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?”