The Sword That Cut the Burning Grass (2 page)

Seikei felt his face grow hot. They were inside the shogun’s castle in the heart of Edo. There was likely no safer place in all Japan. Indeed, just to draw one’s sword from its scabbard here carried a penalty of death.

The shogun poured another cup of tea for the judge, who was one of his most trusted officials and friends, and a cup for the other man as well. Seikei nodded politely when the Shogun looked in his direction, and saw his cup filled too. It was the highest quality tea, as Seikei well knew, for his original father had been a seller of tea.

As his guests sipped the thick, greenish liquid, the shogun said, “What I tell you must remain a secret, for it could cause alarm if others learned of it.”

Seikei nodded. Japan had been at peace for more than a century, ever since the shogun’s ancestor, Tokugawa Ieyasu, defeated the last of the warlords who had fought among themselves for control of the country. It was the shogun’s responsibility to maintain the peace so that harmony would reign and everyone could prosper.

The shogun leaned forward, as if intending that his words would reach Seikei alone. The walls of the room were made of decorated paper in light bamboo frames, and even a trusted servant might be listening. “The emperor has fled from his duties.”

Seikei blinked. The emperor? He had heard of the emperor, of course. Supposedly he lived in a great palace in the city of Kyoto, far to the west, on the other side of Lake Biwa. Seikei’s first father, the tea merchant, had occasionally visited Kyoto on business. He once told Seikei, “The emperor is a kami, a divine spirit, and as with other kami, you cannot see him.”

“Does that mean he isn’t real?” Seikei had asked. He had been very young then.

“Of course he’s real,” Father had scolded. “Don’t we visit shrines to call on the kami for assistance? Do you think we would do that if they weren’t real? And look—they’ve helped me gain wealth by selling tea. Now if only I could find a kami to put some sense into your head and stop you from wanting to be a samurai instead of a merchant.”

Seikei realized that the shogun was waiting for him to respond. “Ummm . . . well, I’m sure the judge can find the emperor, wherever he may be.” Everyone knew that the judge could solve any mystery, find any criminal, determine the truth in any case brought before him. Seikei had on a few occasions helped him, but only by doing what the judge had told him to.

The shogun nodded. “The truth is,” he said, “we already know where the emperor is.” He turned to the third man, who took it as a command to speak.

“He did not even leave Kyoto,” the man said. “He fled to a monastery, the Kinkakuji, the Golden Pavilion. The monks will protect him for now. A very trustworthy person is looking after him.”

Seikei thought he saw the problem. “And the monastery is a sacred place, so the emperor cannot be taken from it?” The last time he had helped the judge solve a case, some Shinto priests had sheltered a ninja who had committed a crime. The judge had to get their permission for Seikei to go after him.

But no. The third man curled his lips, making Seikei feel even stupider. The shogun explained, “No one may lay his hands upon the emperor. He cannot be forced to do anything.”

“Well,” said Seikei, “if he is safe there . . . why not leave him there?”

The shogun sighed. “If only that were possible. The problem is that he doesn’t want to be the emperor.”

“He doesn’t?” Seikei was so surprised, he almost laughed. But he caught himself, because he could see from the shogun’s face that this was a serious matter. “But . . . he can’t
stop
being the emperor.”

The shogun frowned. “He can stop performing the emperor’s duties.”

“What are those like?” Seikei asked warily.

The shogun looked at Judge Ooka. “Perhaps you can explain this better than I can,” he said.

“If you were a farmer,” the judge said to Seikei, “you would understand this more quickly.”

Seikei hung his head, embarrassed that he wasn’t understanding quickly enough.

“The emperor’s ancestor is the goddess Amaterasu,” the judge said. “She has always loved and protected Japan. Each year, part of the emperor’s duty is to ask her for good weather and fertile soil so that there will be an abundant harvest. In the winter, then, there will be plenty of rice and no one will go hungry.” He patted his large round stomach. “As you know, I dislike going hungry, so it is important to me as well.”

“It’s not amusing,” growled the shogun. “The emperor is supposed to make a public appearance at the time of the spring solstice. He must plow a furrow of land and plant rice seeds. If he doesn’t perform that duty, word will spread, and the farmers will be afraid to plant their own seeds. At harvesttime, they will not deliver the proper amount of rice to their
daimyo
lords. The daimyos will bring this problem to me. They will say they are unable to pay their taxes.” He looked sternly at Seikei, making him feel that somehow it would be
his
fault. “This must not be allowed to happen,” the shogun said, raising his voice.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Seikei.

“Go to the monastery and make the emperor understand what his duties are.”

Seikei stared. “But surely he must have advisers who have told him—”

“Of course he does,” said the shogun, waving his hand. “They have clearly done a poor job of it. Now he distrusts them. But you . . . you will be able to persuade him.”

Seikei doubted it, but he could see it was unwise to question the shogun’s decision. The judge must have sensed Seikei’s feelings, for he spoke up.

“He is fourteen,” the judge said.

Seikei furrowed his brow. The shogun must know how old Seikei was.

“I mean the emperor,” said the judge. “He is the same age as you are, and that is why the shogun feels you may be able to persuade him.”

2

THE JUDGE’S WARNING

W
hen they left the palace, the judge explained, “I suggested the idea to the shogun, and he agreed. He is very anxious to find a solution to this problem.”

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.