The Sword That Cut the Burning Grass

by Dorothy Hoobler

  He must be desperate, Seikei thought silently, to think that the emperor would listen to what I have to say. A groom brought their horses and helped the judge to mount his. The palace grounds were immense, and at this time of year, the views were breathtaking. Swirls of red and yellow leaves ran through the treetops, contrasting with the dark green of pines and cedars. Seikei and the judge rode slowly, enjoying the spectacle.

  “What does he look like?” Seikei asked. He tried to imagine himself talking to a kami, and he kept thinking of an old tree with huge, twisted limbs behind the tea shop in Osaka. Everyone believed that a very powerful kami lived within it, and Seikei often sat there and prayed that it would find a way for him to become a samurai. The kami had granted his request, but he doubted that the emperor looked like a tree.

  “The emperor? I have not seen him myself,” said the judge. “But I am told he is not very different from any other boy. He became emperor when he was only eight years old, but he performed all his duties correctly until recently. The chief priest, a man named Uino, died suddenly this year. Perhaps the emperor was affected by his death.”

  “I suppose his father is dead too, or he wouldn’t be the emperor.”

  “Yes, his father is,” replied the judge. Something in his voice made Seikei think there was more to the story. He looked questioningly at the judge.

  His foster father smiled. “You are alert, I see,” he said. “The emperor’s grandfather is still alive. He was the emperor at one time, but retired, thinking that it was time his son had the responsibility. Unfortunately, the son did not live to an old age, and his son took the throne.”

  “Well, why doesn’t the shogun ask the grandfather to become the emperor again? That would solve everything.”

  “Unfortunately, once one has relinquished the power of the Tenno Haike, one cannot assume it again. Amaterasu would not permit it. Besides, no one knows where the grandfather is. Unlike his grandson, he has successfully hidden himself.”

  “And the emperor’s mother?” Seikei would have done anything to please his own mother, but he knew she would never ask anything of him.

  “She is dead too,” said the judge, “and the emperor was her only child.”

  “It sounds as if no one wants to be the emperor,” said Seikei. “Why is that?”

  “That’s something you may discover for yourself,” replied the judge. “Being emperor is a heavy responsibility. Perhaps some would find the burden unbearable.”

  “Duty is an honor that Heaven bestows on us,” Seikei said.

  The judge smiled. “I have read that too,” he said.

  “Well, isn’t it true?” asked Seikei.

  “Many things are true,” replied the judge. “It is also true that not all people agree on what is true.”

  This was so confusing that Seikei had no answer. The sound of approaching hoofbeats behind them made him turn his head. The official who had been present at the meeting with the shogun rode by swiftly. He shot Seikei another of his scowls.

  “Who was that man?” Seikei asked the judge after he was out of earshot.

  “He is Yabuta Sukehachi, the chief of the Guards of the Inner Garden.”

  “I have never heard of them before,” said Seikei.

  “With good reason,” said the judge. “It is a crime just to mention that they exist.”

  Seikei didn’t know how to respond. It seemed to him that the judge must have just confessed to a crime, but that was unthinkable.

  “As you see,” the judge said after a moment, “even I sometimes fail in my duty. In this case, my concern for your safety overcame my devotion to the law of the shogun.”

  “My safety? Do you think I am in danger?” Seikei asked. He stared at the back of the rapidly receding horse and rider ahead of them.

  The judge saw where he was looking. “It is Yabuta’s job—his duty, really—to bring information to the shogun. It was he who found where the emperor was, and he wanted the shogun to assign him the task of bringing the emperor back to the palace.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “Because Yabuta would have done it by force.”

  “But if there is no other way to persuade the emperor to perform his duties . . .” Seikei trailed off.

  The judge reined his horse to a halt. They were overlooking a particularly beautiful spot in the palace grounds. A breeze was plucking some of the autumn-colored leaves from the trees. For a moment, he and Seikei enjoyed the scene, and then the judge spoke: “Did you ever hear the story people tell about the three great military leaders who unified our country? Someone brought them a songbird that would not sing. Nobunaga said, ‘I will order it to sing.’ Hideyoshi declared, ‘I will kill it if it doesn’t sing.’ But Tokugawa Ieyasu, the shogun’s ancestor, said, ‘I will wait until it decides to sing.’ ” He turned to Seikei. “That is why the shogun would prefer not to use Yabuta for this task.”

  The judge rode on, and Seikei followed, thinking about what he had said. By the time he started to reply, they had reached the gate in the wall surrounding the palace grounds. Several samurai guards were standing there, and the judge gestured for Seikei to be silent.

  When they had passed through and into the street beyond, the judge said, “From now on, you must be careful about where you speak and what you say. Yabuta was insulted that you were chosen for a task he believed he should carry out. He will report to the shogun anything he can find that reflects badly on you. Some people say he has eyes that he can leave in rooms that will let him see what goes on there.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  The judge shrugged. “I think it very likely that he employs servants and guards to tell him things they see and hear. So consider your actions carefully when you are in Kyoto.”

  “I would never do anything to dishonor our family,” said Seikei.

  “No, not intentionally. But an innocent act or remark may be misunderstood. When I judge cases that are brought before me, I do not like information that has passed through too many mouths.”

  “It would be better if you had the ability to leave your eye anywhere,” said Seikei.

  To one side of the street, some acrobats stood on one another’s shoulders to form a pyramid. The judge stopped his horse to watch, and Seikei did likewise.

  “I would not like to have that ability,” said the judge.

  For a second, Seikei thought he was talking about the acrobats. Then he realized the judge meant the ability to see anywhere. “But you would be able to make everyone safe,” Seikei protested.

  The judge shook his head. By now, the pyramid numbered ten men, starting with four on the bottom row. It was quite impressive. “They would not be safe from me,” said the judge. “I am only a man, not perfect. I might use that ability to make myself more powerful. I would be tempted to use it against people I did not like. Who knows what effect it might have on me?”

  The acrobat on the top of the pyramid jumped down, and the crowd watching the performance gasped. It seemed as if he would be badly hurt, but at the last moment, two of the men on the bottom of the pyramid reached out and caught him. The crowd cheered. The acrobats began to hold out cups for a donation. The judge handed over a silver coin that was accepted with a smile and a bow.

  As they rode on, Seikei took the conversation in another direction. “Does that mean,” he asked, “that you would not like to be the emperor?”

  “Indeed I would not,” replied the judge. “He has responsibility but no power. The shogun is the ruler of Japan for most things. The emperor is more important, because he is our link with Heaven, but I do not feel that would be a comfortable role for me.”

  “Then how am I going to convince him to perform his duties?” asked Seikei.

  “I am sure you will think of something,” said the judge.

  “Will you be there to advise me?” Seikei did not have the same confidence in his ability as the judge did.

  “Unfortunately, I have duties that will prevent me from trave
ling with you,” said the judge. “The fire brigades that we have established throughout Edo need additional training. For the same reason, I cannot spare Bunzo to go with you. You will be on your own.”

  Seikei nodded. Bunzo was the chief of the judge’s samurai forces. After the judge had adopted Seikei, Bunzo had trained him in the skills a samurai should have. Seikei was keenly aware that he had not always measured up to Bunzo’s standards. Still, it would have been reassuring to have him along on this trip. Seikei knew that Bunzo would, if necessary, give his life to defend him.

  “It should take you six days to reach Kyoto,” said the judge. “I suggest you start tomorrow morning.”

  Seikei recalled the last time he had traveled along the Tokaido Road. It was a journey that had changed his life. He felt a little uneasy about having to start out again, as if tracing his steps in the other direction might be bad luck, might take him back to the life he had led before.

  3

  THE RONIN’S COMPLAINT

  Traveling, Seikei soon found, was a different experience from what it had been when he was a tea merchant’s son. Before, when he and his old father encountered a great daimyo lord on the road, they had to move aside and bow humbly until the procession of samurai warriors and servants of the daimyo had passed by. This could cause long delays, for some daimyos traveled with as many as a thousand retainers.

  Now, since Seikei’s haori jacket bore the shogun’s crest, he had to move aside for no one. The sign of the hollyhock was known and respected everywhere. When Seikei stopped at an inn, he did not have to give “thank-money” to the innkeeper to ensure that his room would be comfortable. As soon as he dismounted, a groom took his horse. At the door, a servant brought him a hot towel and asked if he wished tea. By the second day of his journey, Seikei was sending the tea back if it was not of high quality. The servants were surprised that he could tell good tea from bad.

  The following day, he asked to be served a particular kind of fish that he knew was a specialty of the local area. He imagined it was expensive, but he had already learned that he would not receive a bill at the end of his stay. The innkeepers sent any bills to the shogun, and hoped they would be paid.

  The weather made the trip even better. Every day was clear and crisp, the chilly air seeming to bring added color to the autumn leaves still clinging to the trees. When Seikei passed Mount Fuji, he could see its snow-covered summit clearly. Only a few years before, the volcano had erupted, sending streams of molten lava down its sides, but now it stood once more in silent, frosty majesty, linking the land with Heaven.

  That set Seikei thinking about his task. He supposed the emperor must be a very strange person, something like the hermits who were supposed to live high up on Mount Fuji. They did nothing but meditate, and survived by drinking melted snow and eating berries and pinecone nuts. Seikei thought it might be possible that the emperor was so concerned with spiritual matters that he didn’t consider his earthly duties important. Perhaps it would help to tell him of the many people who would go hungry if the rice crop was poor. But maybe he would be meditating so deeply that he wouldn’t notice Seikei at all. What then? Seikei would not like to go back to the shogun and admit that he had failed.

  The road was crowded here at the base of Mount Fuji, for at this time of year many people came to view the sacred mountain. Seikei became so deeply engrossed in thought that he failed to notice a samurai approaching from behind on foot. Suddenly the man tugged at the leg of Seikei’s monohiki, which he wore for riding.

  Seikei looked down and instinctively reached for his sword. The man wore two swords himself, as well as a plain brown kosode that was stained and fraying a bit at the end of the sleeves. He evidently was a ronin, one of the masterless samurai who wandered about, searching for a daimyo to take them into his household.

  When the ronin saw Seikei touch the hilt of his sword, he dropped to his knees in front of the horse. “Forgive me, Your Honor,” he said. “I saw from your clothing that you were a courier for the shogun. I have an urgent message for him. I must tell him of a great injustice.”

  Seikei reined in his horse. It was either do that or ride over the man. Some passing workmen, carrying tools to advertise their trades, momentarily stopped to stare. “Get up!” Seikei told the man in a low tone. “Act like a samurai!”

  Slowly the man rose to his feet, but kept his head bowed.

  “I am on a mission for the shogun,” Seikei told him. “It will take me to Kyoto. Why don’t you report this injustice to the local governor?”

  The man looked up, his eyes white with fear. “Oh no, Your Honor,” he said. “The officials here would do nothing.”

  Seikei looked at the man’s shabby condition. “When was the last time you ate?” he asked.

  The man shook his head. “I had some pears yesterday. They fell off a farmer’s cart. I did not steal them. I swear it.”

  “There was a woman selling noodles back on the road a little way,” Seikei said. He handed the man a coin. “Go and get yourself a bowl.”

  “But you haven’t heard my report,” the man protested.

  “If you write it out,” Seikei said, “you can give it to any of the shogun’s couriers heading for Edo.” He pointed in the direction he had come from. “That way,” he said. “But I’m going to Kyoto.”

  The man hung his head again. “Alas, Your Honor, I am ashamed to say I cannot write.” Slowly he looked up, peering hopefully at Seikei. “But you could write it for me.”

  Seikei sighed.

  The man actually ate three bowls of noodles, and would no doubt have consumed even more had Seikei not figured out that the more he ate, the longer his story became. It was a confusing tale, hardly believable. The ronin’s name was Takanori, and he had been born into a samurai family that served a daimyo named Lord Shima.

  Lord Shima’s domain had not been large, but somehow he had aroused jealousy in a more powerful neighbor, Lord Ponzu. Over many years, it seemed, Lord Ponzu had brought ruin to his neighboring daimyo. He and his samurai had tormented the farmers who worked in Lord Shima’s fields—diverting streams to cause floods, letting rats loose in granaries, killing farm animals in the night. . . . There seemed to be no end to Lord Ponzu’s despicable tricks.

  Seikei tried to hurry the story along. “Didn’t Lord Shima resist?”

  “What could he do?”

  “Complain to the local magistrate,” Seikei said.

  Takanori shook his head. “Whenever my lord brought a complaint, the magistrate would look the other way. And indeed, Lord Ponzu acted in such secrecy that nothing could be proven.”

  Seikei said nothing. Judge Ooka had told him that such things happened. The reason the shogun had promoted the judge to high office was because of the judge’s honesty, which unfortunately was a rare quality.

  “Well, what happened?” Seikei asked. “Clearly you are no longer employed by Lord Shima.”

  “My lord grew desperate,” said Takanori. “One day, he encountered Lord Ponzu on the road between their domains. Lord Ponzu dared to insult him. My lord was compelled to draw his sword to defend his honor, and Lord Ponzu’s men cut him down, along with all the samurai with him. Two of my lord’s personal guards were my brothers, and they died that day.”

  Seikei said nothing. His opinion was that Takanori, to save his own honor, should have fought and died as well. Now look at him! Little more than a beggar. The two swords he wore were the only indication that he had once been a samurai. Seikei had heard that some people like Takanori, because of poverty, had even sold their swords to go into business. He turned away in disgust.

  “Your story has merit,” Seikei said, “but as I told you, I cannot return to Edo just now. I have—”

  He stopped, shocked, because Takanori had taken hold of his arm and pulled him close. He could smell the green onions from the soup the man had eaten. “There’s more,” Takanori said. “When I tell you this, you’ll see how important it is that the shogun be told.”r />
  Seikei angrily pulled away. “Be quick with it, then,” he said. “But no more soup.”

  Takanori looked around, as if he feared someone was listening. Not even the woman selling soup looked as if she cared in the slightest about what he had to say.

  “Lord Ponzu is planning an uprising against the shogun,” he whispered.

  At first Seikei was stunned, but almost immediately a wave of anger rolled over him. This was a transparent lie, intended to trick Seikei into thinking he had to go back to Edo at once.

  “How do you know this?” he asked coldly. “Have you any proof?”

  “I . . . I heard it from a geisha who said two of Lord Ponzu’s men spoke of it while drunk. But she is very reliable. If the shogun sent someone to investigate—where are you going?”

  Seikei had gotten to his feet and headed for the door of the noodle shop. He stopped only to say, “I am sorry for the misfortune that you have encountered. I will report your story to an honest magistrate, but not until I have finished my work in Kyoto.” He turned his back and ignored the man’s feeble protests.

  4

  PORRIDGE WITH THE EMPEROR

  On the remainder of his trip to Kyoto, Seikei had trouble getting the incident out of his mind. Even the sight of Lake Biwa, the vast blue body of water just east of the imperial city, could not erase it. Of course the ronin’s story was concocted to bring attention to whatever injustice might have been done to his daimyo master. But suppose there was indeed some kind of plot to overthrow the shogun? Then clearly Seikei ought to report it at once.

  No. The shogun would have laughed at the story—until he remembered that Seikei had shirked his duty to carry out the task entrusted to him.

  Seikei felt a sense of relief when he reached Nijo Castle, the governor’s residence in Kyoto. The servants there treated him as if he were an important person. Of course, Seikei decided after thinking about it, since he was on an official mission, he was an important person.

  After Seikei had been served excellent tea and a meal of fresh fish with rice, he was invited to meet the governor. He changed into a formal kosode for the meeting. The shogun’s representative in Kyoto turned out to be a short, middle-aged man who continually brushed away wrinkles in his kimono. “I am informed that you are to receive any assistance I can provide,” he told Seikei. “I understand you plan to speak personally with the emperor.”