The Sword That Cut the Burning Grass (3 page)

“Unfortunately, I have duties that will prevent me from traveling 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

T
raveling, 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.”

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

O
n 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.”

“As soon as that can be arranged,” Seikei responded.

“This is most unusual,” said the governor. “Normally, not even
I
would speak to the emperor. When I have anything to communicate to him, I send a message to the Minister of the Right at the imperial palace.” He tugged at one of the sleeves of his kimono, then smoothed it with his finger. “Or the Minister of the Left,” he added.

“Is the emperor still at the Golden Pavilion monastery?” asked Seikei.

“Yes. I have ordered the monks to inform me if he should try to leave.”

Seikei smiled to himself. He knew that monks of important temples followed the “orders” of government officials only if it suited them. “Could you assign someone to show me the way to the pavilion?” he asked.

“Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?” suggested the governor. “Or is that too soon?”

“I would like to go now,” said Seikei.

The governor was so surprised that he smoothed both of his sleeves. Evidently things did not get done as quickly in Kyoto as they did in Edo. “Right now?” the governor asked.

“If that can be arranged,” said Seikei.

 

 

It could. Accompanied by a mounted samurai named Kushi, Seikei rode to the northern part of the city. At the foot of a high hill stood a gate surrounded by two stone pillars. “That is the entrance,” Kushi said. “Leave your horse here and walk up the path to the temple.”

“Aren’t you coming?” asked Seikei.

“It will be better if I don’t,” said Kushi. “The monks here follow the Zen form of Buddhism. One moment they seem to be meditating, and the next they’re testing their military skills. If I were you, I would leave my swords behind so that no one challenges you.”

Seikei hesitated. “I cannot give up my swords without good reason.”

Kushi shrugged. “As you like. Will your errand take some time?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Seikei.

Kushi indicated a
sake
shop on the other side of the street. “I’ll wait there for you,” he said.

The monastery gate was open and unguarded. Seikei walked up the narrow stone path beyond it and entered a grove of trees. In places, grass and weeds had sprouted between the stones underneath Seikei’s feet. He was surprised no one had tended to them.

The path followed the base of the hill until suddenly it reached a clearing. Seikei saw a massive three-tiered pagoda with overhanging roofs that gleamed gold in the midafternoon sunlight. The sight was breathtaking until he looked a bit closer. Like the path, the pagoda seemed a bit shabby. Railings on the upper floors were broken, and a few of the roof tiles were missing or out of place.

No one appeared until Seikei reached the pagoda. Then a monk in an orange robe emerged from a doorway. He looked strong and carried a device that consisted of two iron bars held together at one end by a grip. Seikei recognized it as a
jitte.
Practicing with Bunzo, he had seen a man with a jitte trap a warrior’s sword and wrench it from his grasp.

“What is your purpose here?” called the monk.

“I have come to speak to the emperor,” Seikei replied.

“We do not use titles here,” the monk told him.

Seikei thought back to what he’d learned. “Then I wish to speak to Yasuhito,” he said, using the emperor’s personal name, even though it was supposed to be unlucky to do so.