by T. C. Rypel
“Illusion,” Cervantes repeated pensively.
Gonji laughed, breaking the spell. “Take nothing I say too seriously, mi amigo, lest you find madness in trying to make sense of it. The best you could do right now is use your influence to obtain me writing materials so that I, too, may correspond with you.”
“I shall do my best, then, senor.”
They parted friends, Gonji feeling uplifted for the meeting. But he still received neither quill nor paper.
* * * *
Following the visit by Cervantes, Gonji experienced a sense of renewed hope. It seemed he was not yet consigned to the Land of the Dead; there must still be those who thought of him, who were interested in his situation. The ensuing days were filled with a heightened zest for life as the samurai pursued his daily regimen. He once again became curious as to the Inquisition’s intentions toward him. He began to chide himself inwardly for having allowed himself to withdraw so deeply. They had yet to bring him before a tribunal on any formal charges, but although he plied the seemingly sympathetic Morales for information, the sergeant was either unwilling or truly unable to provide him any.
One night as he lay half asleep, the groans of the newly tortured evoking ragged snatches of unsavory dreams, Gonji felt the eyes that watched him through the grating. He gathered his faculties, pushed up to his feet abruptly, and strode to the door.
He peered into the large, blinking eyes that radiated both fear and hostility. It took a moment to recall the title that went with the face—the Grand Inquisitor himself, who had glared at him with such loathing but said nothing when Gonji had been brought to Toledo those long weeks ago.
“Repent, witch,” Bishop Izquierdo said shakily, the words thrust out with a total lack of confidence, like the lunge of a timid fencer. “Repent and be delivered of your sins.”
“What would you have me say?” Gonji asked earnestly “Why do you keep me here in this dishonorable place? If you would only deliver me my swords, I would save you the trouble of bedeviling me further. What charges do you prefer against me? Let’s have an end of this!”
Gonji swallowed hard and reestablished a calm exterior a once, regretting his outburst, though he felt the better for it. He relaxed his stranglehold on the grating when he saw Izquierdo stumble back in surprise. A sentry stamped forward to rap his knuckles with a sword hilt.
“Even your own words condemn you,” the Grand Inquisitor declared. “Heresy, witchcraft, the perverted wish for suicide—last refuge of the despairing soul.”
“Judging by the little I’ve been allowed to hear, you want me to recant my entire life. So sorry, but that is quite impossible. Even the Catholic monks who filled my youth with the learning of Iasu didn’t try to take my swords from me. They understood that a samurai’s soul is bound to his swords. Cholera—why do you accuse me? So stupid, neh? Heresy? By the holy name of the Christ himself, I have no wish to subvert your followers. And as for witchcraft, you credit me with far too much power, priest. Had I such power, I’d have surely delivered myself from your clutches long ago.”
“Lies!” the Grand Inquisitor railed. “The power of Christ restrains you here! You’ve left behind you a trail of wickedness and carnage no deceit can ever eradicate. You are the Deathwind of Vedun—the Scourge of Avignon—murderer of women and children. You hold commerce with witches and demons, and even now you await deliverance by your familiar demon, the one you call Simon!”
Gonji’s face contorted as if with a sudden pain. But he began to laugh. He turned from the grating and clutched at himself as he laughed spasmodically. He faced the bewildered bishop again only when he had regained control, though his eyes still reflected his astonishment.
“You have things so twisted, priest, that I could scarcely begin to unravel them. Someone has poisoned you against me, and I think there’s no cure, not at this advanced stage. But this Simon you speak of, do you truly know anything about him? He’s a tormented soul, all right. Tormented in a way none could fully appreciate, I think. But not the way you say. He is no familiar demon of any witch. Have you never heard of the wolf-child raised in a convent? Raised in the ways of Iasu?”
“Si,” Izquierdo fumed, “and by the power of the demon within, he destroyed that convent, and others, and when he comes, seeking to free you, we shall be waiting for him. And by the power of the Lord God he shall share your destiny!”
Izquierdo stalked off.
“Then have done with me,” Gonji roared at his departing footsteps. “Bring me my swords, or throw me to your sadistic dogs. But let me be freed of this filthy Spaniard corruption! And here is a thought you can take with you to your cold, dark bedchamber: Simon is coming! Sleep well, Inquisitor!
“Simon is coming!”
The guard rapped Gonji’s knuckles so hard as they gripped the grating that the samurai cried out in pain.
“Cholera-pox on you, Spanish scum! Bastard! Coward!”
Lamps flared alight in the dungeon block, and a flurry of activity followed his outcry. Moments later a squad of troopers stormed into his cell and overpowered him, dragging him to the torture chamber for another session under the whip.
Gonji tore a piece of the lapel from his devil-cloak with his teeth and bit hard on it to keep from crying out during the ordeal. When they were done, he feigned swooning until the soldier who had broken his knuckle leaned near. Bellowing an ear-piercing kiyai, he leapt and kicked the offending guard under the chin. The man’s lower jaw snapped like celery.
The other guards fell on Gonji in pummeling vengeance. They drove him to the whipping post again and were about to recommence when they were interrupted by the appearance of a prelate who stayed them with harsh commands.
Gonji heard words spoken to him through an echoed ringing but understood nothing of it. He dimly saw the hands that descended to his face, saw the folds of the prelate’s cowl.
A small man, speaking—moving his lips—floating—fading into blackness.
* * * *
Hic jacet—
Hic jacet Sabatake Gonji, samurai—
“Here lies Gonji Sabatake, samurai, warlock, monster of a thousand shapes,
“Whose crimes are so numerous they shall go without mention.”
Early summer fanned the outside world with warm breezes. Gonji sat on the floor of his cell, sullenly sifting through his morbid thoughts. With the summer had come the flies, and a new practice was added to his monotonous daily regimen: He snatched the buzzing nuisances out of the air to sharpen his quickness and coordination, concentrating more on the injured right hand as it gradually healed.
With the coming of summer, the lice had become more active. Also the rats—he had stomped one to death in his cell earlier that morning as it had tried to beat him to his meal.
The fly-catching segment ending, signaled by the guard’s removal of his meal scraps, Gonji rose and performed his stretching exercises, loosening his inflamed joints. Next came the long series of empty-hand kata. As he was deeply emerged in these, his body now coated with a thin film of sweat, he noticed the face watching him through the grating.
The small priest again, whom he’d come to know as Father Martin de la Cenza. It was this padre who had spared him the wrath of the night guards some weeks earlier. De la Cenza had descended to the dungeons to try to make small talk with Gonji several times since, but the samurai had stubbornly resisted communication. He was suspicious of all Spanish priests now, for it was they who kept him in this torment. Regarded him as some inscrutable beast.
“Why do you mimic the actions of animals?” de la Cenza asked pleasantly.
Surprisingly, Gonji stopped and met the priest’s eyes, the present kata having concluded. He stared blankly at de la Cenza, who was surprised to hear Gonji answer him.
“There is much that can be learned from the animals. Their supp
leness and grace are beautiful to see. The artistry of the Great Kami, neh?” He moved nearer the door. “Why did you stop them—my torturers?”
“I did not wish them to harm you further.”
“Ah, so desu ka? Iasu would be pleased, neh? You could have pleased him further still by stopping the torture of those others so that we might all sleep at night.”
The priest nodded. “Senor Sabatake,” he began slowly, eyes brightening suddenly. “May I call you Gonji?”
“Gonji-san would be more polite. In any event, I cannot stop you. But you needn’t fear that I’ll use your name. That could grant me sorcerous power over you, neh?” Gonji said archly.
De la Cenza smiled. “Call me Martin…san. You must believe me when I tell you that there is nothing I can do about the torture. There are many of us who do not agree with it; yet it has been ordained by superiors.”
“But not by Iasu.”
“No,” the priest sighed, “not by Jesus.”
“Giri, then,” Gonji concluded. “Duty. Obligation. I am uniquely suited to understanding that. But, of course, some duties are less zealously pursued than others.”
After a long, guilty silence, de la Cenza spoke again.
“I must ask you, for your own good, to cease this game of ‘Simon’s coming.’ It does nothing to help your situation. This person you name has also been singled out for special attention by the Inquisition.”
Gonji chuckled without amusement. “Hai. They still direct their energies in all the wrong directions.”
“Does he exist? Will he come?” the prelate asked earnestly.
“He exists, but he is not what you make him out to be, though he is surely of interest to the soldiers of Iasu. He is one of you. He believes as you do. He cannot help himself, in his own curse… But I can’t imagine him coming here, of all places. He seems to have had as much trouble with the clergy as I have.”
De la Cenza bowed his head, finally nodding gravely. He turned as if he would go, but paused.
“Gonji-san, it is hard to make you understand, but we do what we must. It is our duty to battle assaults against the faith. Sometimes the methods seem…questionable.” He glanced about to see whether any soldiers overheard his potentially dangerous statement.
“I see,” Gonji replied, raising his voice so that the priest would remain to hear him out. “I believe certain tales of the Christ, though I don’t understand many of them. And because I live outside your influence, you will destroy me. And then you will destroy the reformers on the continent, and they you. And then what strength remains to raise the cross of Iasu? Tell me that, Martin-san.”
De la Cenza stared at the slimy flooring stones a long while, seemingly disturbed by the samurai’s words. Gonji, sensing an inroad had been made, pressed him all the harder, sacrificing composure for intensity.
“Send me my swords, that I may end this pointless horror.”
The spell was broken. The prelate’s eyes widened with disgust. It had been the wrong thing to say.
“That’s quite impossible. You know that.” He moved to go again.
“Well, then—then have them take me out of this god-cursed cell long enough to bathe! They can aim cannon at me, if they wish! Bind me hand and foot! Do you know, I’ve heard that a witch so bound in water will float, while an innocent man will drown. So, in the name of Iasu, let them drown me! Vermin crawl on my body—do you know what anathema that is to a samurai? That way I’ll be both cleansed and exonerated, neh?”
Father Martin’s eyes crinkled to see the gleam in Gonji’s own. He laughed breathily. “You are indeed an amazing individual. I’m sorry, Gonji-san. No charges have been fixed against you yet, but there is some evidence of subversion. I simply can’t remove you from here, even to bathe, lest I take your place.”
“All right, all right,” Gonji said, lowering his voice and lifting his palm in a steadying gesture. “Then, dozo—please, send me some writing materials. Day by day my thoughts and observations drift into nothingness in this timeless hell.”
“You seem to have done well enough out of your own ingenuity, judging by the walls of your cell.”
Gonji peeked over his shoulder desperately. “Iye! Twice the guards have shattered my work space with their stupid tools. Poetry comes hard when etched on stone, and once lost…” A wild hope shone from Gonji’s face in the flickering lamplight.
De la Cenza slowly lifted his hand and conferred his blessing, via the Sign of the Cross.
“Por favor,” he said, “abide your situation as you can.” And with that he disappeared from view.
Gonji stared into the empty corridor, his jaw working tensely. He felt, by turns, foolish, betrayed, and irate.
* * * *
Gonji lay on the stinking mat with arms crossed, weaving in and out of the shallow half-sleep that had become his mode of slumber. Now and again scratching at his itching beard or scalp. Listening to the scuttling of rats, the deathless moaning of human misery. And another sound—a soft scratching outside his door.
He jerked up onto an elbow. A face tilted up and down fitfully, freezing like an alarmed hare when their eyes met.
A middle-aged man, bearded, eyes glistening with fever-light.
“Time to rise anyway. Morning prayers ring out above.” He studied Gonji closely as he spoke, and his words seemed less directed at the samurai than like spoken thought.
“Who are you?” Gonji inquired. But no answer came in reply. “I said, who are you?”
The man’s face-tilting seized up again as though he were startled out of some waking reverie. “I see no reason to make answer to you.”
Gonji’s eyes narrowed. He stood and ambled menacingly toward the grated door. And although safe behind the iron portal, the man’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped.
“Kyriakos,” the man said as if commanding a dog to mind its place. He returned to his alternating visual attentions. Gonji could see now that the man was sketching with charcoal on a board.
“A Greek?”
“Cretan,” the artist replied throatily, plainly annoyed at these interruptions. “Turn to your left—my right, por favor.”
“Get out of here,” Gonji growled.
The artist stopped abruptly and peered deeply into Gonji’s glaring eyes. “You’re not so fascinating as I’d hoped, after all. Why do you embattle the Church?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Why?” Kyriakos persisted.
“Why do they fear me?” Gonji countered.
“Fear you?” the artist echoed scornfully. “They wish to save your heathen soul, can’t you understand that?”
“Then tell them to send me my swords.”
Kyriakos tilted his head as if studying a curious animal. “A pagan barbarian, just as they said. You might have proven to be the subject of an important salvation painting—”
“Get out of here.”
“Now,” the artist spat as he withdrew, “now perhaps you’ll wind up in some obscure corner of—”
Gonji showered him with a torrent of invective that would have done any sailor proud in the waterfront inns of Barcelona.
Moments later, Morales approached him, looking like he might offer some reproach. “You’ve won over another amigo, no?”
“Ohayo, Morarei-san.” Gonji brought himself under control at once.
“Do you know who that was?”
“I don’t care—”
“That was the great artist, El Greco—”
“Never mind that. I must respectfully request—”
“No-no, senor, no suicide this morning—”
“Then,” Gonji persisted, “will I be allowed to bathe, or shall I at least be given a hammer so that I may deal with these lice that crawl in my useless—”
“No, the lice stay, but listen—” Morales waved his hand in a way that bade attention. “Is Simon coming today?” he asked in a jestingly conniving whisper.
“Who knows?” Gonji replied, playing along. “Why?”
“If he comes, will he devour me?”
“He might dismember you, but his tastes don’t run to rotten Spanish flesh.”
“You’ll protect me, then, if I’ve been your friend, no?”
Morales was hiding something, and Gonji’s curiosity was stoked.
“What are you getting at?”
The sergeant shrugged as if to dismiss it, then brought in the covered pan with his morning meal and his ewer of water. A grim pistolero watched Gonji closely from the corridor until Morales had withdrawn and locked the door.
Gonji doffed the black robe with its grotesque red ornamentation and began wedging it into the small grated window of his iron-bound cell door.
“What are you doing?”
Gonji pulled aside the garment and peered out. “No more visitors, eh?”
The sergeant began to laugh, his mirth rising as he moved away. “Too dark to eat like that.”
“I’ll manage,” the samurai replied from the blackened cell. He removed the linen from his tray. A moment later he was whisking aside the robe again.
“Yoi! Yoi—good! Morarei-san!”
The sergeant returned, still grinning.
“You?” Gonji whispered.
Morales shook his head. “Father Martin—but I didn’t have to bring it.”
Gonji bowed to him, then moved to the floor, where he knelt in grateful silence, running his hands over the quill pen, small cruet inkwell, and parchment that lay beside his food.
