‘Immediately, the magistrate dispatched his officers to the house of Saburōji in Urakami. The magistrate had his officers arrest the entire household and bring them to the prison in Nagasaki.
‘Now Saburōji had been on good terms with the magistrate for many years. He had always paid his taxes on time, he had never protested whenever they were raised. And so when Saburōji told his story, the magistrate was inclined to believe him, and when Saburōji and his household all trampled and spat upon the face of Christ, the magistrate released them.
‘But there still remained the matter of the boy who said his name was Yaso, a matter that was not so easy to resolve.
‘The boy was brought before the magistrate, and the boy repeated his tale to the magistrate. He did not change his story, he did not deny his name. And the magistrate listened in silence, then the magistrate thought for a while. For the magistrate was a learned man, and not an impulsive man. He was not from Nagasaki; he had been born in Edo. There he had been schooled in the Law, and there he had studied the Christian heresy. And the Law was very clear: all heretics were to be put to death by crucifixion. That was the Law.
‘Now the magistrate asked the boy, After you had been given your new name, and after you had come back up above the waves, what then became of this red-haired stranger of whom you speak?
‘With that familiar light in his eyes, with that same smile upon his lips, the boy said, He walked upon the waters, out across the sea.
‘And so you have not seen this stranger since, asked the magistrate.
‘No, said the boy. But he told me he will return.
‘Really, said the magistrate, and did he tell you when?
‘Yes, said the boy. He will return at the end.
‘At the end, repeated the magistrate. Well, unless you renounce your heretical beliefs, unless you trample upon the face of Christ, then your own end is close at hand, you realise that, do you not?
‘With the light in his eyes, with the smile on his lips, the boy said, I do.
‘And you are prepared then to accept your fate, your death?
‘Yes, said the boy. I am.’
Beside the young man in the pew, in the dark and empty church, Father Gracy felt his shoulders sag and his eyes moisten as he stared through the dark at the cross hidden in the shadows by the altar.
‘Now as I have already said,’ continued the young man, ‘the magistrate was a learned man, a man who had studied the Christian heresy. And though the Law clearly stated that all heretics had to die by crucifixion, the magistrate now decided upon a different fate for the boy who called himself Yaso: there would be no repetition, there would be no crucifixion.
‘Late that afternoon at low tide, while the people of Nagasaki and Urakami gathered to watch from the shore, the magistrate and his officers led the boy down onto the beach, close to the mouth of the Urakami River. There the officers began to dig a hole in the sand, to plant a tree trunk in the hole, to tie the boy to the trunk. But the boy stopped them, saying, There is no need for you to toil. For I will stand here and wait upon the beach, and wait for Him to come again, for Him to return again for me.
‘The officers looked at the magistrate. The magistrate stared at the boy. The boy smiled, and the magistrate nodded, So be it.
‘And the magistrate and his officers left the boy standing on the beach, the water already lapping at his feet, his hands clasped together, his face turned to the sky, a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips.
‘In the deepening dusk, the magistrate took his seat before the people of Nagasaki and Urakami, his eyes fixed upon the boy on the beach as wave by wave the tide came in, the wind in the reeds, the wind on the water.
‘One sun, one shaku, the tide came in, the water came in, over the beach and over the boy, his ankles then his shins, his knees then his thighs, over his waist and up to his chest, the boy never moving, his face never turning, turned to the sky, the darkening sky, the rising waters and the endless waves, up to his neck and over his chin, into his mouth and through his hair, over his hair and over his head, the boy now under the water, the boy now under the waves, the boy drowned, the boy dead.
‘Early the next morning at low tide, the officers of the magistrate found the body of the boy washed up among the tall reeds, his hands still clasped together, his eyes still open, a smile upon his lips. But, it is said, when they moved his body, when they raised it from the reeds, a delicate fragrance filled the air and his mouth fell open. And in the mouth of the boy, a lily bloomed. So ends the story of the Faith of Genta, the Yaso of Nagasaki.’
For a long, long time, in the dark and empty church, Father Gracy did not speak. Then with the trails of tears still wet upon his face, he turned to the young man sat beside him in the pew. There were tears in the eyes of the young man, too, as Father Gracy said, ‘Merci. Thank you.’
‘You are welcome,’ said the young man. ‘Of all the tales of martyrs in Japan, this one, this life of this Holy Fool, is my favourite story.’
Father Gracy nodded, then asked, ‘And why is that?’
‘I was born in these modern times,’ replied the young man, hesitantly. ‘But I feel I can do no work of any lasting worth. Day and night, I just live a desultory and decadent life, standing on the beach, yet then running from
