Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Amakusa Shirō Tokisada, the instigator of the Amakusa Disturbance, was called by his childhood name Koshirō. He was the third son of Masuda Jinbee—a local samurai of Kōya-no-Ura in Ōyano Village, Amakusa, Kyushu, who had once served as a scribe to Konishi Yukinaga—but what astonished people most was his pearl-like appearance; during the Kanei era, when male homosexuality flourished, his beauty—so transcendent it defied ethical norms—became an object of such fervent admiration that it defied description. But Heaven does not bestow two gifts; Shirō was not clever. If we let storytellers tell it, they would invariably declare, “Shirō was Heaven’s invention—a child who grasped ten truths upon hearing one, what the world calls a prodigy”—but until at least the spring of his fifteenth year, he seemed closer to an idiot.

It was around the spring of his fifteenth year when Shirō was taken by his father to Nagasaki on one occasion. One day, Shirō walked alone through the harbor. It being the seventh day of the first month—the Festival of Seven Herbs—the town held an air of bustling activity. Though January in name, this southern land knew no snow; the sea tides shimmered purple while warm salt breezes caressed the air. Cherry blossoms still slept in their buds, yet golden hypericum flowers glowed in household gardens like scattered coins. Pale magnolias—ghostly in their pallor—competed with crimson peach blossoms for beauty’s crown, while early butterflies darted between blooms hunting nectar—such scenes of tranquil abundance could be witnessed everywhere.

With his hair in a topknot, long-sleeved silk robes, brown hakama trousers, and slender swords at his waist—Shirō’s figure, shod in straw sandals and combined with his heaven-wrought beauty, captivated the eyes of passersby; particularly young women, who would stop to gaze, turn back for another look, or linger as if unable to tear themselves away. Shirō was walking aimlessly through the harbor, gazing absently at the sea, but when his eyes caught sight of many men and women gathered noisily around a large rock on the sandy shore—true to his nature as a simpleton—he immediately ran toward them.

There was an old man on the rock, chattering away about something. White hair hung down to his shoulders; a beard so white it could rival snow extended past his chest to his abdomen; he wore robes of kudzu fiber and a sleeveless haori—what one might call a childlike face, its complexion the reddish-brown of a jujube fruit. Phoenix eyes and an aquiline nose. Tightly drawn lips. The old man's demeanor was truly noble. Then, the old man surveyed the crowd and let out a dry chuckle, but— “You rabble gathered here—what’s with those idiotic faces?” “You lot want to see my usual tricks, eh?” “...But such things aren’t handed out for free.” “Trying to watch an amusing act without leaving a decent fee is nothing but a thief’s nature.” “It’s a free show you’re snatching without paying a penny.” “Such folks won’t get anywhere in life.” “If you dawdle around, you’ll get thrown in jail.”

He had made such bold proclamations. Yet seeing how the gathered crowd showed no anger whatsoever, they must have grown accustomed to this manner of speech. Among them were even those who chuckled as though finding the old man’s taunts entertaining. Soon the old man rose, seized a rope lying nearby, and with a sharp whizz flung it high into the air—catching it in his right hand as it fell, he swiftly twisted it into a coiled loop— “Now mark well—and don’t you startle.”

After saying this and placing it on the rock—wouldn’t you know it—the rope transformed into a snake that abruptly raised its hooded head. “Gah!” The spectators screamed and fled. While coldly observing this, “Now now, spectators—no need to flee. “This isn’t a snake—it’s a rope!”

While saying this, the old man extended his hand and lightly snatched up the snake—then with a swift motion, he handled it. Indeed, it was not a snake but an old rope about three feet long. “Bwahahaha!” And the old man laughed. The spectators, reassured, drew closer. The next act began. “Hiyah!”

With a sharp shout, the old man handled the old rope once more, and when he stood it upright on his right palm, it transformed into a sturdy oak staff. “Grow now! Grow now! Grow now! Grow now!” The old man declared in a loud voice, as though singing a song. And what strangeness was this! Was it not that the three-foot-long oak staff, heeding the old man’s voice, began to extend steadily, relentlessly into the azure, crystal-clear sky of early spring? There was a cloud in one part of the sky. The tip of the staff soon entered into that cloud.

“Now then,” The old man laughed while scrutinizing the spectators with a sweeping gaze, but— “It’s about time you started tossing in coins.” “This isn’t some common trick you can catch any day.” “What are you grinning smugly about?” “What’s this—pockets as empty as your skulls?” “Planning to watch without paying a penny, are you?” “That won’t do at all. …Or maybe the act doesn’t please you?” “Alright, alright. In that case, I’ll show you the grand finale—the moment that’ll make you gasp!” “So that’s it for today.” “If you liked the performance, toss in as much coin as you please.” “I too am a street performer.” “A crowning glory just to be watched!”

While saying this, the old man abruptly glared at his hands.

II In his right palm, the staff still stood upright. And the tip of the staff remained hidden by the clouds, no longer visible. Then, quietly transferring the staff from his palm to the rock, the old man set it there—yet even now rooted to the stone, it continued towering into the clouds.

“Now, fix your eyes properly and watch what I’m about to do.” “The coin-throwing comes afterward.”

The old man, grinning while still boasting grandly, strode up to the staff; lightly hooking both hands onto it, he smoothly climbed about six feet. The staff neither fell nor bent. It still towered into the clouded heights.

“Now then, this is the main act.” “Don’t you dare lose your nerve or faint from shock!” The old man left these words behind and climbed the staff as nimbly as a monkey scaling a tree, and as he ascended, his figure gradually diminished in size. Before long, he must have entered the clouds, for he had completely vanished from sight.

Then this time, the towering staff appeared to be drawn into the cloud and smoothly lifted away from the rock. And with tremendous speed, it was pulled into the cloud. And suddenly, the old man’s voice was heard from that cloud.

“Now then, this time you may throw your coins.” In response to the voice, the spectators threw coins like rain, but how strange it was. Not a single one of those coins fell to the ground; instead, they suddenly and flutteringly sparkled upward into the sky, all vanishing into the cloud.

“What’s this? Only this much? You miserly wretches. “It’ll do for today’s meal money.” “Wahahaha!” The laughing voice too came from within the cloud. One by one, two by two—before they knew it, the spectators had left, but Shirō alone remained standing there, gazing up at the sky for who knows how long. He must have found it so strange, so utterly bewildering.

“Brat!” And suddenly, the old man’s voice was heard near his ear.

“Ah, that startled me!” Shirō exclaimed as he looked around, but the old man’s figure was nowhere to be seen. “Here! Here!” came the voice again, seeming to originate from afar. In the direction of the voice lay a grove, where the old man walked along its edge. “Old maaan!” Shirō shouted at the top of his lungs, running toward it with all his might. He soon reached the grove, only to find the old man now standing atop a distant hill. Undaunted, Shirō raced toward the hill, and when he finally arrived, the old man was strolling along the bank of a far-off stream, beckoning to him.

This time, even Shirō was finally disheartened and stopped in his tracks, but he found it too regrettable to turn back.

At that moment, the old man raised his hand and beckoned Shirō two or three times before calling out once more, “Brat!” And so, regaining his vigor again, Shirō ran in that direction. But the truly strange thing was that no matter how hard Shirō ran, he simply couldn’t catch up to the old man. Yet despite this, the old man plodded along with weary footsteps, moving at a sluggish pace. When they crossed the stream, it opened into a wide field; beyond the field rose a low hill; and past the hill stretched a deep forest—the white visible there was likely kobushi magnolia flowers in bloom.

Before long, evening fell. The cackling cry of a pheasant. A whistling, flute-like crane’s cry. The cawing of crows seeking their roosts could be heard desolately from the rice paddies, the tree shade, and the evening-gloried sky, marking the hour when one yearns for human company.

The old man continued walking. And so Shirō also ran off. By the time half an hour had passed in this manner, the sunset vanished, the moon rose, and the surroundings turned pallid.

It was at that moment 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 withered grass with the full moon at his back—resembled a specter. “Hey brat, sit here.” When he saw Shirō approaching, the old man spoke thus.

“What’s your name, brat?”

“My name is Masuda Shirō.” Despite his idiocy, Shirō still knew his full name, so sitting down beside the old man, he innocently spoke thus.

III “What brings you all this way?”

Shirō remained silent, smiling. “Is it because you want to see more tricks?”

“Yes,” Shirō nodded. “Alright, alright. Then I’ll show you.” “Ah, what a lovely beautiful boy.” “In front of a beautiful youth like you, even my tricks get outshone.” The old man, while saying such things, slightly adjusted his posture and let out a long breath toward the luminous moon. And his breath became a pale purple bridge suspended from the moon, didn’t it? However, the wonder did not end there. In the center of the round full moon, a small dot formed—appearing to be a hole—from which an old man emerged fully from within and descended onto the bridge.

Gradually, he drew nearer. As Shirō watched, the old man drew near to the ground—but upon closer inspection, was this not the very image of the other old man who still sat cross-legged on the grass, exhaling breaths? More than resembling each other, the two old men were one and the same person. Thus, the old man on the bridge approached near the mouth of the breath-exhaling old man when suddenly his form shrank, and just as he seemed to become about an inch tall, he hopped and leapt into the mouth.

The instant the old man snapped his mouth shut, the bridge vanished, and before Shirō’s astonished eyes there remained only the old man sitting on the grass with nothing else changed, while on the orange-hued face of the moon, no hole remained opened either. With that, the old man stroked his stomach. “Hey, Sōi, how’s it feel in there?” he called out toward his stomach. “Indeed, the beginning was rather ordinary.” It must have been the old man in his stomach speaking, for such a voice could be heard: “How about you, Sōi?”

“Me? I’m... “I’m thoroughly elated.” “Having caught such a splendid beautiful youth.” “Hmph.” Thereupon, the voice from his stomach laughed mockingly. “What childish nonsense for someone your age.” Thereupon, the old man and the voice from his stomach fell silent for a time.

Utterly silent were the surroundings.

With that, the old man stroked his stomach and spoke to what lay within.

“I want wine.” “I want wine.” Before his voice had even finished trailing off，something darted out from the old man’s left nostril. It was a plate of sashimi sitting neatly on the grass. Then，a heated sake decanter flew out from his right nostril. Next，small cups，chopsticks，and various objects came flying from both nostrils—when suddenly he flung his mouth open，and from there emerged a square brazier filled with fire，not a single ash spilling.

“How’s this?” came the voice from his stomach at that moment. “Is this about enough now?” “No, not yet.” And the old man shouted into his stomach. “Bring out a young beauty.”

“What beauty?” “Don’t be greedy.” “There’s a beautiful boy right there, isn’t there?” The voice from his stomach laughed. “Without female company, it’s unbearably lonely.” “Very well, very well. Then I’ll bring one out for you.”

Simultaneously with the voice from his stomach concluding, a girl of about seventeen emerged from the old man’s mouth—a slender, fair-skinned beauty with black hair who, upon seeing Shirō, smiled sweetly and went to sit beside him. “All lined up, lined up like little dolls!” The old man, while gazing at the two with apparent amusement, clapped his hands, then grabbed a sake cup and thrust it forward, “Come now, come now—pour the wine!” “Yes.” And the girl took the decanter with practiced hands and poured.

“Come now, come now, girl—stand and dance!” “Yes,” she said, stood up, and began to dance. A yellow, crystal-clear early spring moon. In the thicket’s shade, a sleep-dazed bird cried. A tepid night breeze. Long sleeves shattered the moonlight, riding the wind as they fluttered and danced. ……The girl’s dance appeared to be a contemporary-style performance, and her voice began to sing with cool clarity. “At the dawn of spring’s third month, When I gaze upon the surrounding mountain slopes, In full bloom perhaps—the white clouds’ No peak remains unadorned by their bloom.” Repeating again and again up to three times, the girl sang and danced to perfection.

Looking over, the old man was asleep. With a thud, he lay down on the grass and even began to snore lightly. “Oh, Grandpa’s fallen fast asleep!” The girl suddenly stopped dancing, clapped her hands, and burst into laughter. “This sort of thing rarely happens. How careless of him to leave everything he conjured scattered about and just fall fast asleep!”

The girl exclaimed in amusement.

Four

“My, my, what an adorable young master.” With these words, the girl suddenly came to Shirō’s side and, with a thoroughly precocious demeanor, firmly grasped his hand.

“I’ve been waiting for you, you know.” “From a time long, long ago, you know.” “We’ve finally met, haven’t we? How joyful. …You are Masuda Shirō, yes?” “Shall I tell you my name?” “When I dwelt in the scorching desert of a faraway land called Judea, in days long, long past, I was called the Holy Mother Maria, you know.” “And still now I am the Holy Mother Maria.” “But you see, the people of Japan torment me terribly.” “That’s why I cannot walk about so freely—I must remain hidden.” “……That is why I beg of you.” “Grant me freedom.” “Release me from this place of concealment.”

“But where are you hiding?” —— Shirō asked curiously. “It’s inside people’s hearts, you see.”

“Lady Maria.” “That’s your name?” “Yes, that’s right. “That’s the name. “You may also call me ‘Mother of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.’” “That’s a very long name.” “Love.—You may also call me that. “‘People: love one another’—it’s this teaching I’ve been imparting to Japanese people.” “What is that old man’s name?” “He is called Mori Sōiken. “He is a most eminent person. “And he devoutly believes in us—the mother and child—Jesus Christ and Maria.”

“So that person uses magic, doesn’t he?” “That’s the method of Christian missionaries.” “I’d like to try doing those kinds of things too.” “Oh yes, you can certainly do it too.” “You can perform even more wondrous things.” “Your beauty is like God’s.” “Your beauty 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 to the world.”

As she said this, the girl took out a cross from her bosom and placed it around Shirō’s neck.

And from that very moment, Shirō’s entire being underwent a drastic transformation—what modern science might explain as a so-called personality shift—becoming a prodigy of unparalleled intelligence and wisdom.

But we shall speak of that later—at this moment, the old man who had been sleeping—that is, Mori Sōiken—awoke and sat up, “Ah, this is utterly careless! I didn’t realize I’d left everything out.” “I didn’t even notice I’d left everything out.” While saying this, he wiped his bleary eyes, picked up the dishes and brazier and plopped them into his mouth, then finally pulled the girl close and lifted her onto his lap. And her body shrank. He tossed it into his mouth. And he was about to go on his way like that when, casually noticing Shirō, he abruptly sat down on the earth and thrust both hands into the soil.

“Heavenly Child Descend!” “Heavenly Child Descend!” “Hah hah! I am deeply honored to have been granted an audience with you.” Having said this, he prostrated himself.

Then, from that very moment, Shirō convinced himself that he was an angel sent from heaven.

“Oh, you are Mori Sōiken!” His very words completely transformed as he declared, “I am the child envoy sent from heaven to spread our faith!” “O noble, noble Heavenly Child! O noble, noble Heavenly Child!” “Look! I shall raise a righteous army and protect Christ and Maria!” “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” Mori Sōiken made the sign of the cross after saying this. “...I am the bread of life. Those who come to me shall not hunger. Those who believe in me shall never thirst....” Suddenly, Shirō stood up and shouted with such dignity—though these were words from the Bible. However, Shirō was an idiot. He should never have read such biblical passages in the first place.

And then Shirō raised his hand, “Moon, become red as blood! By Christ’s blood!” he shouted loudly. Suddenly, the orange spring moon that had been clear until now turned a bloody red. The first miracle was a success.

“Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah!” And all the while, Mori Sōiken did not cease his voice of praise, continuing to chant over and over again.

It was truly a scene that could be called a painting of mystical grandeur.

A black forest. A blood-red moon. A white-haired old man resembling a hermit. And there stood a rare and beautiful youth who embodied all the beauty of the mortal world. …A divinely desolate voice chanting “Hallelujah”!

The night was already past its midpoint.

V

After such events had occurred, in places like Amakusa, Shimabara, and Nagasaki, phrases such as "Heavenly Child’s Descent" and "Spread of Doctrine" became popular, emboldening the oppressed and persecuted Christian followers. Then, in the following year—the fourteenth year of Kanei (1637)—the so-called Amakusa Rebellion first erupted in Amakusa and subsequently took hold at Hara Castle in Shimabara, where they barricaded themselves to resist the shogunate. A combined total of over thirty thousand men and women barricaded themselves in the castle.

The commander-in-chief was none other than Amakusa Tokisada. Regarding Shirō, the principal commanders were Mori Sōiken; Ashizuka Chūemon; likewise, Ashizuka Chūdayū; likewise, Ashizuka Sanai; Masuda Jinbee; likewise, Masuda Gensatsu; Ōyano Sakuzoemon; Akaboshi Munetomo; Chijiwa Gorōzaemon; and Komagine Hachibei. The besieging forces’ principal daimyos included Itakura Naizen no Kami at their head, along with the Arima, Nabeshima, Tachibana, and Terazawa clans; later, even Matsudaira Izu no Kami—renowned as “Wise Izu”—came down from Edo to serve as supreme commander. Their combined forces were said to number one hundred thousand, yet even after besieging the castle for a full year, there remained no visible sign of its fall.

This was because the thirty thousand believers were convinced that Shirō was the Heavenly Child and trusted that as long as they had God’s protection, they would ultimately prevail. And the extent of the believers’ army’s strength was beyond compare. Yet, strangely enough, that Hara Castle—which had been so impregnable—fell effortlessly in the New Year of the following year.

That was due to reasons of the following nature.

One night, unusually without bringing any attendants, Amakusa Shirō Tokisada was patrolling the castle grounds. When he came before the night-duty room, someone was rudely addressing him as “Shirō… Shirō,” which struck him as strange. He stopped and peered through a gap in the wooden door to find Mori Sōiken and Ashizuka Chūemon conversing in a relaxed manner. The one calling out “Shirō, Shirō” was Sōiken.

“That Shirō puts on such airs of being the Heavenly Child, carrying himself with such composure and dignity, that even those rabble in the castle feel reassured and keep up this defense.” “There’s nothing more terrifying than the power of superstition.”

“We were worried we might not last three months, yet they’ve held out over a year—these peasant soldiers aren’t to be underestimated.” “It’s precisely because they’re utterly convinced the Heavenly Child has descended to protect them that they continue defending themselves so admirably in this hopeless battle.”

“All of that is also thanks to Shirō.” “No, no—it’s thanks to your ingenuity. It was your tricks that deceived that idiot Shirō into believing himself the Son of God which brought about today’s success.”

“Ah, that was amusing back then.” Mori Sōiken laughed heartily. “In short, I used my hypnosis to put his mind to sleep, showed him all sorts of visions, and made him believe he was the Heavenly Child.” “Unexpectedly, that worked splendidly—so Shirō here managed to impersonate the Heavenly Child.” “It’s all according to plan, you see.” “When I think that in my old age I could stage such a play against the whole realm, it doesn’t feel half bad.” “We may be Konishi’s remnants, but having made the hated Tokugawa our foe and caused them this much grief—this is our heart’s desire.”

“That Iemitsu must be stomping his feet in Edo in frustration!”

“Living long has its merits.” “You get to see all sorts of things.” “But this’ll be our final curtain call.” “We’ve no reinforcements coming.”

“I thought the Toyotomi-loyal daimyos would rise up, but that part missed the mark a bit.”

“It’s not that simple,” “We’ve already sold off far too much.” “Bwahahaha!”

“Bwahahaha!”

“Ah—does this mean I was never a heavenly messenger?”

Amakusa Shirō Tokisada, who had been eavesdropping on the two men’s conversation, was utterly astonished by its unexpectedness—but what came next was despair. Perhaps due to the intensity of that despair, his transformed personality abruptly reverted to its former state, and he became once more Masuda Shirō—a beautiful idiot youth. This was, one might say, an inevitable fate. The following day, heedless of attempts to stop him, he donned scarlet-laced armor and a black-lacquered eboshi hat, hung a golden cross upon his chest, rode a conspicuously white horse into the enemy ranks—but by the time he returned to the castle with three arrows embedded in his body, he was already gasping his last breath. The castle had entirely lost its color and was swallowed in silence—at that very moment, what came streaming through the window was the last rays of the setting sun.

Bathed in the splendid yet desolate flame-like sunset, Shirō lay quietly,

“I thirst,” he murmured.

Immediately, wine was poured.

When he uttered “It is finished,” his head was already bowed. His soul returned to heaven. Thus did the idiot yet heroic child—this unfathomable prodigy of his age—depart from the world forevermore. The two phrases he spoke at death’s door were indeed identical to those Jesus Christ had cried out upon the cross in his final moments. That Hara Castle’s faithful army—bereft at once of both commander and creed—should have their morale collapse entirely was only natural. The castle fell the following day. Whether one deems the deaths of thirty thousand souls—every last man and woman, young and old—the utmost tragedy or consummate valor, this world-renowned holy war rose and fell in perfect tandem with Shirō’s fate.