The Missionary

Turns out a procession was already underway. The Saturday evening mass.

So elaborate. So grand. Not even the shrines back home—ornate as they were—matched this level of spectacle. Shintoism never needed grandeur to demand reverence.

But here? The humility she'd been told about seemed like an afterthought. No longer will she have to pray in fear of prosecution when this was what a church looked like.

Her eyes were drawn upward, to the enormous cross at the center of the church. Jesus hung there, carved in agonizing detail—his arms stretched, his ribs visible, the nails in his hands and feet catching the dim light.

Hoshino felt the urge to sob. The injustice of it all—the cruelty of the Roman people forcing Pilate’s hand, the betrayal, the sacrifice.

Quietly, she shuffled into a semi-empty row of seats, her steps hesitant. An old woman sitting near the end looked up, her wrinkled face softening as she shifted, making room without a word. Hoshino nodded in thanks and slid in.

People then kneeled, so she kneeled. When people remained silent, she remained silent. It stayed like that until, suddenly, everyone stood up.

And then—an organ.

The sound washed over her. Hoshino’s breath caught.

Voices rose. Everyone around her began to sing—even the old woman, and their words were carried by a choir perched high in a veranda.

She stared in awe, her gaze flitting between the singers and the congregation. This… this was the America she had escaped to. This was the promise.

So many nationalities, all under one roof, bound together by the same faith. People coming together. Neighbors loving one another. She conveniently forgot how people had stared and whispered about her earlier, but at this point, she didn't give a damn.

The singing subsided, and everyone began shuffling forward, moving toward the front in an orderly line. She hesitated, watching carefully before starting to follow.

Then it hit her—she hadn’t taken communion yet.

Her face warmed with embarrassment before quietly backing out of the line and returning to her seat. The wooden sandals clicking against the church floor really didn’t help matters.

One day, she thought to herself. One day, she would share the light of the Lord. But not yet.

She wasn’t worried about it now. She had sinned too many times to even imagine being worthy of that task. All she could do now was pray.

\\

She didn't know how long she knelt for. She had too many things to pore over and think about. To ask forgiveness for.

“This your first time, girl?”

She looked up, startled, to see the priest standing nearby. Miguel. His kind eyes softened the sharpness of his features. She looked around, only to find no one. 

Drat. They must have all left.

“I don’t speak English, sorry. Portuguese."

“Ah, I see," he said. "Well, I hope you will find that all are welcome in the house of God. Is this your first time?”

Hoshino hesitated, then nodded. “I didn’t know the songs to sing… but they are beautiful.”

“They are." A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The boys and girls in the choir are incredibly talented—some of the best I’ve hosted since being ordained. Led by our conductor, Marie. If you’d like to join—”

She shook her head quickly. “No thanks. I am fluent, but not fluent enough to sing in Portuguese. I’d only make an ass of myself.” Her gaze flicked back to him, curious. “What gave it away that this was my first time?”

Miguel chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. “Your dress, for one. It’s quite foreign. Like something a Chinese woman might wear… but not quite. That, and you were incredibly late. Hard not to notice when someone walks in during the Body of Christ procession.”

Hoshino flushed, bowing her head slightly. “I didn’t mean to disturb.”

“Are you new to this faith? What is your story?”

Hoshino's fingers tightening around the fabric of her kimono. “In Japan… they do not allow this religion. It is expressly forbidden by the Shogunate.”

Miguel’s expression shifted, the warmth in his eyes dimming slightly.

“One of your missionaries came to our village, then the palace,” she continued. “He taught us. Told us about salvation. About God’s love. My father and I loved him.” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But then the officials came. They found him. Oka-san did. It wasn't allowed; only talks of trade were appropriate.”

Miguel’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“My father,” she said finally, her voice shaking, “told me to leave. To go far away. The missionary said there was a place—America—where people could worship freely. He told me to come here, as far away from Japan as I could go.”

“I see,” he said slowly. “Faith… faith should never be something you must flee to practice.”

“I had no choice. It was either that, or...”

Miguel sighed, rubbing his temple briefly. “I’m glad you’re safe now. But… it’s difficult to ignore that the missionary’s actions ripped your family apart.”

"You are right." Hoshino’s head shot down, her voice cracking. "It is my fault. I don't know whether I rightly deserve to be forgiven for what I've done."

"You should feel ashamed to have put your mother through all that grief. Alllll the shame in the world."

"I know I am a sinner. I steal, I lie, then I flee… like a coward."

"Of course, you do, my little fox. It is in your nature."

Her breath hitched. She looked up to meet his eyes—and froze.

They weren’t brown anymore. They glowed a sharp, unnatural purple.

“Why?"

Tears brimmed.

"Why can't you just LEAVE ME ALONE?!” Hoshino screamed. “And Father Miguel? What did he do, huh? He has nothing to do with anything! Leave him out of this!”

The figure wearing Miguel’s face sighed dramatically, crossing its arms like a scolded child. “Oh, come on, Hoshino. That’s not very polite, is it?"

“You’ve done nothing but haunt me all my life! Now let him go!”

“Oh, please. Haunting is so beneath us. We elevated you, little fox. Your family was nothing before us. We were the ones cheated, remember?”

“Cheated?"

“Absolutely!” it huffed, throwing its hands up in exaggerated exasperation. “You always conveniently forget that your ancestors begged for our help to get to where they are now. And what did we get in return? A raw deal. No offerings, no gratitude, no fun. And now our prize has left the bloody country. Tsk, tsk. That won't do.”

“I didn’t make that deal!”

“Exactly!” it said, snapping its fingers with Miguel’s hand. “That’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it? You inherited all the perks without the messy paperwork. And now you’re running around pretending we don’t exist. Honestly, it’s a little hurtful.”

Her stomach twisted. “Miguel has nothing to do with this. Let him go.”

“Oh, but he’s delightful. So earnest! So devout! We couldn’t resist borrowing him for a bit. Besides, we missed you.”

Hoshino recoiled. “What?”

“Of course! You’re our favorite. The strongest conduit in generations. Do you have any idea how boring it’s been without you? Your father? A dud. Your mother? Too rigid. But you… you’re the fun one.”

“I’m not your plaything.”

The thing smirked, leaning on the nearest surface like it owned the place. “No, no, of course not. You’re much more than that. But you are ours, little fox. Much as we are yours. Deny it all you want, but we’re family. You are kitsune embodied, after all. And no amount of parading around in your frankly colonial religion will change that.”

“If you were family you wouldn't possess anyone.”

“Because we’re curious!” it said, throwing its arms wide. “Isn’t that what foxes do? Poke around where we’re not invited? And let me tell you—New York is fascinating."

The thing in Miguel’s body smirked wider, its purple eyes gleaming. 

“Come now. How can there be a God as mighty as you claim when a place like New York exists? Chaos. Greed. Misery. We find it hard to believe. To be a god is to have power; in FACT, it’s one of the few criteria. And if that power isn’t present, how can we say for sure it even exists?”

Hoshino shook her head, her jaw tightening. “You’re not staying.”

“Aw,” it pouted, its grin never faltering. “Fine, fine. We’ll let him go… for now. It’s getting a bit cagey in here anyway. A vow of celibacy? Yuck!” It shuddered theatrically.

"But mark my words, fox. We’ll be meeting again soon. In the corner of your eye, in the dreamscape of your mind. We’ll be there. It is simply so fun to watch you stumble and fall. We might forgive the debt your bloodline owed just for this.”

"OUT!!"

And with that, the purple light in Miguel’s eyes flickered and vanished. His body sagged, his breathing shallow as he blinked back to awareness.

“Girl? You seem troubled.”

Her breath hitched, her fists still clenched, but she forced herself to relax.

He didn’t know. He wasn’t aware.

Before she could respond, Miguel reached behind the altar, rummaging for a moment.

When he turned back to her, he held a book in his hands—its leather cover cracked and worn, the gilded edges of its pages glinting faintly in the light.

“I want you to have this,” he said, holding it out to her. “It’s a Catholic Bible. The best version, if you ask me. Clean and simple, unlike King James'.”

Her hands hovered hesitantly before taking it.

“Let it guide you. There’s wisdom in those pages anyone can appreciate. I don’t suspect Japan and the Middle East had much overlap in terms of culture, but the Book is full of deeply human stories and struggles. And that’s something we can all relate to.”

She opened her mouth, about to correct him—to mention how Islam had almost taken root in Japan centuries ago. She settled for a small nod instead. “Thank you, father Miguel.”

“And don’t worry if you don’t understand everything right away. Deep into the Old Testaments are typically where people start to get weirded out. It is so chock full of symbolism and interpretations you'd lose count. Don't worry; that’s what I’m here for. For now, I have to put everything away and clean the alter. I hope to see you again soon, and I hope to see you become a regular member of our Church.”

As Miguel turned to tend to the altar, she looked down at the Bible in her hands. 

The words inside would have to be enough. For now.