The Sword That Cut the Burning Grass

by Dorothy Hoobler

  17

  A ROBE FOR SEIKEI

  Takanori took Seikei to a small room in the rear of the building. The smell was stronger here. If anyone screamed, Seikei thought, they would not be heard by passersby in the street.

  When the door opened, there sat Yabuta. His eyes still blazed with the hatred he had shown for Seikei earlier, but he spoke in a softer tone. “I am glad you have chosen to come here willingly,” he said. “Sit down.”

  Seikei sat on a mat facing him. Takanori slid the door shut, but stood behind Seikei as if Yabuta might need him.

  “My curiosity was aroused when I learned that you had chosen to live, not die,” Yabuta began. “I wondered what your plans were.” He looked at Seikei’s obi, where only a wooden sword now rested. “Without your swords,” Yabuta pointed out, “you cannot return to Edo. Judge Ooka would be dishonored.”

  “I intend to regain my swords,” Seikei said. “I left them in a safe place,” he added, wondering if Yabuta knew exactly what he had done with them.

  “That may be possible,” said Yabuta. “It may even be possible for me to forget all the errors you committed on the way to Kyoto.” Seikei realized that Yabuta was attempting to be friendly. The effect was chilling, as if a snake were trying to act like a playful dog.

  “How could that happen?” asked Seikei.

  “Tell me what brings you to Nagoya,” Yabuta replied, as though he wanted to show Seikei the sights.

  Seikei hesitated. “You must know already,” he said, “since you sent Takanori to meet me.”

  “The shrine,” Yabuta said, nodding. “And if you were going to the shrine, you must know what it contains.”

  “The Kusanagi,” Seikei replied. “The sword that cut the burning grass.”

  Yabuta smiled, as if he and Seikei thought alike. “Very good. I suppose it was you who left the Kusanagi scroll at the Buddhist monastery on the Tokaido Road.”

  Seikei nodded. He decided it was wise not to mention Hato’s role.

  “Do you know how important that sword is?” asked Yabuta.

  Seikei considered the question carefully. “I know it is very powerful.”

  “So what did you think you would do if you reached the shrine?” Yabuta asked. “Take the sword? No one but the priests is even permitted to see it.”

  “I . . . I didn’t set out to get the sword,” Seikei said. “I hoped to find the emperor here.”

  Yabuta looked slightly disappointed. “You don’t understand the significance of the sword at all, do you?” he asked Seikei.

  No, Seikei admitted to himself. Reigen had told him that the sword could make Risu become the emperor. But how?

  Yabuta leaned closer, as if he were confiding an important secret. “Lord Ponzu has taken the emperor,” he explained. “I have only a few men at my disposal, not enough to storm Lord Ponzu’s castle and rescue him.” He looked at Seikei. “Do you know what this means?”

  Seikei shook his head.

  “If Lord Ponzu succeeds in putting the sword into the emperor’s hands, he can overthrow the shogun.”

  “Because he who possesses the sword is all-powerful?” said Seikei, remembering what Reigen had told him.

  “Because people will believe the legend of the sword,” Yabuta said. “If they believe the emperor cannot be defeated, they will not resist him.”

  “I . . . I don’t think the emperor even wants to overthrow the shogun,” said Seikei.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Yabuta hissed, as if Seikei were a particularly slow-witted schoolboy. “He is only Lord Ponzu’s tool. Lord Ponzu is the one with ambition. He wishes to put himself in the place of the shogun. Afterward, he will allow the emperor to resume his useless existence as a figurehead living in luxury.”

  Seikei nodded slowly, though he still had misgivings. Risu had said very definitely that he wasn’t the emperor, and if he wanted to live in luxury, why did he leave the palace in the first place?

  “You can redeem yourself,” said Yabuta in a silky tone.

  Seikei was wary. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing difficult at all,” Yabuta replied. “And in return, I will forget all the disgraceful things you have done. You can return to Edo, just as if you had fulfilled your mission.”

  Seikei waited. He suspected Yabuta would not be so generous unless he wanted Seikei to do something exceedingly dangerous or hideously dishonorable.

  “I want you to take the sword,” said Yabuta.

  “But you just said no one but the priests—” Seikei protested.

  “The priests, and, naturally, the emperor,” Yabuta said smoothly.

  “Then how can I—oh, no,” Seikei said, understanding what Yabuta intended.

  “Fortunately, few people ever see the emperor,” Yabuta said, ignoring Seikei’s look. “I happen to know that he has never visited the Atsuta Shrine. The priests who administer the shrine know only that he is a boy about your age.”

  “Even so,” said Seikei, “they must have some way to . . . to determine if . . .” He trailed off, because Yabuta had signaled Takanori to bring someone else into the room. Seikei turned and saw the Ministers of the Right and Left. Their haughty looks had disappeared. Now they eyed Yabuta fearfully, as if he were some sort of dangerous beast that had broken into the house.

  “Do you have the robe the emperor wears when he makes a formal visit to a shrine?” Yabuta asked them.

  “We brought the one he wore when he went to Ise,” the Minister of the Right said.

  “But of course the Atsuta Shrine is less important,” said the Minister of the Left. “So that robe may be regarded as—”

  “Put the robe on him,” said Yabuta, pointing to Seikei.

  The two ministers looked as if he had told them to dress a dog in the emperor’s robe. One of them tried to stammer out an objection, but Yabuta said, “I really only need one of you. If I decide which one is less helpful, I won’t have to tolerate this chatter any longer. Because a severed head cannot speak.”

  The ministers hurried to accomplish their task. Seikei let them, not knowing what else to do.

  After he was dressed, he understood at least one reason why he wouldn’t want to be emperor. The robe was bulky and quite heavy. It included tight undergarments that added to his discomfort. The outfit was topped off by a high hat that covered Seikei’s commoner haircut and even the hachimaki headband. Finally the ministers slipped sandals with high soles on his feet, making him seem taller, but also making it nearly impossible to walk.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Yabuta when Seikei pointed this out. “The ministers will be carrying you in a kago.”

  The ministers opened their mouths in unison, but seeing Yabuta’s look, carefully shut them again—silently.

  18

  THE SECRET OF THE SHRINE

  Seikei recalled the last time he had ridden in a kago. He and his father the tea merchant were traveling on the Tokaido Road. Father believed in comfort, telling Seikei it was one of the benefits gained from earning money. Yet even though Seikei had ridden in a cushioned box carried by two burly men, he had yearned to be walking.

  Here he was again, though the imperial ministers were frailer than professional kago-bearers. The kago itself was much more luxurious than the one Seikei had used before. Even so, he still wanted to be one of the ordinary pilgrims who surrounded the shrine, demanding to know why they were not allowed entry. It was, of course, Yabuta who had ordered the shrine closed.

  Despite the crush of the crowd, the ministers had no trouble getting through. Peeking through a slit in the front of the kago, Seikei saw why. Yabuta’s men—several tall samurai wearing the shogun’s crest—were marching ahead of them. If people didn’t move out of the way fast enough, the samurai used clubs to hurry them. Takanori and two others brought up the rear. That was a good idea, for when word spread that the emperor himself was in the kago, the throng of pilgrims pressed toward it. They ignored the blows of the samurai, stretching their hands ou
t, trying to touch the kago. They believed that the emperor, as a living kami, had the power to heal whatever afflicted them.

  Yabuta had been at the head of the procession and for a while seemed to be swallowed up by the crowd. Seikei momentarily hoped that he had met one of Lord Ponzu’s samurai and been struck down. Then he reminded himself that Ponzu was an enemy of the shogun. However ruthless Yabuta seemed to be, Seikei should be glad to help him foil Lord Ponzu’s rebellion.

  Yet Reigen’s cautionary words kept echoing through Seikei’s mind. When Seikei had said that Yabuta had wanted the same thing they did—to rescue the emperor—Reigen had replied, “Not necessarily.” And Reigen had also warned him that the Kusanagi sword was too powerful for anyone to possess. In a short time, if all went well, Seikei would be holding it in his hands. What would happen then? The words of the Kusanagi scroll came into his mind: Prince Yamato placed a spell on it to make sure that only a descendant of Amaterasu would have the ability to remove it from its resting place.

  Of course, Yabuta would say that was only a legend.

  Something jolted the kago, knocking Seikei against the side of the box. He looked and saw that the press of the crowd had nearly caused one of the ministers to fall. If the kago crashed to the ground and broke open, it might throw the pilgrims into such a frenzy that they would tear Seikei apart in their desire to touch him.

  Seikei thought wryly that if that happened, Hato would never be convinced he hadn’t been the emperor. On the other hand, it would be more like her to show up at the shrine with the real emperor just as Seikei arrived. Even Yabuta would have a hard time explaining that.

  No, Seikei told himself. That couldn’t happen if Hato followed his instructions. She was only supposed to come to the shrine tomorrow, unless Seikei met her outside Lord Ponzu’s castle first.

  He heard cries of pain from outside the kago. Peering through the crack he saw Yabuta’s men roughly shoving people out of the way; some were being trampled by others pressing forward. Seikei felt trapped, like a duck kept in a wooden cage at the marketplace, whose only fate was to be taken to someone’s home and eaten. It would be impossible for him to flee, even if he opened the kago door and jumped out.

  Finally they reached the torii gate. Seikei clapped his hands with a silent prayer to the kami of the shrine. Help me preserve my honor by doing what is right.

  The priests of the shrine were waiting for them. One let down the simenawa, or sacred rope across the entrance, that had barred the pilgrims from entering. Yabuta’s men kept the crowd at bay as the ministers carried the kago inside. Then the rope was put in place again.

  No rope could have restrained the pilgrims if Seikei emerged from the kago in full view of the street. So the two ministers, by now breathing heavily with the exertion, had to lug Seikei and the kago up the steps and inside the haiden, the worship hall of the shrine. He felt them gently set the kago down on the wooden floor. Realizing that, as the emperor, it was beneath his dignity to open the kago door himself, he waited.

  Sure enough, presently it slid aside and Seikei peered out. The room seemed full of Shinto priests, most in white robes. Four of them, closest to the kago, immediately knelt, followed almost at once by four behind them. Like ripples through a pond, several more rows of monks knelt in turn. In the very last row, however, one man, dressed the same as the others, remained standing.

  Seikei saw who it was: Reigen. He froze as the old man’s eyes locked on his. The look on Reigen’s face was not one of approval; he looked very much as he had when Lord Ponzu’s men had passed by on the road. Seikei waited for him to announce, “That’s not the emperor.” But instead, Reigen merely slipped silently aside, out of Seikei’s view.

  The other priests remained kneeling, motionless, for what seemed like too long a time. Seikei wondered if they were waiting for him to do something. He decided that Yabuta would have let him know if that were necessary.

  Trying not to make it seem obvious, Seikei leaned forward. He wanted to see where Reigen had gone. What would the old man do? If he reported what he knew to Yabuta or the two ministers, of course it wouldn’t matter. But there must be a chief priest in charge of the shrine. In order to assume a priestly identity and robes, Reigen must know him well. If at that very moment Reigen was telling him that the boy in the kago was a fraud, that would explain the delay.

  The sound of a small bell abruptly broke the silence. It seemed to be a signal, for the kneeling priests visibly relaxed. Some even looked up, although Seikei noticed that none were so bold as to look directly at him.

  The two ministers appeared on either side of the kago doorway. They reached for Seikei’s hands, and he allowed them to help him out of the kago. He didn’t have to walk, fortunately, because two priests appeared, carrying a wooden chair.

  The chair had no decorations on it. It was made of plain, unpainted wooden planks fitted together. The wood was worn and pitted, clearly very old, perhaps dating back hundreds of years. Very reluctantly, Seikei sat down, for he knew that those who had used the chair before him must have been far more worthy than he.

  One of the ministers put a flat wooden sceptre in his hand, whispering, “Hold it upright during the ceremony.” Seikei sighed, but did as he was told.

  After he was settled, four young priests raised the chair on their shoulders and placed it on a high platform. From here Seikei could look down on everyone in the hall. He strained his eyes to locate Reigen, but could not find him. He noticed that although Yabuta and the two ministers had entered the haiden, none of the samurai Yabuta had brought were permitted inside. This was a sacred place.

  Music now began, accompanied by chanting that Seikei barely understood. He recognized it as the same ancient language that had been used for the scroll. He could make out a few words of praise and prayers for the emperor’s long life.

  Seikei was embarrassed. Any kami who inhabited this shrine must be thoroughly disgusted with the fraud. Seikei looked at the high ceiling, wondering if Susanoo might put a bolt of lightning through it to bring the ceremony to a halt.

  No one but Seikei seemed concerned, however, and the music continued. It was not the lively kind of music that had been performed at kabuki plays Seikei had seen. Instead it was solemn and slow.

  Quite slow, and seemingly never-ending. Seikei found it difficult to hold the sceptre upright for so long. He wondered if it would be acceptable to shift it to his other hand. Better not, he told himself.

  Dancers appeared—a line of young women who encircled the platform Seikei’s chair rested on. The women were pretty, but none of them smiled. Keeping time to the music, they moved slowly and danced as if they were carrying heavy weights.

  At last, the music changed. It became a little faster, as if preparing for something important to happen. Seikei tried to conceal his relief as the young priests lifted him down from the platform. All around him, the temple dancers had fallen to the floor, resting there as motionless as if they had been autumn leaves.

  The oldest of the priests in the hall stepped forward and stood beside Seikei. He wore a purple garment, indicating his high rank. He gave a signal, and someone opened the door that led from this part of the shrine to the inner honden. In there, Seikei knew, the sacred objects inhabited by the kami were preserved. Seikei had never even seen the inside of a honden before, much less been there. Now it was clear he was supposed to enter.

  “He’ll show you the resting place of the sword,” one of the ministers whispered in his ear. “You will have to open the box and remove it.”

  The other minister bent to remove Seikei’s high-soled sandals. He left on the white cotton tabi socks, and Seikei stepped forward. The wooden floor was rough, and there was no danger of him slipping. At the moment he entered the honden, the music behind him stopped. A hush fell over the hall. Seikei sensed, rather than heard, the old priest follow him.

  The honden was nearly dark; a little light came from high above, where there was an open space in the roof. As his
eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Seikei saw a long, shiny black lacquered box resting on a low table in the center of the room. He assumed this must be the repository of the sword. His palms grew cold at the thought of having to lift it.

  Moving closer, he saw that the lid of the box was slightly off center. He waited until the high priest caught up with him, because Seikei felt he needed a witness.

  He glanced at the priest to see if there was to be any further ceremony before the lid was removed. Evidently not, for the old man seemed to be waiting for him.

  Seikei touched the lid, half expecting to be struck dead for doing what only Amaterasu’s living descendant should do. He put his fingers under it, finding that it wasn’t heavy. A scent like faint perfume reached his nostrils from the inside of the box. He lifted the lid and looked down.

  The high priest made a sound, something like a squeak, and took a step back. Seikei thought for a moment that the man would fall.

  The box was empty. The Kusanagi was gone.

  19

  THE RONIN’S SURPRISE

  Seikei feared that the priests of the shrine would draw the obvious conclusion. Since the sword had left the shrine, it stood to reason that the person who came to claim it was an impostor.

  That didn’t happen. When the chief priest emerged from the honden, he announced the loss of the sword in a voice that trembled with fear and shame. Everyone looked at Seikei. He suddenly realized that they expected him to be angry. The custodians of the shrine, whose primary duty had been to protect and preserve the Kusanagi, had failed.

  Seikei tried to play the part by looking stern. That succeeded so well that all the priests, the musicians, and the shrine dancers fell to their knees, bowing their heads.

  Leaving only three people besides Seikei standing: the two ministers, who looked fearful, and Yabuta, who did not. In fact, Yabuta looked exactly the way Seikei, as the emperor, was supposed to feel.