Shogun

“Lord Jesus! The sameree cut him into pieces, did he?” Sonk said to no one in particular.

“For the love of God, shut your mouth. It’s ‘samurai.’ You’re enough to make a man shit himself,” Ginsel said.

“I hope that bastard priest doesn’t come here,” Vinck said.

“We’re safe in the good Lord’s hands.” Van Nekk was still trying to sound confident. “When the daimyo comes we’ll be released. We’ll get our ship back and our guns. You’ll see. We’ll sell all our goods and we’ll get back to Holland rich and safe having gone round the world—the first Dutchmen ever. The Catholics’ll go to hell and that’s the end of it.”

“No, it isn’t,” Vinck said. “Papists make my skin crawl. I can’t help it. That and the thought of the conquistadores. You think they’ll be here in strength, Pilot?”

“I don’t know. I’d think yes! I wish we had all our squadron here.”

“Poor bastards,” Vinck said. “At least we’re alive.”

Maetsukker said, “Maybe they’re back home. Maybe they turned back at the Magellan when the storms scattered us.”

“I hope you’re right,” Blackthorne said. “But I think they’re lost with all hands.”

Ginsel shuddered. “At least we’re alive.”

“With Papists here, and these heathens with their stinking tempers, I wouldn’t give an old whore’s crack for our lives.”

“Goddamn the day I left Holland,” Pieterzoon said. “Goddamn all grog! If I hadn’t been drunker than a fiddler’s bitch I’d still be heads down in Amsterdam with my old woman.”

“Damn what you like, Pieterzoon. But don’t damn liquor. It’s the stuff of life!”

“I’d say we’re in the sewer, up to our chins, and the tide’s coming in fast.” Vinck rolled his eyes. “Yes, very fast.”

“I never thought we’d reach land,” Maetsukker said. He looked like a ferret, except he had no teeth. “Never. Least of all the Japans. Lousy stinking Papists! We’ll never leave here alive! I wish we had some guns. What a rotten landfall! I didn’t mean anything, Pilot,” he said quickly as Blackthorne looked at him. “Just bad luck, that’s all.”

Later servants brought them food again. Always the same: vegetables—cooked and raw—with a little vinegar, fish soup, and the wheat or barley porridge. They all spurned the small pieces of raw fish and asked for meat and liquor. But they were not understood and then, near sunset, Blackthorne left. He had wearied of their fears and hates and obscenities. He told them that he would return after dawn.

The shops were busy on the narrow streets. He found his street and the gate of his house. The stains on the earth had been swept away and the body had vanished. It’s almost as though I dreamed the whole thing, he thought. The garden gate opened before he could put a hand on it.

The old gardener, still loinclothed although there was a chill on the wind, beamed and bowed. “Konbanwa.”

“Hello,” Blackthorne said without thinking. He walked up the steps, stopped, remembering his boots. He took them off and went barefoot onto the veranda and into the room. He crossed it into a corridor but could not find his room.

“Onna!” he called out.

An old woman appeared. “Hai?”

“Where’s Onna?”

The old woman frowned and pointed to herself. “Onna!”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Blackthorne said irritably. “Where’s my room? Where’s Onna?” He slid open another latticed door. Four Japanese were seated on the floor around a low table, eating. He recognized one of them as the gray-haired man, the village headman, who had been with the priest. They all bowed. “Oh, sorry,” he said, and pulled the door to.

“Onna!” he called out.

The old woman thought a moment, then beckoned. He followed her into another corridor. She slid a door aside. He recognized his room from the crucifix. The quilts were already laid out neatly.

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “Now fetch Onna!”

The old woman padded away. He sat down, his head and body aching, and wished there was a chair, wondering where they were kept. How to get aboard? How to get some guns? There must be a way. Feet padded back and there were three women now, the old woman, a young round-faced girl, and the middle-aged lady.

The old woman pointed at the girl, who seemed a little frightened. “Onna.”

“No.” Blackthorne got up ill-temperedly and jerked a finger at the middle-aged woman. “This is Onna, for God’s sake! Don’t you know your name? Onna! I’m hungry. Could I have some food?” He rubbed his stomach parodying hunger. They looked at each other. Then the middle-aged woman shrugged, said something that made the others laugh, went over to the bed, and began to undress. The other two squatted, wide-eyed and expectant.

Blackthorne was appalled. “What are you doing?”

“Ishimasho!” she said, setting aside her wide waistband and opening her kimono. Her breasts were flat and dried up and her belly huge.

It was quite clear that she was going to get into the bed. He shook his head and told her to get dressed and took her arm and they all began chattering and gesticulating and the woman was becoming quite angry. She stepped out of her long underskirt and, naked, tried to get back into bed.

Their chattering stopped and they all bowed as the headman came quietly down the corridor. “Nanda? Nanda?” he asked.

The old woman explained what was the matter. “You want this woman?” he asked incredulously in heavily accented, barely understandable Portuguese, motioning at the naked woman.

“No. No, of course not. I just wanted Onna to get me some food.” Blackthorne pointed impatiently at her. “Onna!”

“Onna mean ‘woman.’?” The Japanese motioned at all of them. “Onna—onna—onna. You want onna?”

Blackthorne wearily shook his head. “No. No, thank you. I made a mistake. Sorry. What’s her name?”

“Please?”

“What’s her name?”

“Ah! Namu is Haku. Haku,” he said.

“Haku?”

“Hai. Haku!”

“I’m sorry, Haku-san. Thought onna your name.”

The man explained to Haku and she was not at all pleased. But he said something and they all looked at Blackthorne and tittered behind their hands and left. Haku walked off naked, her kimono over her arm, with a vast amount of dignity.

“Thank you,” Blackthorne said, enraged at his own stupidity.

“This my house. My namu Mura.”

“Mura-san. Mine’s Blackthorne.”

“Please?”

“My namu. Blackthorne.”

“Ah! Berr—rakk—fon.” Mura tried to say it several times but could not. Eventually he gave up and continued to study the colossus in front of him. This was the first barbarian he had ever seen except for Father Sebastio, and the other priest, so many years ago. But anyway, he thought, the priests are dark-haired and dark-eyed and of normal height. But this man: tall and golden-haired and golden-bearded with blue eyes and a weird pallor to his skin where it is covered and redness where it is exposed. Astonishing! I thought all men had black hair and dark eyes. We all do. The Chinese do, and isn’t China the whole world, except for the land of the southern Portugee barbarians? Astonishing! And why does Father Sebastio hate this man so much? Because he’s a Satan worshiper? I wouldn’t think so, because Father Sebastio could cast out the devil if he wanted. Eeee, I’ve never seen the good Father so angry. Never. Astonishing!

Are blue eyes and golden hair the mark of Satan?