The 3 A.M. Epiphany, Exercise Nine

It is here, Brother Montrose realized, having been absorbed by his thrice reading of the Timothy gospel. He had picked up the book and decided these passages would calm him the most while the ship pulled up to the dock. He looked to the men on the ship and turned to the fortress' portal.
The portcullis had been brought from Macao and was not original. If had be built for this particular environment, it would not have stuck out at the lip of the brick and tile building. The arch doubled up near the trellis, giving the illusion of a maw readying a decent bite of food.

The gangplank of the small boat was no more inviting.

On the upper potion, waiting for him, were two samurai in full regalia. Father Hernandez had warned him that the men would be dressed to such an extent, but the Father's words did no justice to the showmanship. The reds and yellows of the Shogun's house and colors draped the ship and these two men sent to great him. Brother Montrose requested to greet the boat solo, telling the other servants and men to stand back-wishing to appear every bit the servant to the Lord and make a nonthreatening presence to the people of Nagaski.

A small interpreter stepped out behind the samurai on the left, as if memorizing the floorboards. His eyes were up, Montrose noticed, but he dare not look at the intimidating presences that flanked him. Brother Montrose found his connection and looked at the handsome youth.
Montrose noticed the other sailors, dressed in nothing but brown rags that clashed with the angry red that circled the ship. Servants. These were the people who should minster too, these are the ones who needed the Lord's prayers for hope.

One of the sailors treated himself a glance at the young friar. The navy man sneered and covered his face.

The Portuegues man sniffed himself. He had tried to adapt to the locals cuisine, something he had learned about working with the converts of the Middle East. Smells are strong; so he stopped eating meat a week and a half ago.

The sailor's expression showed that his body's aroma had not left. He sighed and readied his overnight pack, making sure his Bible found itself on top. He waited for his invite, standing as tall as possible.

The two samurai were expressionless behind their gentaos. The fangs were meant to intimidate, but Montrose realized they were just posturing. It was mean to impress.

And Montrose was impressed. The arms of the men were bold, built and pressing against their armor. Their swords were at the ready, but unwarranted. They both took deep breaths, fighting to keep balance against the rising tide on the fortress' docks.

Montrose realized that the two knights knew not what to do. Years of protocol had not spelled out the exact etiquette for meeting the emissary and diplomat of the Vatican's Pope.

Both masks turned to their beautiful interpreter.

And they screamed.

Montrose lost face, but he had not known yet. He dropped his bag and it landed firmly on his right sandaled foot. He struggled to pick it up.

They continued to bark orders, the same words in differing cadences, at the underling. The laison bowed to the floor and Montrose's face broke a slight smile at the awkwardness of it all.

The samurai noticed and stopped talking at the top of the gangplank and their eyes narrowed to slits in their eye holes of their masks.

Montrose swallowed hard.

Both men reached for their swords and started down the bridge to the dock. Brother Montrose did not move, he was not sure if escape was possible.

The small interpreter was between the advancing samurai and himself and was chattering about something, quickly to the men. They stopped a fourth of the way down.

The young man bowed deeply and turned to Brother Montrose.

He bowed again and Montrose was impressed at the young man even moreso up close. His clothes were tailored, unlike the others on the small boat, and he had his hair clicked back with oils. He was a servant of some power, probably because he spoke Portuguese.

"Brother Montrose. Welcome to Nagasaki, summer palace of the Shogun. We are honored by presence as a representative of the Christian Pope. The Shogun has full colors to escort you to the palace."

"Thank you!" He stepped onto the plank, his legs already water-wary from weeks upon the sea, and approached the interpreter. "I look forward to the meeting! It's Catholic, by the way, the Mother Church, my young man, Catholic."

THe intperper kept his head down but his head lifted as his eyes went wild.

The two samurai, again, imagining a slight, clicked their weapons slightly forward.

The interpret spoke with his eyes.

"But, your Portugese is flawless, I cannot thank you enough to have such a worthy interpreter," the young man bowed deeper at the complement.
The men returned their swords. But they did not relax. They turned in military precision and headed back onto the swaying bardge.

When Montrose finally got on the boat, he heard a whisper from the interpreter.

"Bow"

He did.

The two samurai looked at each other and returned the gesture.

"Lower, for your sake." The whisper continued.

He did.

The samurai looked at each other again and shouted something much calmer to the interpreter.

He looked relieved.

Brother Montrose was too.



Write historical fiction...without doing research.