is the power to transform.” The old man threw the rose. The moment it left his hand, the flower vanished into the twilight.

“Ah, so it’s the power to transform? But that isn’t something unique to you people, is it? In any country—for example, even the demons in that land of the so-called Greek gods—” “The Great Pan has died. Ah, but Pan may yet revive someday. However, as you can see, we are still alive.”

Organtino glanced sideways at the old man’s face with curiosity.

“Do you know Pan?”

“Well, it was in a Western-language book—or so they say—that the children of daimyos from the western provinces brought back from Europe.” “That too is recent history—but even if this transformative power isn’t ours alone, you still mustn’t grow complacent.” “No—rather, it’s precisely why I tell you to take heed.” “For we are ancient gods.” “Gods who beheld the world’s dawning, like those deities of Greece.”

“But Deus should prevail.”

Organtino stubbornly declared the same thing once again. But the old man, as though he hadn’t heard it, continued speaking slowly like this.

“Just four or five days ago, I encountered a Greek sailor who had landed on the coast of the western provinces.” “That man is not a god.” “He is nothing more than a human being.” “I sat with that sailor on a moonlit rock and listened to various tales.” “Tales of a one-eyed god who ensnared people, stories of a goddess who turned men into swine, accounts of a mermaid with a voice of surpassing beauty—do you know that man’s name?” “From the moment that man encountered me, he became one of the natives of this country.” “He now goes by the name Yuriwaka, they say.” “So you must take care.” “It cannot be said that Deus will surely prevail.” “No matter how much Catholicism spreads, it cannot be said that it will surely prevail.”

The old man’s voice gradually grew quieter.

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

No sooner had the voice finally faded than the Old Man’s form vanished into the dusk, disappearing like a shadow. At the same moment, from the temple tower, the Ave Maria bell began to ring over Organtino, who had frowned.

×　　　　　　　　　　×　　　　　　　　　　×

Padre Organtino of Nanban Temple was—or rather, it was not limited to Organtino alone. The red-haired man with a high nose, leisurely holding the hem of his habit, returned from amidst imaginary laurels and roses bathed in twilight’s lingering light into a pair of folding screens. Into the ancient folding screen from three centuries prior depicting the Nanban Ship Arrival.

Goodbye.

Padre Organtino! You were now walking along Japan’s seashore with your companions, gazing at a great Nanban ship hoisting its flag in golden-hued mist. Whether Deus would prevail or Amaterasu Ōmikami would prevail—even now, this may not be easily determined. Yet our endeavor would ultimately pose a question demanding definitive resolution. From that seashore of the past, gaze quietly upon us. Even should you lie submerged in oblivion’s slumber alongside the Captain leading his dog or the black child holding a parasol within that same folding screen—the roar of our black ships’ cannons newly appearing on the horizon would surely shatter your antiquated dreams in time. Until then—farewell. Padre Organtino! Farewell. Padre Organtino of Nanban Temple!

(Taisho 10, December)