Silence

by Shusaku Endo

  20th. Once again the officials rode into the village, this time with a proclamation. Here, on the beach of Tomogi, Mokichi and Ichizo would be subjected to the water punishment.

  22nd. A procession, looking like a long line of peas, could be seen approaching from the distance along the rain-blanketed ashen road. Slowly the tiny figures grew in size. In the midst of the group, their arms bound fast and their heads hanging low, surrounded by guards rode Ichizo and Mokichi. The people of the village did not venture out from behind the barred doors of their houses. Behind the long procession were a number of stragglers who had joined from the neighbouring villages to view the spectacle. The whole scene could be observed from our hut.

  Arriving at the shore, the officials ordered a fire to be lighted so that Ichizo and Mokichi could warm their bodies drenched by the rain. And then (as I have been told) with an unwonted sense of pity, someone gave them a cup of sake to drink. When I heard this I could not help thinking of how one of the soldiers gave to the dying Christ some vinegar on a sponge.

  Two trees, made into the form of a cross, were set at the water’s edge. Ichizo and Mokichi were fastened to them. When it was night and the tide came in, their bodies would be immersed in the sea up to the chin. They would not die at once, but after two or even three days of utter physical and mental exhaustion they would cease to breathe. The plan of the authorities was to let the people of the village of Tomogi as well as the other peasants get a good view of this prolonged suffering so that they would never again approach the Christian faith. It was already past noon when Mokichi and Ichizo were fastened to the trees and the officials, leaving four guards to watch, withdrew on horseback. The onlookers also, who had at first come in great numbers to watch the spectacle, now gradually departed.

  The tide came in. The two forms did not move. The waves, drenching the feet and lower half of their bodies, surged up the dark shore with monotonous roar, and with monotonous roar again receded.

  In the evening, Omatsu together with her niece brought food to the guards and asked if they might give the two men something to eat. Receiving this permission, they now approached in a small boat.

  ‘Mokichi! Mokichi!’, cried Omatsu.

  ‘What is it?’, Mokichi is said to have replied.

  Next, ‘Ichizo! Ichizo!’ she said. But the aged Ichizo could make no answer. Yet that he was not dead was clear from the occasional slight movement of his head.

  ‘You are suffering terribly; but be patient. Padre and all of us are praying. You will both go to Paradise.’

  Such were Omatsu’s words of earnest encouragement; but when she tried to put the potato she had brought into Mokichi’s mouth he shook his head. If he must die anyway, he seemed to feel, he would like to escape as quickly as possible from this torment. ‘Give it to Ichizo,’ he said. ‘Let him eat. I can endure no more.’

  Omatsu and her niece, distraught and tearful, returned to the shore; and here, drenched by the rain, they raised their voices and wept.

  Night came. The red light of the guards’ blazing fire could be seen faintly even from our mountain hut, while the people of Tomogi gathered on the shore and gazed at the dark sea. So black were the sea and the sky that no one knew where Mokichi and Ichizo were. Whether they were alive or dead no one knew. All with tears were praying in their hearts. And then, mingled with the sound of the waves, they heard what seemed to be the voice of Mokichi. Whether to tell the people that his life had not yet ebbed away or to strengthen his own resolution, the young man gaspingly sang a Christian hymn:

  We’re on our way, we’re on our way

  We’re on our way to the temple of Paradise,

  To the temple of Paradise. …

  To the great Temple. …

  All listened in silence to the voice of Mokichi; the guards also listened; and again and again, amid the sound of the rain and the waves, it broke upon their ears.

  24th. The drizzle continued all day, while the people of Tomogi, again huddled together, stared from afar at the stakes of Mokichi and Ichizo. The shore, enveloped by rain, stretched out wearily like a sunken desert. Today there came no ‘gentile’ spectators from the neighbourhood. When the tide receded there only remained in the distance the solitary stakes to which were fastened the two men. It was impossible to distinguish between the stakes and the men. Mokichi and Ichizo adhered to the stakes in such a way that they became part of them. The only indication that they were still alive was the dark moaning of a voice which sounded like that of Mokichi.

  The moaning sometimes ceased. Mokichi had not even the strength to encourage himself with a hymn like that of yesterday. Yet after an hour of silence the voice was again brought to the ears of the people by the wind. Hearing this sound, like that of an animal, the peasants trembled and wept. In the afternoon the tide gradually comes in again; the black, cold color of the sea deepens; the stakes seem to sink into the water. The white foaming waves, swirling past the stakes, break on the sand, a white bird, skimming over the surface of the sea, flies far, far away. And with this all is over.

  They were martyred. But what a martyrdom! I had long read about martyrdom in the lives of the saints—how the souls of the martyrs had gone home to Heaven, how they had been filled with glory in Paradise, how the angels had blown trumpets. This was the splendid martyrdom I had often seen in my dreams. But the martyrdom of the Japanese Christians I now describe to you was no such glorious thing. What a miserable and painful business it was! The rain falls unceasingly on the sea. And the sea which killed them surges on uncannily—in silence.

  In the evening the officials again arrived on horseback. At their command, the guards gathered damp pieces of wood and, removing the bodies of Mokichi and Ichizo from the stakes, began to burn them. This they did to prevent the Christians from bringing home the remains for veneration. When the bodies were reduced to ashes, they threw them into the sea. The flame they had kindled flared red and black in the breeze; the smoke flowed over the sandy beach while the people, without the slightest movement, vacantly watched its undulations. When all was over, heads hanging like cows, they shuffled back to their homes.

  Today, while writing this letter, I sometimes go out of our hut to look down at the sea, the grave of these two Japanese peasants who believed our word. The sea only stretches out endlessly, melancholy and dark, while below the grey clouds there is not the shadow of an island.

  There is no change. But I know what you will say: ‘Their death was not meaningless. It was a stone which in time will be the foundation of the Church; and the Lord never gives us a trial which we cannot overcome. Mokichi and Ichizo are with the Lord. Like the numerous Japanese martyrs who have gone before, they now enjoy everlasting happiness.’ I also, of course, am convinced of all this. And yet, why does this feeling of grief remain in my heart? Why does the song of the exhausted Mokichi, bound to the stake, gnaw constantly at my heart:

  We’re on our way, we’re on our way,

  We’re on our way to the temple of Paradise,

  To the temple of Paradise. …

  To the great Temple. …

  I have heard from the people of Tomogi that many Christians when dragged off to the place of execution sang this hymn—a melody filled with dark sadness. Life in this world is too painful for these Japanese peasants. Only by relying on ‘the temple of Paradise’ have they been able to go on living. Such is the sadness which fills this song.

  What do I want to say? I myself do not quite understand. Only that today, when for the glory of God Mokichi and Ichizo moaned, suffered and died, I cannot bear the monotonous sound of the dark sea gnawing at the shore. Behind the depressing silence of this sea, the silence of God. … the feeling that while men raise their voices in anguish God remains with folded arms, silent.

  This may well be my last report. This morning we got word that the guards are getting ready to comb the mountains. Before this search can get under way we have got the hut back to its original condition and have done away with every trace
of our hiding there. So now we leave the hut. And where will we go? Neither Garrpe nor I have yet decided. For a long time we talked the thing over wondering if we should flee together or separate. Finally we decided that even if one became a prey of the gentiles it was better that the other should remain. In other words, we would part company. And yet why on earth do we remain in this country at all? We did not make that long journey around Africa, across the Indian Ocean, on to Macao and then to Japan just to flee like this from one hiding place to another. It was not to hide in the mountains like fieldmice, to receive a lump of food from destitute peasants and to be confined in a charcoal hut without being able even to meet the Christians. What had happened to our glorious dream?

  Yet one priest remaining in this country has the same significance as a single candle burning in the catacombs. So Garrpe and I vowed to one another that after our separation we should strive might and main to stay alive.

  Anyhow, if my report now comes to an abrupt end (for all I know you may not even to date have received it), do not think that we are necessarily dead. It is just that in this barren land we must leave one small spade to till the ground. …

  All around me is the black sea; it is impossible to tell where the blackness of the night begins. I cannot see whether or not there are islands around me. The only thing that tells me I am on the sea is the heavy breathing of the young man who rows the boat behind me—the sound of the oars in the water, the lapping of the waves against the edge of the boat.

  One hour ago Garrpe and I parted. We clambered on board separate little ships and left Tomogi—he went off in the direction of Hirado. In the pitch darkness I could not even see him; we did not even have time to say goodbye.

  Left all alone, I trembled from head to foot—it seemed that my body was outside the control of my will. Were I to say that this moment was not filled with dread I would be telling a lie. No matter how strong one’s faith, physical fear can overwhelm one completely. When I was with Garrpe we could at least share our fear as one shares bread, breaking it in two; but now I was all alone in the black sea of the night and must take upon myself the cold and the darkness and everything else. (Have all the Japanese missionaries felt such terror? I wonder about them.) And then somehow or other the mouse-like face of Kichijirō, filled with terror, rose up in my imagination. Yes, that cowardly wretch who had trampled on the fumie at Nagasaki and fled. Were I an ordinary Christian, not a priest, would I have fled in the same way? What kept me going now might be my self-respect and my priestly sense of duty.

  I called out to the young man at the oars, asking him for water; but he made no answer. I began to understand that ever since that martyrdom the people of Tomogi regarded me as a foreigner who had brought disaster to them all—a terrible burden to them. Probably this young man would like to be relieved of the task of rowing me across the waters. To dampen my parched tongue I began to suck my fingers, wet with sea water, and I thought of Christ nailed to the Cross and the taste of vinegar in his mouth.

  As the ship slowly changed its direction, I could hear the sound of waves breaking against rocks. It was just like the sound of a black drum, and it had been the same at the time of my last crossing. From here the sea went into a deep inlet where it washed the strand of the island. But the whole island was wrapped in thick, thick darkness nor could I see where the village was.

  How many missionaries had crossed over to this island on a tiny boat just as I had done? And yet how different were their circumstances from mine! When they came to Japan, fortune smiled gaily upon their every venture. Everywhere was safe for them; they found houses in which they could rest at ease and Christians who welcomed them with open arms. The feudal lords vied with one another to give them protection—not from any love of their faith but out of a desire for trade. And the missionaries did not fail to use this chance to extend their apostolic work. For some reason or other I called to mind the words of Valignano at Macao: ‘At one time we seriously discussed the question as to whether our religious habit should be made of silk or of cotton.’ As these words suddenly came into my mind, I looked out into the darkness and clasping my knees I laughed softly. Don’t misunderstand me. I have no intention of looking down on the missionaries of that time. The only thing is that it seems so ludicrous that this fellow, sitting in an insect-infested little ship, dressed in the peasant clothing of Mokichi from Tomogi—that this fellow should be a priest just like them.

  Gradually the black cliffs drew near. From the shore the smell of rotten seaweed was carried to our nostrils, and when the sand began to grate on the bottom of the ship my young companion jumped out into the sea and with both hands began to pull the ship up on to the beach. I, too, got into the shallow water, and breathing deeply of the salty air I made my way up on to the beach.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘The village is above, isn’t it?’

  ‘Father, I … ’

  Even though I could not see his face, the tone of his voice told me that he did not want to have anything more to do with me. We shook hands and, deeply relieved, he ran into the sea. The dull sound of his feet as he jumped aboard the ship echoed in the darkness.

  With the sound of the receding oars echoing in my ears, I thought of Garrpe. Where was he now?

  As I walked along the shore I spoke to myself like a mother soothing her child. What was I afraid of? I knew the way. If I went straight I should come into the village which had welcomed me. In the distance I heard something like a low groaning. It was the mewing of a cat. But the only thing I could think of was how to rest my weary limbs and how to put even a little food into my empty stomach.

  Arriving at the entrance to the village, the low mewing of the cat became even more distinct. Into my nostrils the wind blew an awful stench which almost made me vomit. It was like rotten fish. But when I set foot in the village I found myself surrounded by a fearful, eerie silence. Not a single person was there.

  I will not say it was a scene of empty desolation. Rather was it as though a battle had recently devastated the whole district. Strewn all over the roads were broken plates and cups, while the doors were broken down so that all the houses lay open. The low mewing of the cat from the empty hut seemed somehow impudent, as though the animal was brazenly stalking around the village.

  For a long time I stood silent and dazed in the middle of the village. Strange to say, I now felt no anxiety, no fear. The only thing that kept repeating itself quietly in my mind was: Why this? Why?

  I walked the village from corner to corner in the deadly silence. Thin, scraggly wild cats wandered all over the place, though where they came from I cannot imagine. They would brush past my legs and glare at me with blazing eyes. Parched and famished I made my way into an empty house in search of food, but in the end the only thing I got was a bowl of water.

  As I stood there, the day’s fatigue got the better of me, and leaning against a wall like a camel, I slept. In the middle of my dreams I could feel the wild cats walking around my body and tearing at the stinking, dry fish as they seized it. At other times as I opened my eyes I could see through the broken-down door the thick black sky that held no star.

  With the cool gust of morning air I began to cough. Now the sky was white and the mountains that formed the background to the village could be seen faintly from the hut where I was. It was dangerous to stay here. I would get up; I would go out into the road and leave this desolate place. As on the previous night, the ground was strewn with cups and plates and shreds of clothing.

  But where was I to go? At any rate, rather than going along by the sea where I would surely attract attention, it seemed safer to take to the hills. Somewhere or other there must be Christians secretly living their life of faith as these people had been doing a month before. I would look for them, and find out what had happened here; and after that I would determine what ought to be done. But then quite suddenly the thought of Garrpe rose up in my mind and I wondered what had befallen him.

  And so I took a last look a
round the village, going into the houses. In that desolation, so complete that at times there was scarcely a place to put one’s feet, I finally found a little dried rice. This I wrapped in some of the rags lying on the ground, and carrying it with me I headed for the mountains.

  I got to the top of the first mountain, the mud sodden with the drizzle clinging to my feet, and gradually I began to climb along the rice paddies. How poor were the Christians! With what painstaking care they had tilled the plain soil, dividing the fields with fences of stone. Yet with only this narrow strip of land that ran along beside the sea it was impossible to live and at the same time pay taxes. Everywhere was the stench of manure on the poor wheat and chestnuts, while swarms of flies attracted by the smell filled the air and sometimes settled on my face, to my intense annoyance. At last, as dawn broke and the mountains began to stand out in the sky like the blade of a sword, I could see the flocks of crows cawing raucously as they flew in circles among the white clouds.

  At the top of the hill I stopped to look down at the village beneath. A brown clump of earth; a cluster of straw roofs; huts made of mud and wood; not a sign of life on the road nor on the black shore. Leaning against a tree I looked down on that valley silvered by the rain. Only the morning sea was beautiful. This sea, holding in its embrace a number of small islands, flashed like a needle in the faint sunlight, while the waves biting at the shore foamed white with froth. I recalled how many missionaries had come and gone across this sea and had been received by the Christians: Xavier, Cabral, Valignano and the rest. Certainly Xavier when he came to Hirado had passed this way. And then Torres, that great and noble Japanese missionary, he too had visited these islands. Yet these men had been loved so deeply by the people, had received such a welcome, had had churches which, though small, were beautiful and decorated with flowers. They had had no need to fly to the mountains for hiding like haunted men. When I reflected on my own condition a strange desire to laugh rose up within my heart.