Death of a God
Jonathan Fletcher
With every minute, the end of Hirohito’s divine rule grew nearer. The emperor’s reign had been anything but ordinary, characterized by unprecedented national militarization, unspeakable savagery and butchery in the Pacific, the first use of an atom bomb, and the defeat and occupation of a supposedly sacred and inviolable people. Then again, the forty-four-year-old Hirohito was himself an unordinary divine figure. Unlike the immense, brawny, and aggressive gods in most of the world’s pantheons, the soft-spoken, reserved, and sometime meek emperor stood at five-foot-five, almost always dressed in his signature tuxedo, top hat, and gloves, usually engrossed in some informal study of marine life.
He nervously paced his private residence within the Tokyo Imperial Palace, one of the few structures to escape the firebombing. Sweat clung to the collar of his pristine shirt. Hirohito checked his wristwatch. General MacArthur would arrive soon. The emperor approached the window and looked out. The setting ochre orb over the devastated capital peeked through the line of bare cherry trees, as if fighting to keep from sinking below the horizon, as if certain it would never again ascend in the Land of the Rising Sun.
Tomorrow would be Shōgatsu. He frowned. What is there to celebrate this new year? The Allies’ victory? Nippon’s defeat? The Occupation? Hirohito lowered his head. What kind of god loses a war? Lets his country be overrun by gaijin? Lets foreign devils humiliate him? Only Christ, the god of the West, fared worse, having been arrested, tortured, and crucified by the Romans. I have lost face. The emperor shook his head. So have my people. He slipped off his immaculate white gloves and set them on a small table.
Lately, nothing had been able to rouse Hirohito from his depression and anhedonia. The Shintō rituals proved useless. Even the emperor’s prized collection of Samurai Crab, named because their shells resembled the hostile faces of the famed noble warriors, did not help today.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his coat and unfolded the typed statement:
The ties between Us and Our people have always stood upon mutual trust and affection. They do not depend upon mere legends and myths. They are not predicated on the false conception that the Emperor is divine, and that the Japanese people are superior to other races and fated to rule the world.
Ningen sengen. “The Humanity Declaration.” Hirohito shook his head. More like “The Humiliation Declaration.” While MacArthur had helped the emperor craft the message he agreed to broadcast to his subjects, Hirohito still questioned whether he could go through with his divine renunciation, let alone accept and believe it. Only nightmares of his people’s starvation and Tokyo in ruins motivated him in this ultimate act of obeisance to the gaijin. Hirohito glared at the declaration. Such an unceremonious piece of paper you are.
“Yet proof that you’re no son of Amaterasu,” the statement hissed. “You’ve dishonored the sun goddess.” The typed statement cackled. “Kinjō Heika? You don’t deserve the title, you fraud.”
“Damn you.” The emperor crumpled the piece of paper. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Certainly, no god.” The declaration howled.
“Damn you!” Hirohito tightened his grip on the piece of paper. As he pictured Hiroshima and Nagasaki reduced to ash and his capital in rubble, though, he relaxed his fist and smoothed out the statement. Has Nippon not lost enough? Have my people not suffered enough? A grandfather clock chimed in the distance. The emperor checked his wristwatch again. 6:30 pm. Five and a half hours left of December 1945. In Hiroshima, though, it was still August 6th, still 8:15 am and, according to the charred timepieces that had stopped when the bomb hit, would always be. The palace clocks, however, kept ticking. Hirohito folded the statement and placed it back in his breast pocket. Time stops for no one, not even an emperor, not even a god.
Knocking sounded at the doors.
“Kinjō Heika,” a meek voice from outside cried. “Please, Reigning Majesty.”
“I did not summon you, Yukī.” Hirohito frowned. “Why are you not waiting for MacArthur?”
“Please, Your Majesty,” Yukī yelped. “It’s an emergency.”
The emperor sighed. “Come in.”
Yukī, a scrawny, young man, hurried through the doors. “Your Majesty!” The personal attendent burst through the door and dropped to the floor, prostrating himself. “I beg you not to meet with the general.” Yukī lowered his tearful eyes. “Please do not announce ‘The Humanity Declaration.’ Please do not let the Kichiku beihei humiliate us. I will fight the Demonic American Beasts; I’ll fight MacAr—”
“Control yourself, Yukī,” Hirohito snapped. “The war is over!”
“But I still believe in Nippon; I still believe in you, Your Majesty,” Yukī whimpered. “You are the son of the Amaterasu her—”
“Stop it, Yukī!” The emperor stamped his foot. “You are embarrassing yourself; you are embarrassing me.”
Yukī sniffled and wiped his eyes. “I am sorry, Your Majesty; I have shamed you.”
Hirohito shook his head. No, Yukī, this war has. “No need to waste time on apologies. Stand, wash your face, and gather yourself.”
Yukī stood, his eyes swollen from crying.
The emperor glanced at his wristwatch. “Check that everything is ready for the broadcast. Go on, Yukī.”
“Hai.” Yukī bowed and stepped out backwards, taking care to avoid turning his back to Hirohito. The personal attendant closed the doors.
The emperor sighed and slumped into a chair. I am not who you think I am, Yukī, and I never was. He patted his breast pocket. This proves it.
“That proves nothing,” a raspy voice hissed. “That lie’s not even worth the paper it’s printed on.”
Hirohito straightened in the chair. “What the devil?”
“Not devils,” the voice corrected. “Kami!”
The emperor stood, trying to locate the disembodied voice.
“How could you forget us?” The voices echoed from a corner of the room. “How could you forget your divine lineage?”
Hirohito spun in the direction of the voice, which multiplied from one to many and moved from corner to corner of the room. The door to the freestanding double cabinet which held his personal collection of Samurai Crab stood ajar, and one of the specimens lay on the floor. Unnerved, the emperor bent down and carefully picked up the encased lifeless crustacean. The shell of the crab bore an even greater resemblance to the hostile faces of the famed noble warriors than those of its crustaceous peers: narrowed eyes and an unmistakable grimace. “I’m tired.” Hirohito rubbed his eye. “That’s all.”
“Yet we’re talking to you right now,” the voices growled.
“I’m just imagining things.”
“You follow the honorable tradition of Shintō yet doubt the existence of kami?”
“I do not believe in nature spirits.” The emperor tapped his forehead. “I am a man of science.”
“Be a man of honor, too, then,” the voices snapped. “Like the bushi. Be a warrior.”
“The war is over.”
“There’s still the Zanryū nipponhei,” the voices countered. “Rally them. Rally the Japanese holdouts!”
Hirohito shook his head. “That is suicide.”
“Suicide’s preferable to shame,” the voices snarled.
“You tempt me with death.”
“A living god will never die,” the voices shrilled.
“My people will suffer even more.”
“They’ll gladly sacrifice themselves for you,” the voices squealed. “How many already chose honor over life? Kamikaze attacks? Banzai charges? Seppuku?
The emperor lowered his eyes. “And what a waste.”
“No,” the voices squealed. “That was your people’s privilege.”
“I cannot do this; I will not do this.”
“Don’t forget that you authorized ‘Climb Mount Niitaka’ on the Kichiku beihei.” The voices rose in volume. “Those Demonic American Beasts.”
“And look what Pearl Harbor got me,” Hirohito replied. “Look what it got my people. Look what it got Nippon.”
“The gaijin are using you,” the voices hissed. “As is MacArthur. Without your help, he knows your people will refuse to work with him in the Reconstruction. He’s afraid of a revolt. He even fears you.”
“You’re lying.”
“How can you call yourself a son of Amaterasu?” the voices snapped. “What kind of god are you?”
“I already told you I’m not a god.”
“No, you’re right,” the voices howled. “A true god would never renounce his divinity.”
“Get out of my mind.” The emperor squeezed his eyes shut and cradled his head. “Leave.”
“Commit seppuku,” the voices ordered. “Save your honor!”
“No, never!”
“Do it, you dirty Nip!” the voices screeched.
“That’s it!” Hirohito tossed the crustacean against the wall, then grabbed the side of the cabinet and jerked the piece of furniture toward the floor. The cabinet crashed. Wood splintered and glass shattered. Liquid flooded out from the wreckage. The scent of formaldehyde pierced the air. The emperor witnessed the watery aftermath of his rage. All those years of study for naught. He fought back tears as he looked upon the remains of his martial crustaceans. After the loss of Saipan, Hirohito found solace in his Samurai Crab. When Nippon lost the Philippines, the emperor took comfort in the latest publications on hydrozoans. When he received reports of his cities replaced by mushroom clouds, the zoological specimens provided him a semblance of order. When little else made sense, his studies of marine life had.
The grandfather clock chimed in the distance. Hirohito checked his wristwatch, regained his composure, and reached into his breast pocket. I cannot delay the inevitable any longer. The emperor winced, jerking away his hand. A sting. He examined his index finger. Blood. Hirohito pressed his forefinger and thumb together. A palette of crimson formed. The emperor had never before experienced a paper cut. Extreme measures had always been taken to shield him from any harm since he was a child. He gazed at his pair of gloves on the table. Until now, he had consistently worn them, even when not presiding over formal occasions.
Hirohito reached back into his breast pocket and fished out the cause of the cut: “The Humanity Declaration.” Is this what divine renunciation feels like? A mere sting? Yes, it hurts, but it is not fatal. It is an integral and essential part of being human. The emperor’s eyes widened. Fragility is not shameful; mortality, not weakness. Blood smeared the edges of the paper. Everything around me is designed to protect me. He scratched his head. The guards, the gates, the gloves. But to protect me from what? Why am I treated like a fragile sakura? I’m not a delicate cherry blossom. If I’m entitled to joy, am I not also entitled to pain? If my people can endure, so can I. Hirohito rubbed his chin. If I can heal, so will my Nippon.
Knocking sounded at the doors.
“Your Majesty,” Yukī called out. “I heard screaming and a crash. Are you all right?”
The emperor gazed at his finger and smiled. “More than, Yukī.”
“May I come in, Your Majesty?” Yukī squeaked.
Hirohito approached the doors and opened them.
Yukī dropped to the floor and lowered his eyes.
The emperor raised his hand, palm up. “Please stand, Yukī.” Leave prostration for a real god.
Yukī rose and pointed to the mess on the floor. “Oh, no, Your Majesty, your Samurai Crabs!”
“I was moving the specimens and accidentally knocked the cabinet over.”
“Why didn’t you let me move them for you, Your Majesty?” Yukī furrowed his brows. “Here, let me take care of the mess.”
Hirohito waved his hand. “It can wait, Yukī.”
“Your finger, Your Majesty,” Yukī shrieked. “It’s bleeding!”
“Just a paper cut, Yukī. It will heal.” The emperor fingered the blood with his thumb. “As will Nippon.”
“Your Majesty, let me at least clean you up.”
“Yukī, I value your help very much, but I’d prefer to do it myself.”
“I do not understand, Your Majesty.”
“I know.” Hirohito nodded. “But trust me.”
“MacArthur is approaching the gates, Your Majesty,” Yukī said, “but I’ll ask him to wait; I’ll tell him you’re not ready.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The emperor pulled out a handkerchief. “I will greet the general now, and by myself.”
“But Your Majest—”
“Let men meet as men.” Hirohito wiped his bloody finger. “Go on, Yukī.”
“Hai.” Yukī bowed and stepped out.
The emperor reached into his breast pocket, reread the declaration, then placed the statement back, and patted his chest. He glanced at his wristwatch. Time to meet the general. He walked over to the window and stared out toward the horizon. Twilight. Hirohito could not make out MacArthur’s entourage but heard the roars of military trucks. The sun would indeed again rise on Nippon but not with a deity, let alone a living one, at its helm. Still, the country would endure; of that, the emperor was sure. Although Hirohito the god was dead, Hirohito the man was just learning to live. He looked forward to the life awaiting him.
Originally from San Antonio, Texas, Jonathan Fletcher, a queer, disabled writer of color, holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in Poetry at Columbia University School of the Arts. He has been published in Arts Alive San Antonio, The BeZine, BigCityLit, and other journals. Additionally, his work has been featured by The League of Women Voters of the San Antonio Area and at the Briscoe Western Art Museum and the San Antonio Museum of Art. In 2023, his work was also chosen as a finalist for the Plentitudes Prize in Poetry. He has served as a Creative Artist/Teacher (CA/T) for New York City’s iHOPE, a specialized school for students with traumatic brain injuries, as well as a poetry editor for Exchange, Columbia University’s literary magazine for incarcerated writers and artists. Currently, he serves as a Zoeglossia Fellow.
