The Six Messiahs

'Large and small?'

'Katana, wakizashi,' he said, pointing to the sword, then the knife.

'I see.'

'It is called Kusanagi.' The man gingerly leaned over and picked up the sword. 'The Grass Cutter.'

'Why is that?'

'Legend says it belonged to Susanoo, god of thunder; he carved the sword with lightning from a mountaintop. One day Susanoo went out to hunt and left it behind; the sword became angry and cut down every tree and blade of grass on the island. Why there are so few trees in Japan....' He stopped, closed his eyes, went pale as a shiver of pain ran through him.

'It's self-propelled, this sword?' asked Jacob.

The spasm passed; the man nodded.

'That's quite a sword.'

'Honoki,' the man said, running his hand along the gleaming scabbard. 'Hard wood: cut from the last tree the sword chopped down. Same: fish skin; from a whale Susanoo killed. Habuki: the collar; keeps blade from wearing against the sleeve. This peg fastens blade to hilt, bamboo: mekugi. Metal pins cover the peg: menuki.'

Sweat dripped freely off the man's forehead; his fingers trembled. He's reciting this inventory as a meditation, Jacob decided; to stay awake, alert. Maybe to stay alive.

'What is this?' asked Jacob gently, pointing to the pommel grip-

'Kashira.'

'And this?' he asked, pointing to a plate resting against the scabbard.

'Tsuba. Separates blade from handle.'

The man pulled out the sword a few inches to show Jacob the tsuba; an elliptical stack of fused metal plates half an inch thick with an oxidized red patina, its exposed surface exquisitely engraved with the double image of a fiery bird, each gripping in its beak the other's flowing tail feathers: one rising from and the other falling into stylized tongues of flame.

'This is the phoenix,' said Jacob, amazed to find such delicate artistry as part of a deadly weapon.

'Phoenix,' said the man. 'Name of city.' He tilted his head toward where they had come from.

Not without irony, realized Jacob; there's more going on inside this man than meets the eye.

'To fall and rise again,' said Jacob. 'From the ashes.'

'Long way to go.' The man shrugged, referencing his own reduced condition. He laid the sword down again beside its mate, took a shallow, painful breath.

'How badly are you hurt, my friend?'

'Gunshot. Hit in back, under left shoulder.'

'Would you like me to look at it?'

'You are a doctor?'

'The next best thing,' said Jacob. 'I'm a priest.'

The man's eyes brightened as his forehead furrowed in doubt. 'You? Priest?'

'What, such a look I'm getting.'

'You don't look like a priest.'

'Priest, rabbi, what's the difference?' said Jacob, helping ease the tunic off his shoulders. ''Where did you learn to speak English like this?'

'From a priest; he was Catholic.'

'Ah, well; you see, there are priests and then there are priests.'

Dried matter saturated the rough bandaging around his back; fresh dark blood still oozed from its center.

'I am priest, too,' said the man.

'Are you a Buddhist?'

'Shinto.'

'So you are Japanese, then.'

'You have heard of shinto?'

'I have read about it and I met shinto priests from your country last year, in Chicago. Which island are you from?'

'Hokkaido.'

'These men were from Honshu.'

'Hai. Big city men.'

'Shinto means 'the way of the gods,' doesn't it?'

Jacob peeled the bandage away from the wound; the man flinched slightly as the last layer of muslin pulled a ridge of crusted blood off the injury; a small, round hole just below the shoulder blade. Bruising around the trauma; no redness or infection yet.

'Yes. Kami-no-michi,' said the man, his voice betraying no discomfort at Jacob's probing. 'Kami means 'superior'; the gods above.'

The bullet had entered his back in the meat of a muscle, glanced off a rib, tumbled, and exited the side of the chest; another larger hole there, two inches below. The man's breathing unaffected, the lung must be all right, Jacob thought, feeling a bit ridiculous; what am I now, suddenly a surgeon?

'You can thank the gods above you're not walking among them now,' said Jacob, his own frailties forgotten for the moment. 'We need something to clean this wound.'

'Alcohol.'

'You're in luck; there's a whole car full of actors up ahead. Where did you find this bandage?'

The man pointed to a bolt of cotton gauze sitting in a trunk nearby.

'A regular infirmary back here.' Jacob retrieved the cotton from the trunk and began folding a bandage from the bolt. 'Tell me about this priest, the one who taught you English. ...'

'He lived at our temple. American missionary.'

'Came to convert you, did he?'

'In the end we converted him; he is there still.'

'One good turn deserves another. I'd better go get that alcohol.'

Jacob didn't move for an awkward moment. Would the man trust him enough to let him leave? Apparently so: He didn't even turn around.

'Where did you read about shinto?' the man asked.

'A book in my library at home, translated into English, of course. I don't recall the title....'

'The Kojiki?'

'Yes, I think that was it.'

'Where did you see this book?'

'One of the shinto priests gave it to me last year in Chicago during the Parliament; he said it was the first translation anyone had made.'

'Have you seen any other copy?' the man asked, turning to face him with violent intensity. 'In Japanese?'

'No,' said Jacob, but the question made an odd sense to him; something coming together in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite define. 'Why?'

The man stared at him with his strange matted eyes. 'The Kojiki, the first book, was stolen from our temple.'

'That's what I thought you were going to say,' said Jacob.

SEPTEMBER 26, 1894

Our train left the Grand Central Depot at eleven o 'clock sharp this morning—Americans are nothing if not obsessively punctual. We're traveling on The Exposition Flyer, an express