Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Amakusa Shirō Tokisada, the instigator of the Amakusa Disturbance, went by the childhood name Koshirō. He was the third son of Masuda Jinbei—a local samurai of Amakusa Ōyano Village in Kyushu who had once risen to become secretary to Konishi Yukinaga—but what astonished people most was his pearl-like appearance: a beauty so transcendent that during the Kanei era, when male love flourished, he became an object of fervent adoration beyond all reckoning. But Heaven does not bestow two gifts—Shirō was not clever. Were a storyteller to recount this, they would surely declare, “Shirō was a divinely gifted child who could grasp ten truths from hearing one—a veritable prodigy among men.” Yet until at least his fifteenth spring, he remained closer to an idiot.

It was around his fifteenth spring when Shirō was taken by his father to Nagasaki.

One day, Shirō was walking alone through the harbor. It was the seventh day of the first month—the Festival of Seven Herbs—so the town was somehow bustling. As this was a southern region, even though it was January, there was no snow to be seen; the sea’s tides held a purplish hue, and the salt breeze felt almost warm. Though cherry blossoms had yet to bloom, golden hypericum flowers displayed their gilded hues in household gardens, while faintly dreamlike white magnolias vied in splendor with alluring red peaches as early-rising butterflies hunted nectar, flitting from blossom to blossom—such tranquil scenes could be witnessed everywhere.

With his hair in a topknot and robes of furisode silk, brown hakama trousers paired with slender swords, straw sandals gracing his feet—Shirō’s figure, combined with his heaven-bestowed beauty, drew the gazes of all who passed by. Young women in particular would halt mid-step to stare, turn back for second glances, and linger as though unable to pull themselves away. Shirō had been wandering vacantly along the harbor, his eyes fixed blankly upon the sea, when he noticed a great crowd of men and women gathered and clamoring around a boulder on the sandy shore. As was his foolish wont, he immediately broke into a run toward them.

There was an old man on the rock, chattering away about something. His white hair hung to his shoulders; a beard white enough to rival snow reached past his chest down to his belly. Clad in arrowroot robes and a sleeveless haori, his face—what one might call childlike—bore a jujube-brown complexion. Almond-shaped eyes; a high-bridged nose. Taut lips. The old man’s demeanor was truly noble. The old man surveyed the crowd and let out a dry chuckle, but—

“You riffraff gathered here—what are you gaping like fools for? You all seem eager to see the usual tricks. …But that’s not something you’ll get off the shelf. Expecting to see an amusing stunt without even leaving proper coin shows your thieving nature through and through. An eye-feast without paying a penny—that’s daylight robbery! Such layabouts’ll never amount to anything. Keep loitering and you’ll find yourselves in chains!” The old man had made such grand boasts. Yet judging by how the gathered spectators showed no anger whatsoever, they must have been accustomed to this sort of thing. Among them were even those who laughed as if finding his insults downright entertaining.

Soon, the old man stood up, snatched a rope lying nearby, and with a whoosh, hurled it high into the air. Catching it with his right hand as it fell, he immediately twisted it round and round into a loop—

“Now then, are you ready? Don’t be startled.” After declaring this, he placed it upon the rock—and what an astonishing sight! The rope transformed into a serpent that abruptly raised its sickle-shaped head. “Whoa!”

The spectators screamed and fled. Coolly gazing at this, “Now now, you lot—no need to flee! This isn’t a snake—it’s a rope!” Even as he spoke, the old man reached out and deftly snatched up the serpent. With a swift flick of his hand—lo and behold—it was no snake at all but an old rope about three shaku long. “Wahahaha!” With that, the old man laughed. The spectators, reassured, drew closer. The next performance began. “Hiyah!”

With a sharp battle cry, the old man once again manipulated the old rope, but when he stood it upright on his right palm, it transformed into a sturdy oak staff.

“Stretch! Stretch! Stretch! Stretch!”

The old man declared in a booming voice, as though singing a chant. And what bizarre sorcery was this?! Was it not that the three-shaku oak staff—heeding the old man’s voice—steadily, relentlessly stretched upward into the clear azure sky of early spring? A cloud hung in one corner of the heavens. Soon the staff’s tip vanished into that cloud.

“Now then,” With that, the old man laughed while scrutinizing the spectators, “You may start tossing coins now.” “This trick isn’t something you see every day.” “What are you all grinning at?” “Are you all just penniless deadbeats?” “Do you think you can watch this for free monme?” “You lot keep making excuses... Or perhaps you’re not impressed with the performance?” “Very well then! I’ll show you one final spectacle that’ll leave you breathless!” “That’s all for today.” “If the trick pleased you, throw however much coin you like.” “I’m a street performer too.” “Merely being gawked at would be the height of my good fortune.”

Having said this, the old man glared sharply at his hands.

II

In his right palm, the staff still stood. And then the tip of the staff was hidden by the clouds and could not be seen.

And then, the old man quietly placed the staff in his palm upon the rock, but the staff, using the rock as its foundation, still towered into the clouds. “Now then, fix your eyes well and watch what I’m about to do. Throwing coins comes later.” The old man continued to boast loudly while grinning slyly, but when he briskly approached the staff, he lightly gripped it with both hands and smoothly climbed about six feet. The staff neither fell nor bent. It was still towering above the clouds.

“Now then, this is the main act.” “Don’t lose your nerve and start rolling your eyes now!” The old man left these words behind and climbed the staff like a monkey scaling a tree, his figure gradually diminishing as he ascended. Soon he must have entered the clouds—or so it seemed—for he vanished completely from sight. Then the towering staff appeared to be drawn into the clouds, lifting smoothly away from the rock. And with tremendous speed, it was pulled into those clouds.

And then, suddenly, the old man’s voice came from within that cloud. “Now then, this time you may throw your coins.”

In response to the voice, the spectators rained down small coins like a shower, but how strange it was! Not a single one of those coins fell to the ground; they all suddenly and flittingly flashed upward into the sky and vanished into the clouds.

“What’s this? Only this much? You tight-fisted lot! But it’ll cover today’s meal money. Bwahahaha!”

A voice laughed, but that too came from within the cloud.

One by one, two by two, the spectators had dispersed before anyone knew it, but Shirō alone remained standing there, gazing up at the sky endlessly. Mystery upon mystery must have overwhelmed him.

“Hey, kid!” Suddenly, the old man’s voice rang out right by his ear. “Ah! You startled me!” Shirō blurted out and whipped his head around, but the old man’s figure was nowhere in sight. “Over here! Over here!” The voice called again. It seemed to drift from somewhere far off. Where the sound originated stood a grove, and there along its edge walked the old man. “Old maaan!” Shirō hollered at full volume and tore across the ground toward him, feet barely touching earth.

Before long, he reached the grove, but by then the old man was already standing atop a distant hill. Shirō ran toward the hill without losing an ounce of courage, but when he finally reached it, the old man was now strolling along the bank of a distant stream and beckoning to him. This time, even Shirō grew disheartened and stopped in his tracks, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to turn back, so reluctant was he to part ways. At that moment, the old man raised his hand and beckoned to Shirō two or three times, then called out again, “Boy!”

So, regaining his vigor once more, Shirō ran in that direction.

However, the truly strange thing was that no matter how fast Shirō ran, he simply couldn’t catch up to the old man. Yet despite this, the old man was plodding along with weary steps.

Crossing the stream led to a wide field; crossing the field led to a low hill; beyond the hill lay a deep forest where the white visible there was likely kobushi magnolia flowers in bloom.

Before long, evening fell. The sharp cackle of a pheasant. A flute-like crane’s cry whistled through the air. The cawing of crows seeking their roosts came echoing forlornly from the paddies, tree shadows, and twilight-glowing sky, and it became the hour when loneliness stirred the heart. The old man kept walking. And Shirō also ran after him. By the time about half an hour had passed in this manner, the sunset vanished, the moon rose, and the surroundings turned ghostly pale.

It was then that the old man finally came to a stop.

The place was at the foothills of a mountain, but the figure of the old man sitting cross-legged upon the withered grass with the full moon at his back resembled that of an apparition. “Hey, boy. Sit here.” When he saw Shirō approaching, the old man spoke thus. “What’s your name?” “My name is Masuda Shirō.” Though an idiot, Shirō at least knew his own name, so he sat down beside the old man and spoke with such innocence.

III

“What did you come all the way here for?” Shirō laughed silently without a word. “Is it because you want to see more tricks?” Shirō nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll show you then. “Why, you’re a lovely beautiful boy!” “In front of a beautiful boy like you, even my tricks pale in comparison.” The old man adjusted his posture slightly while saying such things and let out a long, slow breath toward the moon bathed in pure light. And his breath became a pale violet bridge that arched toward the moon. But the wonder did not end there. In the center of the round full moon, a tiny dot appeared—apparently a hole—from which an old man slid out effortlessly and stepped down onto the bridge.

Gradually, he drew nearer.

As they watched, the old man drew near to the ground, but upon closer inspection, this old man was the spitting image of the one still sitting cross-legged on the grass, exhaling breath. No—more than resembling each other, the two old men were completely identical. Thus, the old man on the bridge drew near to the mouth of the old man exhaling breath, but suddenly his form shrank until he was but an inch tall, whereupon he sprang into the mouth with a hop and vanished.

The instant this old man snapped his mouth shut with a clack, the bridge vanished abruptly. Before Shirō’s astonished eyes, there remained only the old man sitting on the grass—nothing else had changed—and no hole whatsoever now marred the orange-hued face of the moon. And the old man stroked his stomach, “Hey, Sōiki, how’s it feel in there?”

he called out toward his stomach. “That’s right. The future’s just plain dull.” It must have been the old man in his stomach chattering away, for such a voice could be heard: “How about you, Sōiki?”

“Me? I’m overjoyed,” “Having caught such a splendid youth—” “Hmph.” Then the voice from his stomach laughed mockingly. “What childish nonsense! Have you no sense of dignity?”

At that, the old man and the voice from within his stomach fell silent for a time. The surroundings were profoundly quiet.

And the old man stroked his stomach and spoke toward its depths. “I want to drink sake. “I want to drink sake.”

Before his voice had even finished, something darted out from the old man’s left nostril. It was a plate bearing sashimi that landed neatly onto the grass. Then this time, a sake decanter flew out from his right nostril. Then from both nostrils flew out sake cups, chopsticks, and various objects one after another—but suddenly, with a snap, he opened his mouth wide, and from it emerged a square brazier filled with live coals, not a single ash spilling out.

“How’s this?” came the voice from within his stomach at that moment. “Is this about enough now?” “Not nearly enough!”

And the old man shouted toward his stomach.

“Bring out a young beauty!” “What? A beauty? Don’t get greedy. There’s a beautiful boy right there, isn’t there?” The voice from within his stomach chuckled derisively. “Without female company, I can’t bear the loneliness.” “Alright, alright. I’ll bring one out for you.” Simultaneously with the cessation of the voice from within his stomach, a girl of about seventeen emerged from the old man’s mouth—a slender, fair-skinned beauty with jet-black hair who, upon seeing Shirō, smiled sweetly and went to sit beside him. “Lined up, lined up, like little dolls!”

The old man clapped his hands in amusement while watching the two, then grabbed a sake cup and thrust it forward, “Come now, come now, pour the sake!” “Yes.” The girl picked up the sake decanter with practiced hands and poured.

“Come now, girl, stand and dance.” “Yes,” she replied, and the girl stood up and began to dance.

A crystal-clear yellow moon of early spring hung suspended. A drowsy bird trilled from bush shadows. A tepid night wind stirred. Long sleeves shattered moonlight—riding the breeze—fluttering mid-dance. ……The girl’s dance took on imayō form as she began singing with crystalline clarity: “At dawn in spring’s third month, When gazing o’er each hillside rim— Ah! Flowers bloom like clouds’ white hymn, No peak uncloaked by blossoms’ whim—Ah!”

Three times over, the girl repeated her song and dance with perfect clarity.

And there he was—the old man was fast asleep. He flopped down onto the grass and even began to snore softly. “Oh, Grandpa’s fallen asleep.” The girl suddenly stopped dancing, clapped her hands, and burst into laughter.

“This sort of thing hardly ever happens! How utterly careless of him to abandon everything he’s conjured up and just fall asleep like that!”

The girl exclaimed with apparent delight.

IV “What a delightfully cute little master!”

Having said this, the girl suddenly came to Shirō’s side and, with a precocious demeanor, firmly grasped his hand.

“I’ve been waiting for you, you know.” “From a very, very long time ago.” “We’ve finally met, haven’t we? I’m so happy…… You’re Mr. Masuda Shirō, aren’t you?” “Shall I tell you my name?” “Long, long ago in the distant past—when this humble one dwelled in the scorching deserts of a far-off land called Judea—I was known as the Virgin Mary.” “And I remain the Virgin Mary still.” “But you know—the people of Japan persecute me terribly.” “That’s why I can’t wander about recklessly—why I must stay hidden.” “……That’s why I ask you.” “Please set me free.” “Please release me from this hiding place.”

“But where are you hiding?” Shirō asked curiously.

“That’s… inside people’s hearts.” “Princess Maria.” “So that’s your name?” “Yes, that’s right.” “That’s the name.” “You may also call me 〈Mother of the Son of God, Jesus Christ〉.”

“That’s a very long name, isn’t it?”

“Love—you may also call it this. 〈People, love one another〉—I have been preaching this very teaching to the people of Japan, you see.” “What kind of person is that old man?”

“He is a person called Mori Sōiken.” “He is a very remarkable person.” “And he holds profound faith in us—Jesus Christ and Maria—the mother and child.”

“So he uses magic, then.” “That is the method of the Christian padres.”

“I’d love to try doing things like that.” “Yeeees, you can certainly do it too. You can perform even more wondrous things. Your beauty is like God’s. That beauty of yours is the beauty of a chosen one. How long I have been waiting for someone as beautiful as you. I must use your beauty to spread our religion throughout the world.”

Having said this, the girl took out a cross from her breast pocket and hung it around Shirō’s neck. And from that moment, Shirō’s character underwent a complete transformation—or what modern science might explain as a so-called personality shift—becoming a peerlessly brilliant prodigy. However, we shall speak of that later; at this moment, the old man who had been sleeping—that is, Mori Sōiken—awoke and sat up,

“Good heavens—this is utterly careless! “I didn’t even realize I’d left everything out.” Having said this, he wiped his bleary eyes, picked up the plates and brazier, and tossed them one after another into his mouth. Finally, he pulled the girl close and lifted her onto his lap. And she began to shrink. He tossed her into his mouth. And he was about to continue on his way when, upon casually noticing Shirō, he sat down on the ground with a start and thrust both hands into the earth. “The Heavenly Child descends.” “The Heavenly Child descends.” “Hah! To be granted an audience with you is an honor beyond measure.” Having said this, he prostrated himself.

Then, from that very moment, Shirō became convinced that he was an angel sent from heaven. “Oh! You are Mori Sōiken!” Even his manner of speech had completely transformed as he declared, “I am a child envoy sent from heaven to spread our religion!” “O precious, precious Heavenly Child!” “O precious, precious Heavenly Child!” “Behold! I shall raise a righteous army and protect Christ and Maria!” “Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna!” Having said this, Mori Sōiken made the sign of the cross.

“……I am the bread of life. “Those who come to me shall not hunger. “Whoever believes in me shall never thirst.……” Suddenly, Shirō stood up and proclaimed with dignity—though these were words from the Bible. Yet Shirō was an idiot. He should never have read such scripture before.

And Shirō raised his hand, “Moon, turn as red as blood! By the blood of Christ!” he called out loudly. Suddenly, the orange spring moon that had been clear until now transformed into a bloody hue! The first miracle was a success. “Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna!”

And all the while, Mori Sōiken did not cease his praises, repeating them over and over again.

It was truly something that could be called a single mystical and majestic painting.

Black forest. Red moon. A white-haired old man resembling a hermit-sage. And a rare beautiful youth who had gathered unto himself all the beauty of the mortal realm. ...A divinely desolate voice crying "Hosanna"!

The night was already past its midpoint.

Five

After these events, phrases such as “The Heavenly Child descends, the doctrine spreads” became popular in Amakusa, Shimabara, Nagasaki, and other regions and empowered the long-oppressed Christian followers, but in the following year of Kanei 14 (1637), what people called the Amakusa Rebellion first erupted in Amakusa and subsequently moved to Hara Castle in Shimabara, where they barricaded themselves to resist the shogunate.

A total of over thirty thousand men and women barricaded themselves within the castle.

The commander-in-chief was none other than Amakusa Tokisada. As for Shirō, the principal commanders were Mori Sōiken; Ashizuka Chūemon and likewise Chūdayū and Sanai; Masuda Jinbei and likewise Gensatsu; Ōyano Sakusaemon; Akaboshi Munetomo; Chijiwa Gorōzaemon; and Komagine Hachibei. The attacking forces, led by prominent daimyos such as Itakura Naizen no Kami, Arima, Nabeshima, Tachibana, and Terazawa—and later Matsudaira Izu no Kami, hailed as "Wise Izu," who came specially from Edo as commander-in-chief—were said to number a total of one hundred thousand. Yet even after besieging the castle for a full year, there remained no sign of its fall.

It was because the thirty thousand believers had convinced themselves that Shirō was the Heavenly Child and that as long as they had the protection of the Heavenly Emperor, they would ultimately prevail.

And so, the rebel army’s might was beyond compare. Yet, astonishingly, Hara Castle—so impregnable until then—fell with shocking ease in the New Year of the following year. That was due to the following reason.

One night, uncharacteristically without attendants, Amakusa Shirō Tokisada patrolled the castle grounds. Reaching the night watch chamber, he halted upon hearing someone address him disrespectfully as "Shirō...Shirō." Peering through a gap in the plank door, he found Mori Sōiken and Ashizuka Chūemon conversing at ease. The voice uttering "Shirō" belonged unmistakably to Mori. "That Shirō—playing Heavenly Child to perfection with his composed dignity—is precisely why our troops maintain this stalwart defense." "There's nothing more fearsome than superstition's power."

“I had worried we wouldn’t last three months, yet to hold out over a year—even peasant soldiers aren’t to be underestimated. It is precisely because they are utterly convinced that the Heavenly Child has descended to protect them that they can fight so courageously—without losing heart even in this hopeless battle.”

“That’s all thanks to Shirō.” “No no, it’s all thanks to your resourcefulness. It was your tricks that deceived that idiot Shirō and made him believe he was the Heavenly Child—that’s what brought about today’s success.”

“No, that was quite amusing back then.” Mori Sōiken laughed expansively. “In short, I used my hypnotism to put that fool’s mind to sleep—showed him all manner of visions until he believed himself the Heavenly Child.” “To my surprise, it worked splendidly—so this Shirō here managed to pass himself off as divine.” “Just as we’d charted in our plans.” “When I consider that in my twilight years I could stage such grand theater against the world—it doesn’t feel half bad.” “We may be Konishi’s remnants, but having turned the hated Tokugawa against us and made them suffer this much—our true wish is fulfilled.”

“In Edo, that Iemitsu must be stomping the ground in rage.” “Living long has its merits.” “You get to see all sorts of things.” “But this will likely be our final act.” “There are no reinforcements coming to our aid.” “I thought the Toyotomi-loyal daimyos would rise up, but this one was a bit off the mark.” “The wholesalers won’t oblige so easily.” “We’ve already supplied them beyond capacity.” “Bwahahaha!” “Bwahahaha!”

“Ah… Then was I not a messenger of heaven?”

Amakusa Shirō Tokisada, who had been eavesdropping on their conversation, was utterly stunned by the sheer unexpectedness of it all—but what came next was despair. Perhaps because that despair was so acute, his transformed personality suddenly reverted to its former state—and thus he became once more a single idiot boy, the beautiful youth Masuda Shirō—a fate one might deem inevitable. The following day, heedless of attempts to stop him, he donned crimson-laced armor and a tall black eboshi hat, hung a golden cross upon his chest, mounted a conspicuously white horse, and charged into the enemy ranks—yet by the time he returned to the castle with three arrows embedded in his body, he was already gasping his last breath. The entire castle had lost all color and fallen into a hushed silence when through a window streamed the fading light of the setting sun.

Bathed in the resplendent yet desolate flame-like light of the setting sun, Shirō lay quietly, "I thirst," he murmured.

Immediately, wine was poured. “It is finished,” he said—and by then, his head had already bowed. His soul thus returned to heaven. The idiot yet heroic child—this mystical enigma of his age—thus departed from this transient world. The two words he spoke at his death were exactly the same as those Jesus Christ had likewise cried out upon the cross in his final moments. That the rebel army at Hara Castle, having lost both their commander and their faith simultaneously, saw their morale shattered all at once should be considered only natural.

The following day, the castle fell. Whether the deaths of thirty thousand souls—old and young, men and women, every last one—should be deemed the height of tragic horror or the pinnacle of heroic sacrifice, this world-renowned religious war rose and fell in perfect alignment with Shirō’s fate.