Lord of Formosa

The Explorer

The Strait of Formosa, Ming Dynasty, 1430

The first typhoon arrived unseasonably early, lashing the fleet of ships, the taut sails straining under the powerful gusts that pushed them forward. On the flagship, Admiral Zheng He held on to the railing as well as he could while trying to make his way to the captain, his clothes sodden. The hard rain beat onto his face, mixing with the salt spray of the waves crashing over the sides, stinging his eyes and rendering him almost blind.

Captain! he shouted, the harsh winds practically ripping the sound from his lips. It was no use as he saw the captain’s back still turned to him. He would have to get up close. Captain!

Feeling the hand on his shoulder, the captain swung round.

Zheng He leaned forward, placing his lips close to the captain’s ear. We’ve been blown off course! he shouted at the top of his lungs. We have to turn back!

The captain squinted at the admiral as he considered their situation No, it’s too late to go back! We’ll have to try and weather the storm! he bellowed.

Zheng He grasped the railing again with his hand as another monstrous wave lifted the junk on its side. Where are the other ships? There’s no sight of the rest of the fleet! We’ve lost them. And the storm is only getting worse!

The admiral looked around but saw nothing, the horizon lost behind a moving wall of waves. Again he felt the contents of his stomach churning, and he turned his head to vomit over the side. Momentarily weakened by the violence that had taken hold of his body, he waited for his strength to return.

Above the din of the storm came the sound of splintering wood. He looked up, his eyes focusing on the first mast of the middle deck. The flagship had no fewer than nine masts, the tallest of which were on the middle deck. He knew that if one mast went down, the other masts would be hit and damaged. The crew had seen it too, and all eyes were fixed on the main mast, which was bent like a crossbow. The sailors pointed and shouted, yelling instructions at one another while trying not to get swept overboard.

Again the dreaded sound of wood stressed to the point of breaking.

It’s coming down! someone shouted in warning. The reduced sail whipped like the wing of an injured dragon as the powerful storm pushed into whatever it could find with a fury, adding further strain to the already damaged mast. Zheng He watched with horror as the taller part of the mast finally broke away and came crashing down. But the mast did not tear into the others, as he had expected. One of the cables to which it was attached held, stopping its fall, causing the mast to bounce heavily in mid-air. The thick, oiled cable snapped under the weight of the mast and lashed out with a zing, hitting one of the sailors against the head, killing him instantly. The broken section went crashing down over the side, its ropes entangling it and causing it to head straight for the hull.

The heavy mast crashed through the boards, creating a gaping hole in the side of the junk. As if on cue, a large wave lashed into its side, washing into the hold, its liquid tentacles enfolding all in its path.

The captain shouted his orders futilely into the wind, knowing that his seasoned crew knew what to do. A team of sailors rushed to the side and began to haul in the heavy mast, struggling with its weight. One man slipped and fell, losing his hold on the security cable. The junk’s violent roll threw him to the side, where he lay, stunned. Without endangering his own life, Zheng He could do little to help him. As the junk rolled again, he grasped the security cable firmly and felt himself lifted off his feet. He watched helplessly as a wave washed onto the deck, receding again, taking the wounded sailor with it over the side. The man’s last cry was cut off abruptly as he was engulfed by the waves.

There was no time to pay heed to one drowning man. Their faces grim, both the captain and Zheng He rushed forward to aid the struggling sailors as the solid timber shaft was finally lifted over the railing and dropped heavily onto the deck. Others had already jumped into the hold to bail out the water coming in.

The injured vessel lurched helplessly as huge waves lifted it and let it crash back onto the waves as the full force of the winds pushed it eastward, farther from the sanctuary of the Chinese coast.

How far have we been blown off course? the admiral shouted at the captain, his voice an uncharacteristic soprano for a man his size, betraying his status as a eunuch.

"Roughly thirty li[1] to the east, sir," the captain repeated at the top of his voice.

We are too far away to make it back in this state, Zheng He yelled. We will have to ride the storm in the direction it takes us. We have no choice.

He held onto the railing tightly, his legs splayed to remain standing on the rolling ship as he considered the dangers that faced his beloved flagship. On its seventh voyage of discovery, the magnificent junk had withstood many tests over the years; but the storm had revealed its true age and found its weaknesses.

For three hours, the heavily injured junk struggled to stay afloat in the midst of the typhoon. Just when Zheng He began to believe they would never set foot on firm ground again, the storm subsided.

As the size of the waves decreased, lookouts searched for the other ships. Visibility was still poor due to the heavy sheets of rain that melted into the seas, but it was evident that they had become detached from the rest of the fleet. No other ship could be seen or heard.

While the captain and admiral tried to get their bearings, the crippled, formerly imposing junk that had once sailed as far as the waters of Arabia limped on. They would have to wait for the storm to die. Perhaps then they would be able to spot land or be guided by the stars at night once the heavens had cleared. Meanwhile, the sailors below continued to bail water in shifts. Zheng He thanked Allah that the hole the mast had smashed in the hull was well above the waterline. As long as they did not encounter another heavy storm before reaching land on which they could repair the damage, they might just make it.

It was just before sunset when one of the lookouts spotted land. Stuttering with excitement and relief, the boy repeatedly jabbed his finger in the direction of what he had seen. Agile as a monkey, he clambered down. Zheng He was immediately at his side, where he peered into the distance, his eyes no longer as sharp as the lookout’s. Then a rapt expression appeared on his face as the distinct outline of an island loomed through the haze of rain.

I have heard of this land, he whispered in awe. "An old legend speaks of an island several hundred li from our coast. This could be the same. We will be safe. Allah be praised!" The passion of the Muslim naval explorer shone through his eyes, which were now wide with excitement at the thought of discovering new land.

This is what he lived for: great journeys of exploration. Emperor Xuancong had personally dispatched him: it was his job to establish diplomatic relations with sovereigns in undiscovered lands, offering them gifts and getting them to open trade with the Chinese empire. His ships had been specially made to transport foreign representatives, exotic creatures, and large amounts of valuable goods back to China. He would return to bring with him the latest medical and astronomical knowledge, passed on to them by people living as far away as the East African coast. Scientists and physicians from foreign lands would accompany them to exchange their invaluable knowledge in many a field that would make the Ming dynasty even more glorious than it already was.

Strong currents caused the heavily damaged junk to drift southward as its crew struggled to avoid the rocks that lay strewn along the island’s western coastline. The current finally carried the vessel toward the reefs along the south, pushed by the residual strong gusts of the typhoon. Out of control and in unfamiliar waters, the ship ran aground against the shallows, tearing open its timber bottom with a sickening crunch.

Look! someone shouted. There are people down there! From behind the foliage that lined the beach, human shapes cautiously emerged. Zheng He stared down at them, fascinated. Around him the crew members reacted differently. Some were relieved that the island was habitable, others were skittish, muttering words of fear and suspicion, wondering if these were peace-loving folk. The islanders looked up in awe at the prow of his flagship, which was carved to resemble the body of a dragon.

He started as the huge junk rolled once more in rhythm with the surf, and waited for the inevitable. For a moment there was an eerie silence. Then the ship’s timbers groaned one final time as the vessel ran aground along the shallows, immobilized. Frantically, the sailors tried to abandon ship as water filled the hold of what was now a mere carcass.

But Zheng He remained where he was, observing the islanders with interest. He suspected that this was not the first time that these people had watched from the shore, patiently waiting for disaster to happen. During the past many Chinese junks would have beached along the shore. How many Chinese vessels had been stranded here along these coasts over the centuries? How many of his countrymen had ended up on this island by accident, driven by storms or strong currents, or were simply lost at sea? If sailors had returned from this island to China, he would surely know of it. So none must have returned, he said to himself. The mere thought brought him a tremor of excitement.

A dozen pairs of human eyes watched from behind the foliage as the Chinese sailors struggled to save themselves.

One of the natives, an elderly, stocky man with a dark, deeply lined face, rose from his squatting position in an easy movement that belied his age. Gesturing and shouting, he spurred his companions into action, the men emerging from their various hiding places as they walked onto the beach.

The admiral watched with interest as the dark-skinned figures brought out their canoes from seemingly nowhere, the prows of the vessels piercing the surf with determination. Some waded into the surf toward those struggling in the water, their dark skins glistening in the sun. Others deftly jumped into the canoes in pairs in the direction of the inert junk. Sodden, gasping sailors were pulled onto the small vessels, which then ferried them to the safety of the beach. As more natives, intrigued by all the commotion on the beach, emerged from the woods, the number of canoes increased. They ferried Zheng He and the rest of the crew across with remarkable efficiency and finally assisted in bringing their valuable cargoes ashore.

With the help of two sailors, Zheng He stepped into the water from the canoe that had carried him ashore. Intrigued, he observed the flurry of activity on the beach that had seemed so deserted. When most of the shipwrecked sailors had been brought to safety, the seasoned, motley crew from various parts of the Chinese empire and the natives of Formosa regarded each other with mutual curiosity.

Zheng He, a seasoned diplomat, lost no time in showing his goodwill and gratitude toward their rescuers, and bowed with respect to the barely dressed men. His crew followed his example without hesitation.

Gifts! Bring them gifts! he ordered imperiously, while he attempted to remove his sodden clothes.

Three sailors scrambled around the crates which had been stacked on the dry sand, and prized them open. Hands delved in and came out holding necklaces of luminous beads, colorfully woven cloths, and strings of copper coins. They approached their local rescuers, who eagerly accepted the novel items with outstretched hands, their eyes shining.

In the days that followed, Zheng He and his crew were warmly welcomed. The natives showed them around the island, provided them with food, helped them build shelter, and served as their guides in the heavily wooded hills. As he and his men followed the guides in search of timber for the ship’s repairs, they were greatly impressed by what they saw.

They watched as fishermen along the shore hauled in their nets, heavy with luscious, shiny fish. Drying pools of salt dotted the sandy shoreline. The hills and mountains were covered with lush green forests of valuable timber and teemed with deer. The pungent odor of sulfur, prized as an ingredient for the production of fire sticks, gunpowder, and medicine, permeated the hillside. The soil was soft, damp, and fertile, while the trees were heavy with exotic fruits.

As Zheng He and his men explored the south of the island, they paused often to gaze in wonder at the spectacular sight that greeted them. They were entranced as the rays of the early-morning sun pierced the thin veil of mist that lay draped over the green hills, giving the place an ethereal kind of beauty. They followed the native people as they hunted the deer, downing them with their bows and arrows and deftly skinning them with simple tools. They watched with appreciation how the island people worked as they felled timber and helped them to repair their ship.

Zheng He and his men remained on the island for several months as they waited for their ship to be seaworthy once more and for the wind and tide to turn in their favor. When they finally left, the hold of the ship was filled with precious goods and items of interest gathered on the island.

Later that year, at the court of Emperor Xuancong, the exploring admiral told tales of the island he had discovered some three hundred li off the Chinese coast. He waxed lyrical about its wild beauty, the fertile lands, its seas rich with fish, and presented the emperor with bags of salt, dried venison, and clumps of yellow sulfur. He spoke of the island’s aboriginals with affection and admiration, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

The emperor, fascinated by Zheng He’s stories of the island’s magnificence, was impressed; and the island became of topic of conversation and speculation at court for months to come. The deep-rooted traditional Chinese belief that the oceans formed China’s southeastern border, however, prevented Xuancong from embracing the island as part of his empire. Zheng He died in 1435 during an ill-fated voyage, and through a twist of fate the emperor died that same year. In his place, an eight-year-old boy took the throne. But the boy was left entirely in the hands of scheming relatives and courtiers, men and women with agendas of their own.

With the deaths of the explorer Zheng He and Emperor Xuancong, the court, embroiled in intrigues and feuds, forgot all about the island. Unclaimed and forgotten, it once again fell into isolation.

During the centuries that followed, the place became a haven for pirates, adventurers, and traders — both foreign and Chinese. The Portuguese were the first Westerners to discover it, and it was they who named it for its beauty. Thus, the island became known to the West by the exotic name of Ilha Formosa, a name that was picked up by early Western cartographers, who placed it firmly on their maps.

Formosa continued to be used as a rendezvous for smugglers and pirates, who hoarded their goods on the island. Merchants traded their wares there to avoid paying taxes, while Japanese merchants rested along Formosa’s shores as an interlude during their travels. Only occasionally did minor mandarins visit the island; but the court in Peking never did bother to station officials there. No one was willing to relocate to the backward, humid, and uncivilized island; and the court did not press them to do so.

But after millennia of isolation, another sovereignty would finally take possession of Formosa. Not the great empire a mere hundred miles away, nor any neighboring country. The first nation to lay a claim to the island was of the West.

PART ONE

1

Son of a Pirate

1631, Hirado, Nagasaki, Japan

Fukumatsu! his mother yelled angrily, clutching her bundled, sleeping infant in her arms. She had not arrived a moment too soon. In the deserted garden courtyard, her son straddled a plump boy, his fists beating down upon a face she recognized as Yoshi’s, the son of the chief merchant, the richest man in Nagasaki. The boy’s nose was bleeding profusely. Yoshi began to cry piteously the moment he saw her.

"Tagawa-san!" the boy wailed, sounding like a girl. Fukumatsu’s fist froze in mid-air, his face flushed a furious red as he met his mother’s eye. He hesitated.

Fukumatsu! Leave the boy alone! Now! The tone of her voice was stern and full of warning. Her seven-year-old son slowly lowered his fist, standing up over the blubbering boy as he did. For a moment it seemed as if he was considering giving his victim one last kick; but he changed his mind when he saw his mother’s expression, whereupon he deftly lifted his foot over his victim’s flabby stomach.

Help him up, Matsu Tagawa told her son. Fukumatsu obeyed, extending his arm to the boy on the grass, who was by now sobbing pathetically. He had to put all his weight behind him to lift Yoshi to his feet. Yoshi was almost a head taller than her son, and almost twice in girth, yet Matsu knew that if her maid Junko had not alerted her in time the damage would have been far worse than the nosebleed the boy now nursed.

"Apologize to Yoshi-san," she commanded, her eyes cold, even though she did not like the boy, just as she did not like his malicious, gossiping mother.

No. Fukumatsu looked at the ground as he pursed his lips in grim determination.

"Tagawa-san! Fukumatsu attacked me for no reason at all!" the taller boy wailed as he wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve. He grew pale at the sight of the red stains.

"Yoshi-san, I must apologize for my son’s behavior if he will not. Now please leave us," she said firmly.

But —

"Leave us, Yoshi-san. Go home."

The boy hesitated for a moment. Then he saw the look on Matsu’s face. He threw a sly, sideward glance at Fukumatsu, a nasty smile playing at the corner of his lips. Undoubtedly he thought that Fukumatsu was in for it, and made off quickly, satisfied. Once he was out of sight they heard him wailing once more to draw as much attention to himself as he could. Matsu winced. She could just imagine the fuss his mother and maids would make over him, and knew she would eventually have to face them.

She turned to her son. Why? she asked. It was the third time in a month that Fukumatsu had gotten into a fight, she just couldn’t understand it. He didn’t answer but simply continued to stare at the ground in front of him.

If you cannot even explain why you are behaving in this manner, then I have failed you as your mother. She sighed. And you are doing your father’s name a great injustice. The truth was that the boy’s Chinese father had not shown his face for almost five years, and even in those days the visits had been brief. She had practically raised the boy on her own. Her words had the desired effect: the mention that he might bring shame on his parentage always did.

He lifted his head and looked her straight into the eye. "He was saying bad things about Zaemon-chan. And about you, Mother," he whispered as he looked down at the face of his sleeping baby brother.

Matsu swallowed. Of course. Her son was now seven years old, and of an age that he would hear things. Things about his father and his baby brother, Shichi-Zaemon — but most of all about her. She should have known better than to try to protect him from the malicious gossip that was bound to escape people’s lips. Especially from the mother of that little shit, Yoshi.

What.... She found it difficult to ask the next question. What bad things did he say?

Fukumatsu looked around him to make sure no one could hear him, and then looked her in the eye. That Zaemon is a bastard and the son of a whore.

Matsu gasped and closed her eyes, a familiar pain squeezing her heart. As she opened her eyes they were filled with tears. Tenderly she began to stroke her infant’s cheek as if to gain strength from his innocence. Then she looked at Fukumatsu, who was shocked to see her grief.

Do you understand those words? she asked softly.

Yes, Fukumatsu said, now shamed. "Yoshi-san told me what they mean." He spat on the ground, and Matsu almost jumped at his vehemence.

He called you a whore! His mother winced at the word. He fought to control the tears of anger and frustration that threatened to flood his eyes. Matsu put her hand gently on his shoulder and kneeled down so that she could face him.

Do not believe everything people say, she said. Her son looked up at her, not understanding.

There are many things that you do not know. Things that I thought you would be too young to understand. I was wrong. I should have told you.

Fukumatsu made as if to walk off, his head hanging down, afraid of what he might hear. His mother expertly placed her sleeping baby in the crook of her arm and took hold of her son’s arm, willing him to look at her.

You know that Zaemon is your half-brother, she began. I am mother to you both, but your father is not his father.

Fukumatsu nodded. She took his hand and sighed. Though he might be too young to understand the implications of her words, he had always known that Watanabe-san was not his real father. She had told him long ago who his real father was.

In our society, when a woman has children by more than one man, no matter what the circumstances, people tend to talk. They say bad things about her, especially if the woman marries someone who is not Japanese.

My real father is Chinese, right?

Yes, your father is Chinese. He is a powerful and influential man in southern China, which means he is an important man to the merchants here in Hirado and Nagasaki. I married your father in secret after I met him through Lord Li Dan. He was your father’s mentor and employer. Lord Li Dan had made a promise once to look after your father’s interests. Yet there was more. Your father.... She searched for the right words, not knowing quite how to explain. "I believe your father truly had feelings for me. But he had to return to China. His family is very powerful, Fukumatsu-chan. From what I hear, I don’t think they even know I exist. We were both very young when I had you. But things happened, things that have kept him away from me. He has not been here for so many years...." She lowered her eyes sadly as her memory trailed back in time.

Zheng Zhilong had not even been her first husband, but her son didn’t know that. She had been married off at the tender age of fifteen to a young Japanese officer of junior rank. The youth had been killed in combat within months of the marriage, hardly given the chance to consummate it, leaving Matsu widowed at barely sixteen. When she first met Zheng Zhilong at one of Lord Li Dan’s official functions, she had been smitten at the sight of him. She had actually been one year his senior, but Zhilong was quite mature for his age. And so very handsome! Their romance and the quiet, very private wedding ceremony that had followed seemed a lifetime ago.

When your father returned to China, he sent funds for our upkeep; but for some reason the money stopped coming. Things became difficult. You would be too young to remember, yet there was a time when I had to turn to my family for money and food. She fell silent at the memory, lost in thought. Her son stared at her in confusion, and she wondered if he was able to absorb what she said.

"I was very lonely, Fukumatsu-chan, and still young. Watanabe-san is a good person. He was willing to take care of us. I accepted gladly. He is Zaemon-san’s father — that you know. We are lucky. It is because of him that we are not poor. He takes care of us. Can you understand that?"

The boy nodded. Where is my father now?

In Fujian, in southern China. People say he has become quite wealthy from trade. From what I understand he also has a great deal of influence as a mandarin these days. I also know that your father has at least one other wife there, and you probably have more half-brothers and sisters there too.

The boy’s brow knotted in a frown as he tried to imagine his Chinese half-siblings.

Why? If he wants to be with you, then why does he marry someone else?

It’s just the way things are. Men are like that. Especially if they are away from a woman for a long period of time. They, too, have to obey their parents’ wishes. They probably arranged for him to marry the daughter of an important man. I waited for your father for many years. But I believe he has forgotten us. She sighed while Fukumatsu pressed his lips together in a gesture of disappointment. She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek. However, I do know that you are his oldest son, his firstborn and heir.

Fukumatsu stared ahead in silence, a perplexed look on his face. Matsu wondered if her last words had gotten through to him. More likely than not this information would be too much for him to take in.

Funny, he said, tilting his head slightly as he pondered her words. Zaemon has always seemed like a whole brother to me. Just like a normal brother.

His choice of words made Matsu smile. Gracefully she straightened herself. He is your normal brother. He is your brother, no matter what anybody says. Like I said, some people will always talk badly if a woman has children by more than one man. Do not listen to them. These people don’t know the truth. Yoshi doesn’t know the whole truth, nor does his mother. Do you understand? Fukumatsu nodded wordlessly. They both looked again at Zaemon, innocent and still asleep in his mother’s arms.

"Right. Now you are coming with me and you will apologize to Nagata-san. And to his mother, for causing this inconvenience."

Fukumatsu had almost forgotten about the fight. He was about to protest when he looked up to see a mischievous glint in his mother’s eye. It puzzled him, but he closed his mouth and obeyed, falling in step beside her.

By the time they reached the wealthy merchant’s imposing residence, the whole Sato household knew of the beating their master’s oldest son had received at the hands of the half-Chinese boy. The spoiled brat had probably wailed so loudly about what had befallen him that none could have remained unaware, even if they had wanted to.

Matsu knocked on the door, which stood half ajar. A stern, middle-aged housekeeper was standing in the doorway, as if expecting them.

"Konnichiwa. Good afternoon, Yuki-san." Matsu bowed slightly toward the older woman, who bowed back respectfully, flashing a false smile that exposed a terrible set of teeth. Matsu knew that the respect with which the woman greeted her was because of her foreign husband. She might have married a gaijin, a Chinese, but she had married one with influence. Apart from that, everyone knew that her father — even though of ashigaru, lower samurai rank — had been employed by the great shogun in his personal army. And that, too, was something worthy of respect.

"Excuse me, Yuki-san, Matsu said. We would very much like to see the lady of the house and Yoshi-san, please." The woman nodded with a grunt, walked across the room and slid open the rice-papered door. Fukumatsu and his mother waited patiently as they heard a woman’s sharp response and Yoshi’s typical, nasal whine. The door slid open again and the housekeeper emerged, followed by a severe-looking woman in a richly embroidered silk kimono, her fat son trailing behind.

Fukumatsu glanced at Yoshi, who had taken up a safe position behind his mother, his bulky body partly obscured. Matsu didn’t like Mrs. Sato. She was the type of woman who always made sure everyone around her was constantly reminded of how important her husband was.

Matsu and Fukumatsu both bowed respectfully. My son has something to say to you, she said, subtly prompting Fukumatsu with her elbow. The boy stepped forward hesitantly.

Mrs. Sato, I am sorry I beat your son. It will not happen again. It’s just that — He would have said more, but his mother threw him a warning glance.

Matsu took his arm as if to leave, then she suddenly turned around as if she just remembered something. She looked at the haughty woman with an innocent expression.

Oh! I nearly forget. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank your son for teaching Fukumatsu some fascinating facts of life, and some very interesting additions to his vocabulary, she said sweetly, gently patting her baby’s back. Thank you so much. She inclined her head politely to emphasize her words.

Her ego tickled, Mrs. Sato smiled crookedly for the first time, unaware of what was to come.

Oh? And what words might those be? she asked.

 ‘Bastard’ and ‘whore.’ Good day. Matsu inclined her head respectfully and saw how the woman’s jaw dropped, her face flushing crimson. Pleased with herself, Matsu turned and walked away, Fukumatsu following behind her. They soon heard a sharp slapping sound, followed by a howl of pain from Yoshi. They quickly walked on, both biting their lip to stop themselves from grinning.

Do you think Father will come? Fukumatsu asked his mother as the tailor fussed over him to make sure the hems of the kimono were not too long. The boy was half-dancing, hopping from one foot to the other. Matsu grabbed hold of him to keep still, the tailor’s tsk-tsks of exasperation growing ever louder. The sleeves of the boy’s new kimono were far too long and flapped like a bird’s wings. It was obvious that his arms were tiring from holding them up for so long.

Matsu did not answer. Her Chinese husband had not shown his face in Nagasaki in many years, and she heard from him only sporadically. When he did send letters, it was mostly to inquire after his son, and whatever was directed at her was businesslike and curt.

She hoped for her son’s sake that her husband had not forgotten the importance of their child’s seventh birthday. In these times of plague, disease, and other misfortune, a boy turning seven was a good reason to celebrate.

Mother? her oldest son pressed as she didn’t answer. Will he come?

She could not lie to him. Not anymore. He has not written that he will. I have not heard from him. We shall have to wait and see. Matsu pressed her lips together. She very much doubted that Zhilong would come. She could only hope that he would at least remember his son’s special birthday with a gift.

Disappointed, Fukumatsu dropped his arms down his side, only for them to be pushed up again by the increasingly irritated tailor. The boy sighed and stared at the screen opposite. Matsu felt sorry for him. He had not seen his father for such a long time that she wondered if her son would even recognize him if he bumped into him on the street.

Is my father a pirate? he asked suddenly, bored with having to stand still. The tailor, only too aware of the identity of the boy’s father, nearly swallowed the pins that were sticking from between his lips.

Matsu smiled in spite of herself. No, she said. In China, your father is a mandarin, an important official, as you well know. And he is a merchant. Then she cocked her head to one side and regarded him seriously. Although it might depend on your point of view. Some might consider him a pirate.

Really? Who? Fukumatsu asked, fascinated.

Gaijin. Foreigners. The Portuguese and the Dutch. They regularly attack his merchant ships and steal his goods in their war for wealth. However, when he attacks their ships to get his goods back, they are angered and call him a pirate.

So the Dutch and Portuguese are also pirates, then?

They would never think of themselves in that way. They would say they do it for their king and country. But, yes, they do act like pirates sometimes.

Fukumatsu was silent again as the tailor finished pinning his garment. Matsu assumed that his head was filled with images of angry-faced pirates with large noses and long hair the color of straw. He had seen the Dutch often enough in the harbor of Nagasaki; he even played with their children.

Noticing her son’s increased restlessness, Matsu hoped that the tailor would be able to finish pinning the kimono in one sitting. Finally, the old man was done. He straightened up and nodded, satisfied. Fukumatsu sat down gratefully and took the cross-legged position of grown men. Zaemon squealed on the tatami next to his mother, moving his tiny hands in an agitated way. Matsu inched her knees forward to pick him up, bundling the infant deftly onto her back.

At the tailor’s insistence she paid a small advance for his work. Fukumatsu had already run out, impatient to release his pent-up energy.

I hope he comes, Fukumatsu said as they walked out of the tailor’s shop, more to himself than to anyone else. Matsu said nothing. She hoped Zhilong would never come — for more reasons than one.

As they walked down the hill together toward the harbor she saw a ship moored that she didn’t recognize. She could not discern its origin, but a crowd had gathered on the market square alongside the harbor. The locals milled around several stalls that had been erected, examining the goods with interest. One of the stalls displayed the characters that indicated the services of a fortune-teller.

Mother, look! Fukumatsu shouted, excited. He, too, had seen the stall. A fortune-teller! He ran down ahead of her, toward the harbor. Perhaps he can tell us whether or not Father is coming, he yelled over his shoulder.

Even before she could answer him, he had reached the market stalls. She sighed, smiling. Fortune-tellers had always held an attraction for him. She seldom gave in to his pleas: most of these people were cheats, and the fees that they asked for their services were often ridiculously high. Only when Fukumatsu was born had she relented under social pressure to have his numbers read, based on his date of birth. The woman who had read his numbers had told her that he was meant for great things and that her son would one day provide her with grandsons. But these were happy tidings that every young mother wanted to hear, and something they gladly paid for.

Mother! Come! Fukumatsu stood waiting for her, impatient. The crowd had diminished, more than likely discouraged by the fee it would cost them to have their fortunes told.

Under the canopy sat a bald old man with tattooed eyebrows and a forehead that was remarkably free of any wrinkles. Only the crow’s feet around his eyes betrayed his advanced age. His head was free of any form of hair, save for the small white goatee beard that bobbed up and down as he chewed on something that stained his teeth a dark red. When he spotted Fukumatsu, his jaws fell still. With eyes black as obsidian he fixed his stare upon him, his expression curious.

Mother, may I? Please?

Matsu hesitated. She did not believe for one second that this old man could possibly tell him whether his father would come to visit him or not. But when she thought of the length of time the boy had needed to keep still at the tailor’s, she relented. It wouldn’t do any harm, after all. From personal experience she knew that people like this were always deliberately vague in what they said, telling you only that which you wanted to hear.

All right then, she said, and nodded her consent.

The old man grinned, displaying a frightening array of discolored, rotting teeth, and resumed his chewing. Matsu could tell that he was not from around here. More likely he came from the northern part of Japan, or maybe he was a foreigner.

He beckoned toward Fukumatsu and pointed to his hand. The boy glanced at her, hesitant.

Go on then, show him your hand, she encouraged him.

Fukumatsu held out his hand, whereupon the man grabbed it and pulled him closer. He stared into the boy’s eyes and brought Fukumatsu’s other hand to his face, carefully feeling the contours of his cheekbones, jaw, and temples. He squinted his eyes in concentration, as if trying to determine the symmetry of Fukumatsu’s face.

When he born? he asked in an odd accent, gesturing in Matsu’s direction. She gave him the details and told him that his place of birth was Hirado Island.

Ah so, he said. A rat. You smart. Opportunistic. And a charmer. He grinned lustfully, and turned his back on them to pore over a stone tray containing what looked like bone chips with inscriptions. He busied himself with the chips, moving them to and fro with a frown of concentration.

Fukumatsu was beaming with pride from the compliments he had just received, his excitement evident.

Element is wood, the man continued. Matsu said nothing. She knew all this, having been told this at the time of his birth.

From wood come fire, but need more to get fire. Cannot do alone. Rat, wood, rat, wood. Hmm. Is good. You have talent, you know what people think. You very good convincing others. This will bring you great success, great success. You be great leader one day. Once again he took Fukumatsu’s hand and squeezed it, never taking his eyes off the boy’s face. I feel ambition, big confidence and ... forcefulness. Yes! Forcefulness. He made a fist to emphasize the word. Then he closed his eyes. You will strive high morality, all your life, is good, is good!

He then pulled the boy toward him, picked up a needle and, without warning, pricked it into Fukumatsu’s forefinger. He caught a few drops of blood on a small tin saucer. Fukumatsu looked at the scarlet drops, unmoved, but Matsu stepped closer, somewhat disconcerted at this unusual turn of events. She had never seen any fortune-teller do this before.

The man spat onto the saucer, pressed Fukumatsu’s hand palm over the mixture of saliva and blood and massaged it into his palm. Then he lifted the boy’s palm and brought it so close to his face that for a moment Matsu thought he was going to lick it. But all he did was look.

He grinned. Many women, he said lasciviously, peering into her son’s face with glee. But price. You will pay price for this. His face creased in distaste, as if something disgusted him utterly.

Fukumatsu blinked, confused. It was obvious that he had no idea what to make of this information. I only want to know if my father will come to Hirado for my seventh birthday.

The man’s jaws stopped chewing. Father? Once again he peered at the boy’s blood-smeared palm, which he was still holding in his veined hands. No. I no see father. Your yin, your aura too strong, too powerful. I think.... He shook his head uncertainly. No. But you will make a journey, soon. Across sea, faraway place. New life.

Matsu froze at the sound of those words. Dizziness took a hold of her as the blood drained from her head. She did not want to hear this. She suddenly felt a powerful urge to grab her son by the collar and drag him away, yet she could not.

You want very much, can do very much. Big ambition! The man continued, his tone excited.

You be careful! Must not want too much. You must learn see truth. He squinted his eyes again. I see island. Big island. Not here, far away, foreign place.

Island? Fukumatsu asked, his interest piqued. What island, where, to which country does it belong?

The old man frowned, rubbing his fingers into the boy’s palm once more, holding it close to his eyes for further inspection. He looked up, a surprised look on his face. Know not, he said with obvious annoyance at not knowing the answer. "I don’t see. Is unclear. I see strangers, gaijin? Yes, foreigners. They not belong. He drew a breath, a hissing sound as he considered this. Not easy, is difficult situation. But your fate is on island. This island. The strangers will leave one day. Then island your destiny. But pay price. Big price." He took one last, long look at Fukumatsu’s hand and finally nodded, satisfied. For the first time he looked up at Matsu and released the boy. His state of concentration was broken, his task done.

"Come, Fukumatsu-chan," Matsu said. She wanted desperately to leave that place, away from that awful man, away from what he had told them.

But mother, I want to know —

No! We are leaving right now! She had not expected this. Her son had asked the man a simple question but had instead been given details of a future that was still too remote, a future that she did not wish to know about, and one she liked even less. She placed a couple of coins in the man’s greedily outstretched hand and walked off as fast as she could.

Just as Matsu suspected, Zheng Zhilong did not come for his son’s birthday. He was not there to see how handsome his firstborn son looked in the new red kimono that had been specially made for the occasion. He did not witness the Shinto ritual of prayer to see his son clap his hands with his eyes closed in order to awaken his ancestors’ spirits. Nor would he be able to shower his son with small gifts and sweets, and take pride in the fact that Fukumatsu was the image of his father.

A month later, she received a message that her brother-in-law Zheng Feng had arrived in Hirado and wanted to see her. Her heart sank. Feng often came to Nagasaki to do business on his brother’s behalf, but rarely did he come to see her in person. Letters and gifts for her and Fukumatsu were usually brought to him by one of her husband’s clerks or numerous couriers, as her brother- in-law was normally too busy to come himself. That he intended to see her could only mean one thing.

Matsu finished feeding Zaemon and bundled the by now sleeping infant before placing him behind the screen, out of sight on the tatami, and readied herself for the visit. Fukumatsu was having his martial arts lessons, something in which he excelled. He would not be back for more than an hour, giving her time to discuss whatever Feng wanted in private. Feng was five years older than her husband and although he had a good head for business, he was far less ambitious and not quite as charismatic as Zhilong. Having met him only infrequently she did not know him well enough to feel comfortable with him. At least his Japanese was reasonable. As Matsu sat in the simple but elegant room where she received her guests, the rice-papered door slid open and her maid’s head popped through.

"Tagawa-san, you have a guest, Junko announced. The Chinese gentleman Zheng Feng is here and wishes to see you." Matsu got to her feet, smoothed the obi that encased her kimono around the waist, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and took a deep breath.

Let him in, she said as she could perceive her brother-in-law’s silhouette against the rice paper. She bowed to him as he entered the room, her heart racing.

"Zheng Feng-san. Welcome, I am honored by your visit." Junko made as if to slide the door shut, but left it slightly ajar and stayed close as instructed. Feng nodded his head curtly, probably feeling as uncomfortable as she did. Matsu hardly recognized him. He had grown a beard and moustache and had broadened in every sense of the word.

Please sit down, she motioned to the cushions that were laid out on the tatami floor, and he settled on them with his legs crossed. Matsu slid down onto her knees, her hands tightly clasped in order to still the trembling.

"Zheng Feng-san, I hope you are in good health. You bring news of my husband? He is well?"

Yes, he is well and sends his respects. He apologizes for not coming to you in person. Official business and military matters keep him very busy. Things are not well in our country, as you may know. His brow furrowed as he said the words.

Matsu nodded. Zhilong had written her of the increased unrest in China. She knew of the threat the country faced: the warmongering Manchus who had been troubling the northeast for years.

I have brought letters.... From his outer garment he retrieved a thick envelope of silk and handed it to her. She took the parcel from him and laid it in front of her. She had no intention of reading the letters while under the scrutiny of her brother-in-law.

"With due respect, Zheng Feng-san, your couriers could have brought these to me. Why have you come to see me in person?"

Feng blinked at the unaccustomed directness coming from a woman. He pursed his lips and motioned to the envelope that lay between them.

Read the letters, he said. They will explain.

Reluctantly,