‘But when Genta was but seven years old, the old woman passed away. The master and his wife consoled the child, let him continue to live in their house, in the room he had shared with his adopted mother, allowing him to become one of their servants, with chores and with duties. The work and life of Genta was hard and tough, in truth not much more than that of a cow or a horse. But Genta never complained, never shirked, ever attentive to his chores, ever diligent in his duties, a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips. And on the rare occasions when he was allowed time off from his chores and his duties, Genta would first tend to the grave of his adopted mother, bringing her flowers and watering her stone, then wander along the banks of the river, down among the reeds, down to the mouth, to stare at the sea and watch the waves, with a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips.
‘But one such day, when Genta was in his fifteenth year, and had tended to the grave of his adopted mother and had gone to wander down by the sea, a great and sudden typhoon struck the region and the village, lifting the roofs from the houses, flattening the crops in the field, bursting the sides of the river, drowning the reeds on its banks. And after the storm had passed, after the floods had subsided, and after the master had had the servants search and search, there was no trace of Genta. It was assumed he had been washed out to sea, believed drowned under its waves.
‘But then, after forty days and forty nights, Genta returned to the house of his master. His clothes were but rags, his hair matted with dirt, and on his forehead was a mark in mud, a Christian cross. Genta was brought before his master and asked to account for his disappearance and reappearance. And with that familiar light in his eyes, that same smile upon his lips, but with a voice much changed from his voice of old, now calm and dignified, he said, When I wandered along the banks, through the reeds, down to the beach and the sea, I came upon a red-haired stranger. He told me many things about this world and about the next; he took away my old name, he gave me a new name. Then he led me down to the water’s edge and held me down beneath the waves, as the storm raged up above and the waters rose about me. And then I was released, and when I came back up above the waves and felt the air flowing through my lungs, I knew I felt the breath of God Himself.
‘The master had been sad when he believed the boy had drowned and happy when Genta had returned alive to his house. He had listened in silence to the tale the boy told, but now he stared at the mark in mud upon his forehead and asked, What new name did this red-haired stranger give you?
‘And the boy said, Yaso.’
In the dark and empty church, its cross dull and hidden, Father Gracy turned abruptly to the young man telling him this tale and said, ‘Yaso?’
‘Yes,’ said the young man. ‘Yaso, our old word for Jesus.’
Father Gracy nodded and said, ‘I know. Please go on …’
‘As I have said,’ continued the young man, ‘this happened during a time of persecution, the Christian faith forbidden and severely punished. And so the master was most afraid. He had the servants confine the boy to the stables while he thought what best to do, for he was confused and torn. True, the boy was but a servant, yet a good and faithful servant. Perhaps he had been driven mad by fear in the storm, then plagued by lack of food and water. Now he had returned, and with food and with water he might yet be restored, returned to his old self, the good and loyal servant boy named Genta. And so the master decided to wait a while, but he strictly admonished the servants of his house to say nothing of the boy’s return or of the tale he had told.
‘But people talk, and the servants talked, and so word soon spread of the boy and the tale he had told. And one day the word reached a village, a village where the folk still secretly followed the Christian faith. Despite the danger, despite the risk, the elders of the village decided they had to see this boy for themselves, to hear his tale for themselves. And so one night, under cover of its darkness, they sent three of their number down to the house of Saburōji, to sneak into the stables. There they found the boy, there they heard his tale, heard him say his name, a light in his eyes, a smile on his lips, Yaso.
‘These hidden Christians were shocked, these secret Christians confused, and they asked the boy, How can you be Yaso?
‘I am the son of God, I am the child of Mary, said the boy. For we are all the sons of God, we are all the children of Mary.
‘But these Christians were appalled, these Christians were angry, and they said, This is blasphemy, this is heresy. You are no son of God, you are no child of Mary. You are a blasphemer, you are a heretic. And these Christians left the boy in the stable, and these Christians journeyed on to Nagasaki. There they sought out the magistrate, there they spoke to the magistrate, never mentioning their own beliefs, never revealing their own faith, speaking only of the boy, telling only
