Ring of Fire III

All God’s Children in the Burning East

1630, Kingdom of Ayutthaya, Southeast Asia

The setting sun floated like a red paper lantern in the darkening sky, casting the golden temples and palaces of Ayutthaya in crimson and bronze, as Nishioka Yoriaki paddled his small wooden boat lightly down the Menam river. Today the tides ran out to sea, making his journey home easy. Sometimes he stole a glance backward at the fantastic scene, surely a glimpse of Paradise although he would never admit to thinking such a thing to the Dominican or Jesuit fathers. He crossed himself quickly to clear his mind of such fantasy.

He had done well that day, selling his Japanese style bento lunches and snacks to all kinds of folk as he made his journey around Ayutthaya’s island stronghold, the paragon of Siamese civilization. It seemed Moor and Malay, Chinese and Portuguese, Dutch and Cochin all relished his wife’s cooking. Even a silk-clad seneschal of the highest Siamese nobility had sent a servant down to the water’s edge to purchase six lunches! Soon after, a group of gaily clad rich young Siamese women waved to him as he passed by their waterfront gardens. They each bought a bento, opening their banana leaf wrappings right then and there to see what the day’s treat may be, in this case grilled catfish. “Tell your wife we should like shrimp tomorrow if she can manage it!” they told him in the musical tones of their language. He managed to answer that he would do so, his tongue tripping as he blushed at the attention of such fair and noble women.

As he mumbled his shy thanks and paddled quickly away, Yoriaki thought that such as these were lovely indeed, but to him his wife Momo was still the best. She was as pretty as the peach she was named for. He had to admit to himself that part of the reason he had become a Christian was to get close to the Nihonmachi Christian’s daughters, who were mostly pure blood Japanese. Certainly the Siamese, Mon and Lao girls that most of the samurai and merchant class married were beautiful, with their large smokey eyes and slender figures, but to Yoriaki they couldn’t match the pure radiance of a Yamato no deshiko, a perfect flower of Japanese womanhood such as Momo. Upon their marriage he had left behind the warrior life to become the simple man he was today, and was much happier for it.

Yoriaki knew that Ayutthaya was one of the few places in the world where people from Asia and Europe mixed so freely. That was certainly a large part of the kingdom’s financial success. He had been lucky to end up here, considering that when he left Japan he had no idea where he was going, content to board any ship that promised to sail far from his homeland. Yoriaki smiled to himself but his mood fell as he sighted the spire of the Portuguese Dominican church down the river’s west side. It was a modest piece of architecture compared to the fantastic designs of the Siamese temples, but with a quiet beauty of its own in the rosy light.

Through the course of Yoriaki’s daily travels, he had learned to speak and understand the basics of the many languages found in the cosmopolitan realm of Ayutthaya. Everyone said that he had a gift for tongues. As he sold his delicacies he heard many things and lately not many of them had been good. On the last Sabbath after attending holy mass Yoriaki, who had become nearly fluent in Portuguese since embracing the Christian faith, had overheard several of the good fathers discussing rumors from the Siamese court in hushed tones. They feared the new king, Prasat Thong. He had formerly been the regent or Kalahom appointed by the boy’s father, good king Song Tham on his death bed to look after his son and successor, fifteen-year-old King Cetthathirat. There was no doubt the scheming Kalahom was responsible for that boy’s untimely death and had certainly gone on to murder Cetthathirat’s younger brother and successor as well, poor little King Athittayawong, who had been just a boy of ten. Although all feared to say it aloud, Prasat Thong was an ursurper with blood all over his hands. To make matters worse, he had managed to remove the only possible obstacle to his plans, Yamada Nagamasa, who to everyone’s horror seemed fooled by the usurper’s lies and had allowed himself to be sent to the south, safely out of Prasat Thong’s way. Upon hearing such discouraging words from the fathers, Yoriaki slipped away home then, feeling ashamed that his people’s revered leader in this distant land had been tricked by the Kalahom, no, “king.”

Yamada Nagamasa, trained as a samurai for a war that would never come, had left Japan to become a man of great influence in Ayutthaya. He’d been a favorite of the old King Song Tham and well loved by the court for his skill and courage in battle. A successful merchant with a knack for trade, he had also become the leader of Nihonmachi. Their “Japanese Town” on the eastern shore of the Menam, just south of the city, produced the highly respected Japanese Royal Guard, a force rightfully feared by the kingdom’s many foes. Nagamasa had been the Guard’s commander and Yoriaki had served under him for two years after his arrival here as so many ronin did, masterless samurai seeking glory no longer possible in Japan. They had fought the Burmese together and brought great honor to themselves in the eyes of all those who made Ayutthaya their home. Now those days were gone and Ayutthaya was left without its hero.

Yoriaki now let his boat drift along slowly with the various flotsam and jetsam that spotted the busy river, his thoughts darkening with the waning light. How could a man as great as Nagamasa not see what even a simple ex-samurai turned food vendor could? It was widely suspected that the new king, well practiced in sycophancy, had appealed to the ego of the otherwise noble Nagamasa, offering him rulership of Ligor province far down the east coast almost to the lands of the Malays, the chance to be the first Japanese to hold such a position outside of Japan! It was surely a trick of that creeping cobra Prasat Thong but it had been too tempting for him to resist and the people of Ayutthaya and particularly Nihonmachi, watched him leave with heavy hearts. “Who?” they asked, “Who would protect us now?” While the new leader of their enclave was a good enough man he was no Nagamasa. Yoriaki had heard unsettling rumors that the Japanese welcome in their adopted kingdom wasn’t nearly as warm as it once was.

A whistle from the west shore rousted Yoriaki from his brooding. The dock bosses in the Dutch area just north of Nihonmachi were calling to him-he had almost forgotten them and would have drifted right by! Replacing his somber expression with the wide smile that sold his wares so well, Yoriaki paddled over to the float beneath the pier they waited on, his small craft dwarfed by the big Dutch merchant ships tied nearby.

“Have you anything left for us today, Yo-san?” one of the Dutchmen asked, a plump fellow called Blom whom Yoriaki had grown quite fond of. He was jesting, of course. Yoriaki had been selling to these gentlemen for several years now and always made sure he had a few of the leaf-wrapped bento meals tucked away for them at the end of the day.

“Yes, yes, here you are, my friend!” He had learned enough of the Dutch tongue to banter with these fellows, who were a jovial bunch. As he passed out the meals (Blom bought two) and collected the lumpy metal Pot Duang coins that the Europeans referred to as “bullet money,” Blom’s usually smiling face took on a thoughtful cast. The beginning of a frown formed beneath his rosy cheeks and plump nose.

“Yo-san, have you heard the news?”

“I hear much news, being as how I float all over the place like a leaf riding the stream.” Yoriaki tried to sound lighthearted but his dark eyes met Blom’s bright ones with fierce interest. This was the most serious he had ever seen the man, so the news could not be good. A knot was already tying itself in Yoriaki’s stomach as he waited for Blom to go on.

“I think you haven’t heard this news yet. Look down the river toward your home.” Blom raised his heavily fleshed arm to point toward Nihonmachi lying about half a mile downriver from them. Yoriaki turned to see a very large ship docked there, one of the great red seal junks that traded between Japan and the rest of Asia. His eyes widened to see that it belonged to Nagamasa!

“Yes, you see. They must not have heard that your former leader is now a king in the southlands and came straight here thinking to find him. I fear they have made a mistake.” Blom’s sea-blue eyes narrowed and he leaned down close to Yoriaki. “Something is up. Our employers have been conferring in their offices all afternoon, ever since that thing got here. They have doubled the watch for tonight. I like you, Yo-san, you are a good fellow. Have your eyes and ears open tonight and keep that pretty little peach of yours close by. There is contention over who owns that cargo and I fear there may be blood shed over it this night.” With that he clapped Yoriaki companionably on the arm, then gave his little boat a gentle push back out into the current before he could be questioned further.

“Thank you, Herr Blom, I will do so. You have my thanks! Go with God!” Yoriaki called back to him. With his usual friendly wave the Dutchman and his comrades headed home to eat their meal. It was nearly dark now, but the Nihonmachi docks were aglow with lanterns where the brightly painted ship with its cargo of goods from far off Japan was berthed. From the dock behind the ship’s massive bulk he heard the raucous sounds of loud argument in both the Siamese and Japanese languages. There was definitely a fight brewing; the choice of words was less than polite. Yoriaki quickly paddled farther out into the river than he usually would so as not to be noticed by the growing crowd on shore. In the distance the Islamic calls for prayer from the Moorish and Malay enclaves began, their eerie wail skirling above the cries of angry men. This drove him to paddle faster and faster, sweat growing cold on his back despite the humid warmth.

Any semblance of good humor left to him from a successful day at work was long gone now, replaced by a rapidly growing worry. Yoriaki paddled as fast as he could, passing up his usual place under the docks, tying his boat instead to an old tree growing out over the river at a stretch of grassy shore. The spot was not far from his house in the town’s quiet, mostly residential southern section. He and Momo sometimes enjoyed picnics together in its cool greeness. Yoriaki left his paddles and the few leftover bento behind in the boat. No one would bother them there and he could always retrieve them later. Trying not to break into a full run, he hurried to his home along the cobbled path, his light cotton yukata robe flapping above his softly clacking wooden geta sandals. Around him the houses all perched high on stilts taller than a man by half again to keep them safe from the occasional flood, a feature that sometimes made him feel as if he were shorter than he really was, a child dwarfed by adult-sized buildings.

Other than their unusual foundations, the houses of Nihonmachi mostly resembled those of Japan: rice paper screened windows glowed a mild white from the lanterns and candles within, peaked roofs pitched a few feet higher than in the old country in order to wick away the heat, but still crafted in the Japanese style. Most of these were thatched with grass like a Siamese house but some sported fired clay tiles of glossy red and blue. Despite its oddities Nihonmachi felt like home to Yoriaki now after seven years, but behind that feeling of warmth and belonging there was a cold fear growing, an anxiety that would not be ignored. Something was indeed up on what would otherwise be just another night in Ayutthaya, the bustling crossroads of the East and West. Something bad.

Yoriaki slipped through the row of trees that marked their modest plot, taking a shortcut through the small garden in back where Momo grew the Japanese vegetables that she used in her cooking. Despite his hurry he stepped carefully around the heads of the long, white daikon radishes and bunches of savory shiso beefsteak leaves. Reaching the front walk he charged up the steep wooden steps to his front porch three at a time, kicking off his sandals with a clatter. He burst through the door with such a wild expression on his face that it startled his wife Momo so much she dropped the tea she was carrying in from the kitchen. The ceramic cup bounced harmlessly off the springy tatami floor, woven from durable rice stalks, but its spilled contents spread across the golden fibers with a red darkness.

“Husband! What is the matter!” Her oval face was pale and her eyes wide with shock, their liquid darkness reflecting the lantern light in two bright points, making her seem like some graceful forest creature caught out in the hunter’s path. The silver cross hanging at her neck made a third point of light, flashing as it moved with each of her rapid breaths.

“Momo! Where are my swords? Get them out, now!”

His wife paused only for a moment before she ran to the massive teak wood tonsu chest of drawers they kept their few precious belongings in.

“What is going on?” she asked again plaintively, as her deft hands searched the deep bottom drawer.

“I’m not sure. Hopefully nothing, but I have a terrible feeling. The men around town have been talking that we Japanese are no longer welcome here now that Nagamasu is gone and we are left with that devil, Prasat Thong. He has no love of us, despite his pretty words.” By the time he had finished speaking Momo had thrust a heavy bundle into his arms which he carefully unwrapped. He took his scabbarded longsword, his prized katana, and shoved it snugly into his waist sash. The smaller but equally deadly wakizashi shortsword he handed back to his wife, who gripped it gingerly by its red lacquered sheath. “Take it! I have the boat tied up at the big tree. I want you to go there now and wait for me. Get in the boat and paddle out a few yards, then anchor. If any Siamese come, row farther out. Do not come to shore unless it’s me or someone you know! Trust no Siamese, do you understand? Do you?”

Unlike him, his wife had been born here and spoke the Siamese language as fluently as if it were her own tongue. The idea of running away from a native of this land was utterly foreign to her. She stared at him for a moment as if he were a lunatic but then straightened herself up and answered, “Yes, husband, I understand! I will do as you ask.”

Seeing his beautiful and stout-hearted wife standing there holding his wakizashi filled Yoriaki with an overwhelming combination of pride and fear for her well being. He swiftly took her in his arms and kissed her. The herbs she used to wash her long sable hair filled his head with their sweet scent. She kissed him back fervently. Savoring her for as long as he dared, Yoriaki gently pushed her back.

“I must go down to the docks and see what is happening. Nagamasa’s red seal ship is there and I heard men arguing as I went by. Prasat Thong will want whatever that ship brought back from Japan whether it is his by rights or not. Blom the Dutchman thinks it will end in a fight, and judging by the curses I heard I fear he may be right. We must be ready for anything.”

“But, dearest, it is not your fight! You are no longer a soldier, you gave that up when you let Christ into your heart! That ship doesn’t matter to you!”

“My dearest, it’s not the ship that I care about, don’t you see? I fear this may be the excuse Prasat Thong needs to make a move against us, against all of Nihonmachi! I need to go over there and find out what’s going on. God willing, it’s not serious. Even so, I will not take a chance with you.” Careful to not use too much strength in his excitement, he took her by the arm and led her to the door. “Humor me, Momo, go down to the boat and wait. If I am not there with you by midnight, paddle across to the Portuguese side and wait at the Dominicans’ church. You should be safe there.”

“What about my mother and father? What about my friends? We must warn them, too!”

“Your parents’ house is on the way. I will tell them to go to their fishing boat and meet you at the tree. If things go badly we may not be able to come back here.”

Momo nodded. “I will prepare our traveling clothes and what belongings I can manage.”

“No! There is no time! I can’t tell you why but I feel the worst will happen! Nothing is more important than your precious life, my love. Please, just go now!”

Momo looked at him, true fear spreading across her gentle face. “Very well. But I will not leave without at least taking this!” Breaking loose from her husband’s nervous grip she ran across the room to grab a round clay pot sealed with wax hanging by a leather strap on the wall. “These are the seeds of all we grow here!” she told him in a tone of reluctant defiance. “If we take nothing else, at least these will give us a future!” Yoriaki nodded his agreement. His wife was as wise as she was lovely.

Stepping out onto the porch, Yoriaki slipped into the pair of deer skin boots he had worn as a guardsman. This was no night for wooden sandals. He made Momo put on her most sensible footwear and practically carried her down the steps. Their part of town was farthest from the docks and still quiet, but he could hear loud voices coming from the north. He took Momo’s shapely hands in his, folding his larger fingers over hers and the wakizashi she held.

“If anyone tries to hurt you, you will use this sword. You know how, I have taught you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” But her voice was very quiet now.

“I love you, Momo. Now, go! Pray tomorrow we both are laughing at a protective husband’s foolishness!” He gave her his usual silly grin to which she responded with a laugh despite the overriding tension of the moment. Yoriaki was about to push her in the direction of the river when, with a sigh, she turned of her own accord and broke into a run, something he rarely saw her do. He watched as her brightly floral patterned summer kimono caught the light from a nearby porch, then faded away into the shadows. It was always summer in Ayutthaya, but tonight he was chilled as if he stood high in the mountain snows. Yoriaki turned toward the docks. The voices had grown louder still.

On his way, Yoriaki swung by Momo’s parents’ house. Her father, old Mori, a kindly gentleman who had fled Japan twenty years before when the persecutions of Christians had begun in his district, was standing out on his porch looking toward the docks. His wife Kiku, younger by some ten years, stood in the doorway, an expression of fear on her softly lined face. They looked down at the panting Yoriaki in surprise.

“Father! Mother! Something is happening!” That was all he could get out before he had to pause for breath. It had been a long time since he had done much running himself.

“Yes, Yo-kun.” Momo’s father called him by the honorific a father might use for a son or younger male relative, the older man being very fond of his son-in-law. “I fear there will be a fight at the docks, they grow hotter by the minute. But why are you headed there?” His eyes dropped to Yoriaki’s waist to take in the sword sheathed there.

“I need to see what’s going on. There has been a lot of talk lately, all around the city. Today a Dutchman, a friend, warned me that something really bad might happen tonight and this last Sunday the fathers were worried about what the new king is up to. I fear he may move on us now that Nagamasa is gone! I am afraid and I have sent Momo to wait in our boat where I left it by the big tree near our house. Please, Father, take Mother to your boat and go join her!” He patiently waited for their response despite the urge to continue on his reconnaissance.

The old couple looked at each other for a long moment and then came to the kind of unspoken agreement only possible to those long married.

“We will do as you say, Yo-kun. You are a good son and we know you are wise to the ways of the world. We will join our daughter downriver.”

Yoriaki let out a long puff of relief, not realizing he had been holding it in. “Good, that is good! But please hurry, don’t bother packing anything, there may be very little time! Just put on your shoes and go to the river! Please, I implore you to go to safety right away!”

Momo’s parents nodded, then dutifully began to put on their shoes. Satisfied, Yoriaki gave them a deep bow and started to leave.

“My son!” Momo’s father said before he could break into a run again. “Please come back to us safely. We need you.” Behind him his wife burst into tears.

“I will, Father. I promise!”

Somewhat relieved that his small family was on their way to reasonable safety, Yoriaki slowed his pace somewhat. It would not be good to arrive all out of breath. As he came to the docks, he saw that the crowd had swollen to a very large size, mostly Japanese men but also many of Nihonmachi’s women. These hung farther back, talking amongst themselves nervously in a patois of languages. Beyond the crowd Yoriaki could see two groups in a face-off around the gangplank, which was guarded by the mixed race crew of the ship loyal to Nagamasa along with a party of Japanese samurai who had remained in Nihonmachi for their own reasons when Nagamasa left with his troops. A few of these had become Christians much as Yoriaki had, but those now stood in solid ranks with their Buddhist and Shinto countrymen. In front of their line stood a cadre of enraged Siamese soldiers and officials. Both sides continued to shout threateningly at each other and it showed no sign of letting up.

Yoriaki arrived near the back of the crowd and found a familiar face, a man named Hiranaka, a retired samurai he had served in the guard with, now turned ceramic maker. Hiranaka was not a Christian, but choice of religion was usually of small import among the Japanese of Ayutthaya in their dealings with each other. Ayutthaya was remarkably a very free and tolerant society and these concepts had soon been embraced by the Japanese who came here, nearly all of whom had been persecuted in some way by the stifling social constrictions they had left behind in Japan. Here they could do any job, marry any person and worship any god they wished. Unfortunately, Yoriaki thought such freedoms might be coming to an end.

“Hiranaka-san! What’s going on?” Yoriaki asked him.

“Ah, Nishioka-san! Well, it’s quite a kerfuffle. That ship is Nagamasa’s and it came here thinking to find him. Now that they have learned he’s not here anymore they want to take their cargo to him down in Ligor. The problem is, King Prasat Thong has other ideas. He has sent this group of Siamese soldiers to claim it for himself, but our fellows aren’t letting them on board. Right now it’s a standoff, they are all just yelling at each other but I fear it may come to blows. A while ago several of the Siamese were sent running back to the city, and it is likely they will return with reinforcements.” Hiranaka pulled back his yukata to expose a katana tucked beneath. Yoriaki did the same and they both shared a grim smile.

“Looks like I’m not the only ex-samurai who had a bad feeling this evening,” Hiranaka said wryly. “We may have left the warrior’s life behind but it seems we retain our instincts. I sent my wife and children to the river and told them to board whatever boats might be available…” His eyes raised the question to Yoriaki.

“I have done the same for my family. I do hope we are wrong.”

The confrontation at the dock was reaching a climax. Yoriaki and Hiranaka began to push their way past the women in the crowd, ordering them as they passed by to leave the docks for the safety of the shore farther downriver. Some did as they were told but others stayed anyway, entranced by the excitement. Just as they reached the front of the crowd the situation arrived at its boiling point. The thirty or so Siamese soldiers gathered there made a lunge at the ship’s guard, who were outnumbered but ready to defend their prize with their lives. The battle had begun. Swords clashed in an angry din.

Now that fighting had begun most of the crowd fled to a safer distance, but there were many such as Yoriaki and Mori who were ready to join the action. These latecomers quickly closed ranks with the men guarding the ship so that now it was the Siamese who were outnumbered, facing well over a hundred men. Their officers bawled at them to fall back, which they did, reluctantly. The Japanese held their position, the clash ceasing for the moment.

“Go tell that child-killing king of yours that he may not have that which is Nagamasa’s!” the Chinese captain of the ship bellowed in accented Siamese.

The city official leading the Siamese contingent shrieked back, “How dare you speak disrespectfully of our blessed ruler! Remember that you are but guests in our land. The welcome you had under dead Song Tham has come to an end. Just wait, you shall see!” And with that the silk-clad and bejeweled man laughed shrilly, his heart as black as the ursurper he served. Just then a bell began to toll, the bell of the Buddhist temple of Nihonmachi, a plain structure compared to the great gleaming towers of the Siamese wats. The official laughed even louder, joined by his men. This made the Japanese take a step forward, more than ready to put an end to their impious gaiety, but now shouts came from the road that ran north to south along the east side of their enclave. A handsome male youth of mixed race, one of the many children of unions between the Nihonmachi men with local women, came running from the road yelling in Japanese.

“Soldiers with torches are coming from the north, hundreds of them!”

There was a brief silence while the men of Nihonmachi looked at each other, their faces full of dread. The Siamese they had briefly clashed with began to laugh again, which turned out to be a mistake on their part, their last such on this earthly plane. The Japanese moved through them like an avalanche through pines, cutting down their tormentors long before their reinforcements could arrive. Yoriaki slew two himself; he hadn’t intended to come fight but Hiranaka had been right, the instincts were still there. He saw the boy, a lad of no more than thirteen, still standing there, staring at the carnage.

“You, boy!” Yoriaki called to him, “Run through town and shout your warning to all, tell everyone to flee to the river, then do so yourself. Go!” he commanded. The boy bowed quickly and did as he was told, shouting the alarm at the top of his lungs. Doors opened and lantern light fell across his path as he made his way down Nihonmachi’s narrow streets. Yoriaki turned to where the men were making a quick battle plan. A man called Ishida, one of the town’s highest ranking samurai, an officer recently retired from the palace guard, had stepped up to take charge due to his experience and the respect they all held for him. He was in his late fifties but there was no doubt his sword arms were still strong. No one knew where their town’s current leader was and no one asked.

“You, Captain, sir.” Ishida turned to the ship’s master. “Untie your ship and be ready to push off, but first I ask you to take on as many of our people as you can until you must go,” he said in Chinese. Yoriaki understood that language fairly well and was impressed by Ishida’s fluency, no doubt the result of years of trading.

The captain agreed to this request. “I will do as you ask, sir, we would save as many as we can. We will take the refugees with us to Ligor.” He then spat on the ground and said in heavily accented Japanese. “That stinking bastard king has ruined the peace of this great city, may he burn in Hell forever!” In answer came a murmur of agreement and darkly muttered oaths.

Many of the noncombatants who had made up the crowd were already hurrying onto the great red seal ship, looking over their shoulders with mounting fear as they climbed aboard.

“The rest of you men, listen now.” Ishida’s voice was calm and full of confident authority, the voice of a man who had commanded troops before in his long career. “They are coming to burn the town, there can be no doubt. We can’t possibly win against such numbers. I say we let them have Nihonmachi and live to fight again, I have no doubt Yamada Nagamasa will want revenge for this treachery and I plan to march on Ayutthaya with him!”

That brought a round of cheers from the gathered men.

“So, here’s what we must do. We will make a stand at the road until we can’t hold there any longer. From there a fighting retreat, slowing them down long enough to be sure that all our women and children can get to the river. Once they have got clear we fall back to the shore ourselves and make our own escape. Let those two-faced sons of dogs burn this town, we care not-one day it will be we who live in those pretty palaces on that island! I say ‘Death to Prasat Thong!’ What say you?”

As one, the men of Nihonmachi made their battlecry, “Death to Prasat Thong!” Following Ishida they sprinted to the road, forming a line across it at the north edge of town. The Siamese were close now, marching confidently, carrying a single edged daab sword in one hand, a torch in the other. Most Siamese fought wielding a daab in each hand with considerable prowess. Many now lay their torches down by the side of the road to draw their other sword before engaging the Japanese. There was no doubt that the Siamese soldiers were a force to be reckoned with. There was another moment of quiet as the attackers paused not five yards away from the defenders, waiting for the order to attack. They could hear each other breathing. Then the order came, with a deafening clash of blades the two forces slammed against each other in the soft red sand of the road.

The Japanese held their line, cutting down wave after wave of charging Siamese. The Siamese were powerful warriors indeed, but the men of Nihonmachi were more highly skilled, having undergone rigorous samurai training before seeking their fortunes in this far off land. It was widely considered that the Japanese were the most feared of all fighting men in Asia; certainly they were the most fearless. These men, facing an overwhelming force, had one thing in their favor the Siamese did not-they were fighting for the survival of their loved ones. The longer they held out, the longer their women and children had to flee what would surely be carnage to come. Still, they were not invincible and inexorably some samurai fell to lie beside the slain of their former allies in the blood-drenched dust.

“Look! Some of them have gone around through the rice fields, they’re crossing the road into the south part of town!” one of the men cried out.

“Fall back, follow the plan! Those that can get free quickly run and head those bastards off!” Ishida commanded.

Yoriaki was engaged with a man who he was acquainted with from his time in the royal guard. He had been trying to only wound the fellow and put him out of the fight alive, but his opponent didn’t seem to recognize him and fought savagely. “Sorry, friend,” Yoriaki told him in Siamese, then with a lightning fast swing of his katana he beheaded the man. Freed up from the melee, he instantly ran to the south end of town, joining some twenty or so others. They cut the town at an angle so they could get between the Siamese and the beach. Yoriaki saw flames shooting up; the Siamese were pausing to torch the houses. Good, that would slow them down and let him and the other men form a line. Yoriaki saw his own home beginning to burn as he ran by, the man who held the torch turning to go light the next. He lost his head without even seeing Yoriaki coming.

Suddenly five more enemies appeared in the path from the road, a row of houses blazing behind them. Their work done, they were now headed toward the water to make what mischief they could amongst the fleeing townsfolk. Yoriki ploughed into them, gutting the first three before they had time to react. He was in full fighting fury now, his weapon and body working as one, his mind focused only on the killing. Of the remaining two, the senior and more skilled forced an engagement, skillfully bringing his sword into close quarters with Yoriaki’s, the blades ringing in a furious dance of death. Yoriaki saw the second opponent was going to try to get behind him. Wielding his longsword one-handed temporarily, Yoriaki’s free hand snaked out to grab that one by his wrist, snapping the bones with a well-practiced twist. The man’s animal-like cry caused his companion to pause for a split second, leaving his belly exposed. Yoriaki’s sword flashed as it passed deeply into the soft flesh with a single upward slice then continued in an arc to enter the disabled attacker’s neck behind the ear. Both men went down in twitching heaps on the cobblestones. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath after the intense encounter, Yoriaki heard shrieks coming from behind him, the cries of women.

Yoriaki ran faster than he ever had in his life, the breath pumping in and out of him with the force of a blacksmith’s bellows. He arrived to the beach to find three men of Nihonmachi facing three times their number near the shore, behind them several families were wading waist-deep into the water, women and children crying in fear. One of the women (Not Momo!) hadn’t made it, she lay folded up on the beach in her blood-soaked kimono like a crumpled origiami sculpture discarded by a careless child.

So far Yoriaki had fought nearly without emotion and simply out of necessity; although terrible to be sure the night’s tragedy was not something their opponents had any choice about, they were following their orders. He had killed without hate, having fought at the side of these Siamese in the past and regretted being pitted against them because of one evil man’s greed. But now that he saw they didn’t intend just to burn Nihonmachi down and cast its people out but were bent on slaughtering the innocents as well, Yoriaki felt a rage build in him. With an inarticulate scream he dove at the Siamese soldiers, his blade a wet, red whirlwind gleaming in the glow of their burning homes. One, two, three Siamese fell before him in a row, the fourth had time to block his blow before the next slew him. Yoriaki’s onslaught gave the Japanese the advantage again, the savageness of his attack inspiring them to redouble their own. Shortly Yoriaki and his three comrades stood over the corpses of their enemies.

“They are trying to kill our families now,” one of the men said, one Nakagata, who was still technically employed by the Siamese king but had taken a few days off to get over a cold. “That bastard Prasat Thong, I’d like to cut his head off myself.”

“You may get your chance,” another answered. “We will have our revenge for this.”

Yoriaki, pausing to catch his breath, watched a boat come near the shore manned by several of the holy fathers from the Portuguese side of the river. They helped the wading women and children clamber in, then began to paddle away, looking for more in need of rescue. One of the fathers recognized Yoriaki and silently gave him a blessing with a pale, trembling hand. Suddenly Yoriaki felt a spear of ice go through him. “Momo!” he cried as he turned south to look farther down the beach. The big tree stood some twenty yards away. His boat was there but he couldn’t see anyone in it. Nearby, a body lay obscured by the tall grass. “My wife!” Yoriaki broke into a sprint, behind him he could hear the others following.

Half out of his mind with fear he arrived under the tree to find that that the body was that of a Siamese soldier, not his beloved wife. He scanned the boat to see if she was lying within but it was empty. Before he could call out her name another band of Siamese appeared, chasing a young girl of fourteen, the daughter of Yoriaki’s neighbors, a paper screen maker and his Laoatian wife. The girl sobbed in terror; her sticklike arms dripped blood from small cuts where they had toyed with her, torturing the mouse a bit before landing the final blow of the claw. As one Yoriaki and his comrades moved inland. As the girl ran through their ranks, Yoriaki ordered her to get in his boat and cast off, but he wasn’t sure she even heard him such was her terror.

Now the four of them faced an even greater number, a full twenty Siamese. Even so, the enemy slowed down and came to a stop some yards away from the samurai. Yoriaki, in the grip of a terrible wrath, was surprised to find himself speaking.

“What has happened to this fair and lawful kingdom?” Yoriaki challenged them in their own language. “What has happened to the brave and noble warriors of the Siamese who fought at our sides like men? How can it be that they have turned so quickly into a pack of rabid curs, cowards attacking their neighbors in the night at the order of a pretender king? How have you come to such a low pass?”

“Shut up, you scum. You’re no warrior, just the man who sells lunches along the docks,” their chief officer snarled back, but Yoriaki knew his words had stung. “How can you dare judge the will of great King Prasat Thong? He is wise, our benefactor and protector!”

This made Yoriaki laugh. “I can guess how this has happened. He must have paid you well to turn on your truest allies. Your honor was bought with coin from the child killer, what price did it take to make you his dogs? I may not be a warrior any more but I have money. I make a good living, perhaps I can buy you myself. How much? Name your price, you sons of bitches!” Yoriaki’s comrades began to laugh. One of them pulled a bag of silver coin from his belt and threw it so that it spilled out across the enemies’ feet. Yoriaki did the same, joining in the laughter. “There it is, just lick it up off the ground, dogs, the same way you lick Prasat Thong’s feet for favors.”

That last jibe was more than enough to push them over the edge. The enraged soldiers came running forward haphazardly, forgetting their discipline. This made it easy for Yoriaki and his three allies; they cut down the first eight of them nearly effortlessly, making a pile of severed limbs and heads between them and the remaining force. The officer bellowed at his remaining men to get back into a formation. They men listened then, awed by the sight of their slaughtered comrades, but still brave and offended enough not to retreat. Yoriaki’s heart sank to see another ten men arrive behind them; having no more houses left to burn they had come to the riverside to join in what they thought would be the massacre of fleeing civilians. Yoriaki felt a grim pride that they had prevented the worst of that. He gripped his katana tightly and prepared for the next round of battle. The Siamese grinned smugly now at their superior numbers and began a slow, methodical advance. Yoriaki stole a glance at the men with him. Silently they agreed; they would make their stand here. The four of them formed a square, ready for the Siamese to surround them. As one they backed toward the river’s edge, knowing the water would impede anyone who came at them from behind.

The enemy saw what they planned and pressed forward, but the Japanese were ready for them. The four samurai stood their ground at the water’s edge, their superior swordsmanship holding back the Siamese onslaught. There was no doubt the Siamese were fearsome warriors, they simply weren’t as disciplined as the samurai. Still, the four of them were taking a terrible beating, as soon as they cut down one man another jumped in to take his place. Yoriaki’s muscles were on fire, he had not practiced with his weapon for several years and he suffered for it now. His blade grew heavy, feeling as if it had been alchemically transformed into lead, but he kept on, never slowing his ever-changing patterns of attack and defense, slaying one enemy after another. Behind him he heard a gasp; out of the corner of his eye he saw Nakagata fall, pierced through the heart by both of his opponents’ dual wielded daab swords. His killer was having difficulty pulling one of the blades back out of the dying samurai; Yoriaki helped him by cutting that arm off at the elbow before turning back to his own foes.

All along the beach similar scenes were taking place, small bands of samurai holding the king’s soldiers back from the shore as women, children and the elderly swam or boated their way to what safety they could find. Stealing a split second’s glance, he saw more boats had come, mostly Portuguese but some Chinese junks as well. Apparently they were not alone in their darkest hour; the Siamese may have let a madman rule them but the other peoples who called Ayutthaya home felt pity for their long-time friends and neighbors in Nihonmachi. This made Yoriaki smile. The Siamese chose that moment to fall back to regroup, making ready to finish off Yoriaki and his two remaining warriors. He took that opportunity to search the river for Momo again. Farther down the beach he saw a Christian Japanese, no samurai, just a merchant, holding off several soldiers with nothing but a garden shovel while his family fled into the water. The brave man went down beneath the Siamese swords as his loved ones screamed. Yoriaki saw with horror that the soldiers were now wading out after the women and children, who were clumsily trying to swim away now. Snarling with renewed rage he took a step in that direction but the enemy at hand had returned and he was forced to hold his ground.

The fresh troops came in hitting hard and Yoriaki felt his body begin to falter. The mind could only control the matter so long before it had no more to give. A lucky blow from a young Siamese warrior cut him across the belly, not too deep but he felt a tide of blood seep down his abdomen. In return his katana skewered the youth through the mouth, then thrust down through the chin, slicing open the neck all the way to the clavicle. Blood sprayed like the waterfalls he had once meditated under in the cool mountain forests of Japan. As that one fell, another stepped in to take his place. Deep within Yoriaki’s mind he began to pray to Lord Jesus that his wife would be spared and taken to safety. There wasn’t much time left to him so he also asked for forgiveness before his imminent exit from this world. He would die with honor, protecting his people from treachery, and he hoped the Heavenly Father would not judge his many sins too harshly. Just as he felt his sword had at last grown too heavy for another swing, there was an ear-rattling explosion from a few feet beside him. The face of the Siamese who was closing in on him for the kill disappeared in a pall of smoke, leaving behind a broken mess of shattered flesh and bone. There was another such explosion and the next man fell as well, a gory, smoking hole where his stomach had been.

Momentarily free from attack, Yoriaki turned to see Blom reloading first one massive pistol, then a second. The mustachioed Dutchman looked over at him and grinned. “Ah, Yo-san! How nice to see you again! Great bento, by the way; the grilled fish was perfect!” Having finished reloading, the plump fellow stepped forward with a pistol in each hand to shoot first one Siamese full on in the chest, then another. As Blom paused to calmly reload, again more blasts were heard and Yoriaki realized the plump Dutchman wasn’t alone. His usual mates were beside him and several more of what looked to be sailors, all cheerfully mowing down the Siamese with their blunderbusses and pistols. The battle was over a scant few seconds later, the Siamese swordsmen being no match for the barrage of Dutch firepower. Of Yoriaki’s fighting companions one was badly injured and being helped toward a longboat by the Dutch sailors, the other stood unsteadily on his feet beside Yoriaki, nearly overcome with exhaustion. Yoriaki felt a tear in his eye, a tear of glistening joy that a merciful God had sent these good Christian men to their aid.

“Thank you, Lord Jesus,” he whispered in Latin. He turned to Blom, who shoved his pistols into his belt in order to take Yoriaki gently by the shoulders to steady him. “My wife. Momo. I can’t find her.” Yoriaki’s voice a croak, rough with fear.

“She is safe with us, my friend. She and her parents were out in the middle of the river directly offshore from here; they were all crammed in her father’s little fishing boat. I hardly think they would have made it out to sea in that, so we brought them aboard the Groenevisch. She is the one who sent us to your aid; she knew right where to find you.” Blom carefully put pressure on Yoriaki’s left shoulder, turning him gently and then leading the exhausted man toward the water. “See that fellow there?” He pointed to the dead soldier Yoriaki had found earlier. “Your wife’s work. She told us she slit his gut with that nasty little shortsword she had. I hardly think he expected that. She’s a pretty peach but I wouldn’t get her angry for any reason! Now, I better bring you to her or she’ll have my hide. I promised her I’d fetch you!”

Yoriaki looked at the dead soldier with a mixture of horror and pride at his wife’s fierce courage. She had cut him open in a neat slice up the abdomen just like she would a dinner catfish. “She has many talents,” he managed to say as the world begin to swim blackly before his eyes. Too weak to go further himself, he let sturdy Blom lift him up and load him into the longboat. “Thank you, Blom, you are a true friend,” he managed to say before drifting into a scarlet-tinged unconsciousness.

He came to on the deck of one of the Dutch merchant ships he had seen earlier. Around thirty Japanese families were there, too, some wounded and being tended by a Dutch doctor and his assistants, but most stood staring at the conflagration that had once been their home. He heard a woman’s wordless cry come from nearby and then he was nearly knocked down as his wife hugged him fiercely with a tightness that was painful to his combat-tortured muscles. He felt the handle tip of the wakizashi blade she still clutched in one hand dig in painfully beneath his shoulder. “My love, please put down the blade. You may kill someone,” he breathed in her ear, managing a weak chuckle. She let him loose then and, both of them bloodstained and bedraggled, they looked long into each other’s eyes.

“I fear I already have,” she confided in a hushed tone.

“I know, I saw. Well done, wife, well done.” He gently took the crimson stained wakizashi from her tremblng fingers and slid it into his sash next to his battle scarred katana before he took her in his arms again.

Dawn found them headed south in a fleet comprised of all manner of vessels, now approaching the mouth of the Menam where it met the Gulf of Siam. There were two Dutch and three Portuguese merchant ships, a Chinese junk and a variety of smaller seaworthy vessels that were owned variously by Japanese and their former foreign neighbors. They all followed the massive and well-armed red seal ship, with its cargo of goods brought from Japan still onboard and unmolested, bound for Yamada, Nagamasa’s new kingdom in Ligor on the east side of the long peninsula that eventually became the lands of the Malay. All in all, some six hundred of the thousand or so who had inhabited Nihonmachi were making their escape to the holdings of their former leader. The rest had either been killed by Prasat Thong’s forces or were in hiding among the Portuguese or other folk who might be sympathetic to them. Yoriaki prayed for their safety and was grateful that so many had escaped what could have been a horrendous massacre. Along the way they sighted several Siamese warships but were given a wide berth. It seemed that not all of the kingdom’s military cared to persecute their former neighbors and allies.

After a few days sailing on fair seas, they reached Ligor and were welcomed by the people there, albeit a bit coolly. Yoriaki, his wife and in-laws were given a simple mud brick cottage to stay in and were brought food and a change of clothing. For the next two days meetings went on between their host Nagamasa and the higher ranking citizens that had escaped Nihonmachi, such as Ishida. Yoriaki, being a retired samurai who had chosen the life of a Christian commoner, was not invited, nor did he care; he was simply grateful to be alive with his loved ones.

Meanwhile, the two Dutch and three Portuguese merchant ships who had come to their rescue waited around in port to see what the fate of the Nihonmachi refugees might be. Yoriaki visited Blom daily and learned the Dutch ships belonged to Blom’s uncles, men who were very sympathetic to the Japanese with whom they had a long and profitable relationship. The Portuguese ships were temporarily under the will of the holy fathers, their captains hard pressed to leave so many Christians to an uncertain fate and so they waited alongside the Dutch to see if further transport was needed.

Yoriaki and Blom both shook their heads in sad wonder at the violence Prasat Thong had ordered against them, a foolish move surely driven by fear for his ill-gotten power, since it would not be at all profitable for a new Siamese king to ruin his relationships with both Ligor and Japan. Eventually the Shogunate would learn of Nihonmachi’s fate and would likely be immensely displeased at such treachery against other Japanese, even those who had chosen a life so far away from their island nation. Another day later, a stone-faced Ishida called a secret meeting of Nihonmachi’s surviving men and the sympathetic Dutch and Portuguese who had brought them here.

“Yamada Nagamasa has heard our tale. We implored him to lead his army along with our surviving warriors against Prasat Thong, but he will not. He has a consort now, a woman given to him by the ursurper king and she whispers poison in his ear. He is not the man he once was; he has grown weak and complacent. He had many chances to kill Prasat Thong as that devil murdered the boy kings, but he didn’t act. Now he has no will to face him, preferring to sit here in his little kingdom and do nothing. He won’t be swayed. Worse yet, I don’t think we are safe here. No matter what we say, he will listen only to his serpent bride. It is with a heavy heart I tell you that Yamada Nagamasa can no longer be trusted.”

“What should we do? Where should we go?” the men cried. “You samurai and merchants might have a chance, but we can’t possibly return to Japan. They will surely kill us if we do,” one of the older Christian men said plaintively.

At this point Father Nixi, a Japanese Jesuit well loved by the Japanese Christians and one of the few of their community to enter the priesthood, stood up to address those gathered.

“My friends and brothers in Christ, I know of a place where we may go. I can lead us there. There are many Portuguese and a few Japanese Catholics living in the Khmer Empire just across the gulf to the east. I am sure they would welcome you, especially since you may now be considered enemies of Prasat Thong who is their most hated foe. I correspond regularly with my brother Jesuits there and though it lacks the riches of Ayutthaya, you could live safely.”

“What of those who are not Christians?” Ishida turned to the Jesuit and asked in a respectful tone. “Have you some place we can go? I left Japan never to return, a masterless samurai who made a life for himself here in this part of the world. There are some hundred more like me here, and their families. Have you a place where we may live in peace?”

The Japanese Jesuit nodded. “You are brave men, sir, and when war came to Nihonmachi you fought side by side with the Christian men. We owe you our lives. The Khmer worship the gods of India just as the Siamese do; I see no reason why you Buddhists would not be welcome there. Please, let us all go together. You have survived a terrible ordeal, we can all sail from these accursed lands to find peace among the Khmer.” The priest sat down then, giving them time to consider his offer. The room was full of quiet discussion for a time.

After a while Ishida again rose to face the crowd. “I and those samurai who follow me have decided to go with Father Nixi to Khmer. Any who join my men and I, of any religion, will have our swords to protect them, this I swear. Who will sail with us?’

It was nearly unanimous; most of the Nihonmachi refugees would travel to Khmer. Ishida turned to the Dutch and Portuguese captains.

“Fine sirs, can we prevail upon your good graces once more? It seems we need to cross the Gulf of Siam and have no vessels capable of such a journey of our own. We humbly beg your assistance and will repay you as best we can.”

The captains conferred for a few minutes, the holy fathers browbeating the Portuguese captains while Blom was cajoling two older gentlemen who must surely be his ship-owning uncles to “do the right thing.” At last the captains turned to the crowd and agreed to transport them all to Khmer. Their kindness was met with a chorus of joyful cheers and blessings. It was decided they would sail at dawn, better not to give their unpredictable hosts much warning in case they should choose to try to stop them.

The next morning Yoriaki and Blom once more stood at the rail of the Groenevisch, which was Dutch for “green fish” and had something to do with a lucky catch one of the uncles had made in his youth. Yoriaki grinned merrily as they left the feckless Nagamasa and Ligor behind, bound for the eastern side of the gulf.

“What will you do now, Blom-san?” Yoriaki sometimes added the Japanese honorific to his friend’s name even though he spoke in Dutch. “Will you go back to Ayutthaya?”

“Well, I could, but we may not be too popular there for a while. Still, that greedy little king likes Dutch money, so I have a feeling he will forgive and forget. But it doesn’t matter to me. I’ve decided to travel with my uncles and learn their business. Now that I’m at sea again, I find I’ve missed it. Being a dockmaster was safe and had good pay but it was a bit boring, and after all, I’m still fairly young. I have a few more adventures left in me. Besides, I’ll have to come check on you and that little peach of yours once in a while to make sure you are getting along in your new home.”

Yoriaki thanked him and wished him good luck and the blessings of the Lord in all his ventures. When they arrived at the mouth of the Mekong from where they must take smaller craft upriver to Phnom Penh, they said their fond farewells. Yoriaki wouldn’t see Blom for another five years.

1635, Phnom Penh, Kingdom of Khmer, Southeast Asia

Yoriaki hated his new home. The Japanese, who had until recently been so closely allied to the Ayutthaya kingdom, had been welcomed with suspicion by the Khmer and it was probably only the earnest pleas of the Dutch captain, Father Nixi and the Portuguese fathers that had convinced the Khmer not to simply have them all killed. As it was, the last five years had been an exercise in misery.

In their first year Momo had given birth to their daughter, little Hana, a blessing in their lives who was healthy and hearty enough, if a bit too thin. She had only gotten to know her grandparents a short time, they had passed away last year from one of the many wasting diseases that the filthy Mekong teemed with. First Momo’s mother went, followed not two months later by her father, who Yoriaki was sure had been getting better. Yoriaki knew in his heart that old Mori had actually died from missing his wife of so many years but said nothing of it to grieving Momo. His beloved wife, although still lovely at age twenty-seven, had also grown thin and seemed to have lost the peachlike flush on her cheeks. The oppressive heat and general filth of Pnomh Penh was stealing what was left of her youth.

They made their living much as before, he and Momo getting up early in the morning to prepare the day’s bento lunches, then Yoriaki paddled up and down the river along the docks while Momo tended the little garden next to their very modest house on the city’s outskirts in what passed for their new Nihonmachi, a pale shadow of their former town. Momo complained bitterly that most of the seeds she had brought with her simply wouldn’t grow in this climate, or died before producing any crop. She grew what she could of the heartier species and found some suitable replacements among the strange vegetables grown by the Khmer, but her cooking suffered for it, no longer quite reaching the level of perfection it had in Ayutthaya.

Phnom Penh was definitely no Ayutthaya; there was little money here as the Khmer kingdom was squeezed between two more powerful neighbors, their long time enemy the Siamese and the Quinam to the west. With no seaport, merchant ships had to travel up the Mekong through Quinam, a costly and unpleasant voyage according to his customers, and impassable to larger boat traffic in certain seasons. Still, there was always some trade to be found on the Mekong and where there was trade there were hungry men, but he sold less than half of what he had back in prosperous Ayutthaya. The locals were, by and large, not friendly to him. They were poor and regarded him as competition for their own vendors, so he mostly sold his wares to the Europeans he could find. The rule of law was not always in evidence, gangs of bandits roamed in daylight and he kept his wakizashi on his person at all times. So far he had killed seven such scum who had attacked him on his rounds; now it seemed he had a reputation and he went about unmolested. Momo and Hana were never never to leave the confines of Nihonmachi without his attending presence.

Of the six hundred souls that had fled Ayutthaya just over four hundred now remained, mostly comprising the Christians who couldn’t return to Japan. Ishida was still with them, though, and some fifty of his samurai, most now converted to Catholicism. They found work as hired guardsmen and made a living, but they too suffered in the poor economy. The Siamese, Mon and Laotian wives they had brought with them lived in constant fear of the Khmer, who were their people’s sworn enemies. Many of them also became Christians so they would not have to visit the temples outside the borders of their sad little Nihonmachi, looking to the mercy of Lord Jesus to protect them in a hostile land, just in case their Japanese husbands could not.

When Yoriaki ran into Ishida now and again, the older gentleman always swore that one day he would lead them all back to Ayutthaya and have revenge on Prasat Thong. Despite his adopted faith telling him to “turn the other cheek,” Yoriaki secretly wished to join him if he ever really did go. The years in this subtly menacing and uncomfortable place had made him bitter. Cutting off Prasat Thong’s head and sticking it on a pole at the mouth of the Menam would be most satisfactory. One thing was sure, he had not allowed himself to grow rusty in the way of arms again. He spent at least two hours of every day (except the Sabbath) drilling with his swords. His wife watched him and said nothing against it; the activity had her silent approval now that she had seen with her own eyes that allies and neighbors could turn into deadly foes without warning. She had a long dagger of her own now, and Yoriaki had given her further lessons, just in case. When Hana was a bit older she too would learn to carry a knife, Yoriaki had on occasion witnessed the awful fates of children around Phnom Penh captured by bandits and sold into bondage. Either his daughter would kill any who laid a hand on her or kill herself, Christ have mercy on her soul.

One bleary morning as Yoriaki began his day of paddling his little boat up and down the docks of the filthy Mekong he came around the bend to find a surprise. There, tied to one of the piers, were two very familiar looking Dutch merchant ships. Yoriaki blinked his eyes and shook his head to clear his vision. There could be no doubt. Letting out an exceptionally rare whoop of pleasure he began paddling as fast as he could, coming up astern of the big ships, wondering how they had even made it so far upriver; obviously the work of master pilots. A young Dutch boy who stood watch on the back deck of the vessel to the left turned and made a loud whistle. Thankful to the Jesuits for teaching him his letters, he was soon close enough to read the names, rejoicing to see that this was indeed Groenevisch and her partner Vlissengen Tuin, the Vlissengen Garden. These were really the ships belonging to Blom’s uncles, here in Phnom Penh after five long years!

“You are late! I haven’t had any breakfast yet and am holding out for one of those bentos!” the familiar voice came down from the deck. Yoriaki looked up to see Blom, a little thinner, a little darker and more wrinkled of skin, but still with his great, cheerful grin.

“I have just what you need, sir, see me on the dock!” Yoriaki secured his boat tightly, loaded ten of the banana leaf wrapped lunches into a hemp sack, then clambered up the pier’s rather dodgy ladder as ably a boy of twelve climbing a garden willow. Seeing his friend after so long filled Yoriaki with so much joy he found himself embracing the man as if he were a long lost brother, to hell with samurai discipline! The larger man embraced him back, squeezing him in a suffocating bear hug until Yoriaki flailed feebly for release.

“You missed me then, Yo-san. I am so glad! I thought maybe you had forgotten your old friend. I am sorry it has taken me so long to come back.”

“Never mind!” Yoriaki reassured him. “I am so happy to see you, Blom-san, truly I am. Here, your lunch,” he said thrusting the sack into Blom’s meaty hands. “Don’t even think about trying to pay me for it, I owe you far more than a meal, or even two! I know your enormous appetite, I’ve put in a few extra, some for later or to share with your mates. Thank the Lord you are still alive and standing before me, it’s a blessing!”

“I feel the same way, my friend, besides, it’s been far too long since I’ve had any food as good as your little peach’s cooking. Is she well?”

“Yes, she is, well enough. The climate doesn’t agree with her and truth to tell I don’t care much for it either. Oh, we have a daughter now, Hana, which means ‘flower’! You must meet her, she will sit on your big tummy and pull that mustache of yours until you cry for mercy!”

Blom laughed heartily and gave Yoriaki one of his jovial yet gentle claps on the back. “That’s wonderful, a little girl. I’ll bet she’s as pretty as her mother! Why, does she even know she has a fat old white-faced uncle? Won’t she be surprised. I’ll bet I have something pretty for her from my travels. Here, let’s get out of this blasted heat and have a good talk. We need to catch up. I have much to tell you, Yo-san, much to tell.”

The two of them repaired to Groenevisch where they found some shade beneath the reefed sails and sat on a couple of handy barrels. Between bites of grilled fish and rice, Blom told him of the many journeys he had made with his uncles and polished off one bento and then a second faster than Yoriaki had ever seen anyone else manage to.

“The reason I took so long to get back to you, Yo-san, is that we sailed all the way to Europe. Once there I had quite a bit of business to attend to, family matters and such, and my uncles needed time to straighten out their own affairs and find new cargoes to bring back here to Asia. But all that’s neither here nor there, what was interesting was the special expedition we took to the Germanies, the lands that run east and south of my own Netherlands. Something happened there and it’s rather odd.” Blom paused, his jovial face having taken on a very thoughtful expression. “You probably won’t believe me, a good Christian like yourself, but I swear it all to be true.”

He paused again, finally prompting Yoriaki to ask, “What, what did you see there? I’ll believe anything you say now that I’ve seen you eat two bentos in the time it takes most men to have one bite!” This made the two of them laugh, and Blom seemed to relax.

“All right, then. My uncles and I visited a town, a very strange town like no other in any corner of the wide Earth, and I’ve been to most of the corners. This was a town…from the future!” Blom’s eyes were sparkling with wonderment, like a child’s on his first visit to the pageantry of a Christmas mass. Yoriaki studied him for a moment and knew that whatever Blom said it would be true.

“I believe you. Tell me more,” Yoriaki said, moving his barrel closer in anticipation.

When Blom was done it was nearly noon. Yoriaki tried to imagine the ground vehichles that moved without horses, not to mention those that flew with men inside them through the very heavens! But more than wonders such as those he pondered a society in which men were free to choose their own religion and to live as they pleased without caste and station, so like the Ayutthaya that had been lost to them.

“It sounds like a kind of paradise on Earth,” he murmured to Blom, who having finished his tale was fortifying himself with two more bentos.

“Well, wouldn’t call it paradise. It’s still in the Germanies, you know,” he said between bites. “But it is a good place, a place where people have freedom and rights. Plus, it’s a boom town; it has riches and opportunities that make Ayutthaya look like poor Phnom Penh here.” He looked around at the depressed city. “What a shit-hole! Anyway, I wanted to tell you about Grantville for a good reason, not just to entertain and amaze you, which it appears I succeeded at doing, by the starry-eyed look on your face.”

Yoriaki gave his friend a confused look. “Yes, it was a wonderful tale, I am very enthralled. But what is this ‘good reason’?” Yoriaki asked him with great curiosity.

“Simple! I think you should move there.”

“Move there.” Yoriaki blinked at his friend in the light of the merciless midday sun that had shifted in the sky to catch them out in its blaze as they were engrossed by Grantville’s tale.

“Yes, move there. To live. All of you.”

“All of us?”

“By my uncles’ beards, is there an echo here? Yes, Yo-san, all of you who fled Ayutthaya to this sweltering outpost of Hell! This place stinks!” With that he got up and slid his stool back into the dwindling shade beneath the mast, Yoriaki doing the same.

“Look, I talked to some people there, including some Catholics. I didn’t tell them exactly who you were and where you were from, but I said you were Catholic refugees who had been persecuted, numbering a few hundred looking for a safe home. They just about tripped all over themselves to tell me you would be welcome there, you poor darlings, and if you came they would do whatever it takes to find you homes and get you started. I must say, these Americans are nice to the point of almost seeming ridiculous, but I can also say they really mean it, I saw their charity with my own eyes. Come, Yo-san, think on this. Surely you aren’t happy here. I’ll wager none of you are.”

Yoriaki shook his head solemnly in agreement. “Yes, Blom-san, you are right. We all despise this place, but there has been nowhere else for us to go. The Khmer, although not kind by any means, at least leave us alone and so far no one has tried to burn down our houses. Please, give me some time to think on this and discuss it with the others. I will call a meeting of our men this very night. May we hold it here on your ship? It would be best if the women didn’t hear of this yet.”

“Absolutely, you are all welcome!” The big Dutchman grinned widely, very pleased with himself.

“Blom, if we should decide to do as you suggest, how will we get there? We are so poor.”

“Not to worry. My uncles are big-hearted fools just like me. It’s already been decided. You will ride on these two ships. It will be tight but we can fit you all, plus we are a bit short on crew anyway, so you can help sail. We are bound back to Europe next, with only a few stops along the way. In any case, we shall consider your future success in Europe as an investment, and in my uncles’ case, a little Christian charity might be just what it takes to keep them from ending up in a place like this when they die.” The two of them laughed long and hard. Yoriaki grinned like a fool all the way back to their settlement, dreaming of a new faraway land full of freedom.

By that evening Yoriaki had whispered in the ear of the Japanese men, all of whom agreed to come listen to Blom’s proposal. They remembered Blom as a hero and benefactor during their time of trial and would hear his words with open hearts. Arriving two hours before midnight as planned they sat on the deck of the Groenevisch, enjoying the wine that the Dutchmen passed around along with what fitful river breezes cooled the muggy night. When Blom began speaking, Yoriaki acted as his translator, swearing from time to time as he went that he was absolutely sure his friend was sincere and telling the truth. The Japanese listened silently until the very end. For a long time after Blom finished no one spoke. Finally Yoriaki, himself convinced through and through that they should take this offer, spoke to them.

“Men of Nihonmachi, please, what do you say? Surely this is an opportunity the likes of which we may never see again!” Yoriaki implored them in excited tones.

Ishida stood up and walked over to where Blom and Yoriaki stood, giving them a brief but polite bow.

“I have a question. If these Americans have changed the tide of history with their arrival, how did they do it? You said they landed in the middle of such a terrible war, why weren’t they slaughtered along with the rest of the unfortunates in the region?”

Blom answered him, Yoriaki translating quietly as he spoke. “Ishida-san, not only do they have amazing vehicles and lights that burn without flame, they also have weapons of incredible power. They have guns that can shoot a hundred times, nay, a thousand times faster than any we of this century possess, and other, larger weapons of unbelievable destructive force. With their superior firepower, they were able to turn the tide of the war quickly in their ally’s favor and have affected to some degree the politics of the entire continent. You have seen that we Europeans are a powerful people in this world. What these Americans of Grantville can do dwarfs our achievements. They are feared by all who stand against them and loved by all who stand with! No one has ever seen anything like it.”

Ishida listened carefully, his face a stony mask. He then nodded once, looked straight at at Blom and said in passable Dutch, “Thank you, sir. I shall come with you.” Then he turned to the crowd of Japanese gathered on the deck and proclaimed, “Men of Nihonmachi, I say that we follow this man to Europe. I believe all he has told us, and I believe this is our chance to leave this terrible place forever.” Ishida’s voice rose, taking on the cadence talented leaders have used to spur on their people since language began. “Ever since that accursed night when we fled Ayutthaya I have felt a great destiny awaits us, that we have been biding our time until our next move appears. Now I say it has arrived, thanks to our great friend, Blom! I have heard the wisdom in his words and am absoluely certain that Grantville, this town from the future, is where we may at last achieve the greatness that awaits us! Let us sail, let us sail yet again to a faraway land and meet our destiny without fear, we, the courageous men of Nihonmachi! What say you?”

As one, all leapt to their feet and cheered at the top of their lungs:

“Grantville! Grantville! Grantville!”