Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarians
Posted: Tue Jun 15, 2010 9:59 pm
Summer sun burning
and many forget the way
violence simmers
August, 1863
“Master Masayoshi!” One of the initiates approached, bent low, addressed him in a manner that was full of propriety and also urgency.
Masayoshi turned from his latest poem, pulled tight his robe with the thick jutte rope around his waist.
“There is a monk here to see you, from Edo. A Father Enoch Root.”
Masayoshi dropped his brush, scrambled to his feet, left the finished work to dry without hanging.
The ink pooled deeper, darker, widened the brushstrokes and glazed in the summer heat.
Student is certain
knows all of separation
is it illusion?
Enoch was there, broad shouldered, his red beard fierce in the humid air of the hills.
“Father Root, I welcome you to Satsuma Shrine. Even foreign devils are welcome here.”
Root bowed, slightly.
“Even those who you have bludgeoned and left to rot in a prison cell?”
“Especially those who I have wronged.” Masayoshi said.
Root approached him. He was quite large, now. His red hair was common in his lands. Here, it frightened the children, who had been told that Jesuit priests such as Root would kidnap them and eat them. The harsh orphanages the Jesuits ran did little to assuage these fears.
He reached out a firm, weathered hand, extended it towards Masayoshi.
The two shook hands. Root passed something to him, small, heavy, wrapped in paper.
Masayoshi withdrew. Root pulled a parchment from his brown robe.
“I found this in the square. After the murder of Mr. Richardson, it gives me pause, Masayoshi.”
Masayoshi accepted the package with a small bow, and unfurled it. It was a poster depicting a large, well drawn Sumo who had planted both feet and shoved down an obviously drunken sailor. Across the top, the script read “sonno joi: Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarians.”
Some young hooligan had scribbled in bright red hair and a bushy, angular beard of the same color. They had cut a crude symbol for the Jesuits into the corner.
“When I found this, near our monastery, it had been tacked up with a dagger.”
Masayoshi's eyes dropped and he looked up at Root. Since the first time they'd met (under the most precarious of circumstances) the two had become friends, of a sort. Root spoke to the alien at home inside of Masayoshi, and the younger monk served as a more jovial counterpoint to the physical and spiritual harshness of the Jesuit path.
“The Americans are not here now, Masayoshi. They're busy killing one another over the right to own men and breed them like oxen.”
Masayoshi's eyes widened. He knew that the Americans had left, suddenly, but had heard only the vaguest of rumors.
“They are violent, unprincipled men. And while they were here, the other gai-jin were forced to resort to trickery, subtle influence, and bribes.”
He turned from Masayoshi and looked out over the sprawling city of Satsuma, the glittering bay. Gates and shrines and buildings of paper and wood stretched out, in the bay seaweed was being gathered under the shadows of the gently rocking boats of the British Empire.
“Imagine yourself in a room full of Ronin in the summer, Masayoshi. They are armed and guarding a chest of ryo for a warlord. He is a brutal man, capable of anything.”
Masayoshi looked out at the ships, strove to understand Root. Sometimes the European tenses and thought patterns rose up in him, made the translation difficult.
“A man is caught trying to steal. The warlord castrates him and hangs him from a branch over a fire until he is dead. None of the other men will try to steal.”
Masayoshi nodded. The package in his hand felt heavy, warm. It drew up the heat from his hand quite quickly.
“Now, Masayoshi. Imagine that the warlord has business in his home province, away from this chest full of ryo and all the swords it can buy, and he leaves it in the care of the Ronin.”
Root turned back to face Masayoshi.
“I must go. Things... fall apart, Masayoshi. I will cherish your poetry. I hope to God that you turn to our Lord and Savior and save yourself, monk. Yours is a path I cannot walk.”
Root grasped him, held him close for a brief moment. It was the most emotion Masayoshi had seen from him in the years they had known one another.
“It took our Lord and God six days to make the Heavens and the Earth. Six days, Masayoshi. A lot can happen.”
Root left, headed down the hill, towards the Straits of Shimonoseki.
Masayoshi had dispensed with much protocol to have the visiting monk come and go. He returned up the stone stairs to the shrine, prepared to perform an elaborate bath to cleanse him of the sweat and mistakes of the day.
Masayoshi stood in the gateway, underneath the huge stone arc, and watched the bay. He unraveled the gift that Root had left him.
The paper had a message, printed first in a barbarian tongue, and then in proper Japanese. “Terre! l'obus est Dieu, Paixhans est son prophète.”
Earth! the shell is God, Paixhans is his Prophet!
There was a noise in the harbor. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. It sounded like fireworks down in the town. Smoke poured from the gai-jin ships. Masayoshi wondered, for a brief and portent moment, if the ships were on fire.
Red and black blasts spread on the town of Satsuma, wood and burning paper erupted into the glowing sky.
Masayoshi looked at the small gift that Root had wrapped for him. It was a bullet.
He reached under his rope belt and drew the gun that he'd kept for years. He had only ever fired it once.
Now, he had all six chambers ready. He slid the bullet into the revolver.
A lot could happen with six bullets. He had done enough with one.
and many forget the way
violence simmers
August, 1863
“Master Masayoshi!” One of the initiates approached, bent low, addressed him in a manner that was full of propriety and also urgency.
Masayoshi turned from his latest poem, pulled tight his robe with the thick jutte rope around his waist.
“There is a monk here to see you, from Edo. A Father Enoch Root.”
Masayoshi dropped his brush, scrambled to his feet, left the finished work to dry without hanging.
The ink pooled deeper, darker, widened the brushstrokes and glazed in the summer heat.
Student is certain
knows all of separation
is it illusion?
Enoch was there, broad shouldered, his red beard fierce in the humid air of the hills.
“Father Root, I welcome you to Satsuma Shrine. Even foreign devils are welcome here.”
Root bowed, slightly.
“Even those who you have bludgeoned and left to rot in a prison cell?”
“Especially those who I have wronged.” Masayoshi said.
Root approached him. He was quite large, now. His red hair was common in his lands. Here, it frightened the children, who had been told that Jesuit priests such as Root would kidnap them and eat them. The harsh orphanages the Jesuits ran did little to assuage these fears.
He reached out a firm, weathered hand, extended it towards Masayoshi.
The two shook hands. Root passed something to him, small, heavy, wrapped in paper.
Masayoshi withdrew. Root pulled a parchment from his brown robe.
“I found this in the square. After the murder of Mr. Richardson, it gives me pause, Masayoshi.”
Masayoshi accepted the package with a small bow, and unfurled it. It was a poster depicting a large, well drawn Sumo who had planted both feet and shoved down an obviously drunken sailor. Across the top, the script read “sonno joi: Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarians.”
Some young hooligan had scribbled in bright red hair and a bushy, angular beard of the same color. They had cut a crude symbol for the Jesuits into the corner.
“When I found this, near our monastery, it had been tacked up with a dagger.”
Masayoshi's eyes dropped and he looked up at Root. Since the first time they'd met (under the most precarious of circumstances) the two had become friends, of a sort. Root spoke to the alien at home inside of Masayoshi, and the younger monk served as a more jovial counterpoint to the physical and spiritual harshness of the Jesuit path.
“The Americans are not here now, Masayoshi. They're busy killing one another over the right to own men and breed them like oxen.”
Masayoshi's eyes widened. He knew that the Americans had left, suddenly, but had heard only the vaguest of rumors.
“They are violent, unprincipled men. And while they were here, the other gai-jin were forced to resort to trickery, subtle influence, and bribes.”
He turned from Masayoshi and looked out over the sprawling city of Satsuma, the glittering bay. Gates and shrines and buildings of paper and wood stretched out, in the bay seaweed was being gathered under the shadows of the gently rocking boats of the British Empire.
“Imagine yourself in a room full of Ronin in the summer, Masayoshi. They are armed and guarding a chest of ryo for a warlord. He is a brutal man, capable of anything.”
Masayoshi looked out at the ships, strove to understand Root. Sometimes the European tenses and thought patterns rose up in him, made the translation difficult.
“A man is caught trying to steal. The warlord castrates him and hangs him from a branch over a fire until he is dead. None of the other men will try to steal.”
Masayoshi nodded. The package in his hand felt heavy, warm. It drew up the heat from his hand quite quickly.
“Now, Masayoshi. Imagine that the warlord has business in his home province, away from this chest full of ryo and all the swords it can buy, and he leaves it in the care of the Ronin.”
Root turned back to face Masayoshi.
“I must go. Things... fall apart, Masayoshi. I will cherish your poetry. I hope to God that you turn to our Lord and Savior and save yourself, monk. Yours is a path I cannot walk.”
Root grasped him, held him close for a brief moment. It was the most emotion Masayoshi had seen from him in the years they had known one another.
“It took our Lord and God six days to make the Heavens and the Earth. Six days, Masayoshi. A lot can happen.”
Root left, headed down the hill, towards the Straits of Shimonoseki.
Masayoshi had dispensed with much protocol to have the visiting monk come and go. He returned up the stone stairs to the shrine, prepared to perform an elaborate bath to cleanse him of the sweat and mistakes of the day.
Masayoshi stood in the gateway, underneath the huge stone arc, and watched the bay. He unraveled the gift that Root had left him.
The paper had a message, printed first in a barbarian tongue, and then in proper Japanese. “Terre! l'obus est Dieu, Paixhans est son prophète.”
Earth! the shell is God, Paixhans is his Prophet!
There was a noise in the harbor. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. It sounded like fireworks down in the town. Smoke poured from the gai-jin ships. Masayoshi wondered, for a brief and portent moment, if the ships were on fire.
Red and black blasts spread on the town of Satsuma, wood and burning paper erupted into the glowing sky.
Masayoshi looked at the small gift that Root had wrapped for him. It was a bullet.
He reached under his rope belt and drew the gun that he'd kept for years. He had only ever fired it once.
Now, he had all six chambers ready. He slid the bullet into the revolver.
A lot could happen with six bullets. He had done enough with one.