Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [113]
He dragged himself out of the nightmare, his ears exploding with the peaceful, earth-shattering finality of the Last Sacrament. For a moment he did not know if he was awake or asleep because his disbelieving ears heard the Latin benediction again and his incredulous eyes were seeing a wrinkled old scarecrow of a European stooped over the middle row, fifteen paces away. The toothless old man had long filthy hair and a matted beard and broken nails and wore a foul, threadbare smock. He raised a hand like a vulture’s claw and held up the wooden cross over the half-hidden body. A shaft of sun caught it momentarily. Then he closed the dead man’s eyes, and mumbled a prayer and glanced up. He saw Blackthorne staring at him.
“Mother of God, art thou real?” the man croaked in coarse, peasant Spanish, crossing himself.
“Yes,” Blackthorne said in Spanish. “Who are you?”
The old man groped his way over, mumbling to himself. The other inmates let him pass or step on them or over them without saying a word. He stared down at Blackthorne through rheumy eyes, his face waited. “Oh, Blessed Virgin, the señor is real. Who art thou? I’m … I’m Friar … Friar Domingo … Domingo … Domingo of the Sacred … the Sacred Order of St. Francis … the Order …” and then for a while his words became a jumble of Japanese and Latin and Spanish. His head twitched and he wiped away the ever present spittle that dribbled to his chin. “The señor is real?”
“Yes, I’m real.” Blackthorne eased himself up.
The priest muttered another Hail Mary, the tears coursing his cheeks. He kissed the cross repeatedly and would have got down on his knees if there had been space. Bulldog shook his neighbor awake. Both squatted and made just enough room for the priest to sit.
“By the Blessed St. Francis, my prayers have been answered. Thou, thou, thou, I thought that I was seeing another apparition, señor, a ghost. Yes, an evil spirit. I’ve seen so many—so many—how long is the señor here? It’s hard for a body to see in the gloom and my eyes, they’re not good…. How long?”
“Yesterday. And you?”
“I don’t know, señor. A long time. I’m put here in September—it was in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred ninety-eight.”
“It’s May now. Sixteen hundred.”
“Sixteen hundred?”
A moaning cry distracted the monk. He got up and picked his way over the bodies like a spider, encouraging a man here, touching another there, his Japanese fluent. He could not find the dying man so he droned the last rites to that part of the cell and blessed everyone and no one minded.
“Come with me, my son.”
Without waiting, the monk hobbled down the cage, through the mass of men, into the gloom. Blackthorne hesitated, not wanting to leave his place. Then he got up and followed. After ten paces he looked back. His place had vanished. It seemed impossible that he had ever been there at all.
He continued down the length of the hut. In the far corner was, incredibly, an open space. Just enough room for a small man to lie down in. It contained a few pots and bowls and an ancient straw mat.
Father Domingo stepped through the men into the space and beckoned him. The surrounding Japanese watched silently, letting Blackthorne pass.
“They are my flock, señor. They are all my sons in the Blessed Lord Jesus. I’ve converted so many here—this one’s John, and here’s Mark and Methuselah….” The priest stopped for breath. “I’m so tired. Tired. I … must, I must …” His words trailed off and he slept.
At dusk more food arrived. When Blackthorne