“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
S
eikei 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 out, 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
S
eikei 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.
Yabuta stared at Seikei with such rage that Seikei felt it like a blast of hot air. He expected Yabuta to denounce him immediately and order his death. In fact, Seikei thought he would be lucky if death was all that Yabuta had in store for him.
But that didn’t happen either. Instead, Yabuta abruptly turned and stalked out of the haiden. Evidently he had decided on some other course of action.
The two ministers looked helplessly at Seikei. Seikei understood. Since they had brought him here as the emperor, it was impossible for them to abandon that deception. There was only one way to get out of here.
Seikei pointed to his sandals, left on the floor outside the honden. One of the ministers slipped them back onto Seikei’s feet, and Seikei stepped into the kago.
The door slid shut, and Seikei felt the ministers lift him off the floor. He regretted leaving the shrine without a final word for the priests, but “Don’t worry. It’s not your fault,” seemed unlike anything an emperor would say.
Seikei worried about how the ministers were going to get through the crowd outside without Yabuta and his men. But Takanori was waiting for the kago at the shrine gate. “Make way!” he shouted. “The kago is empty. The emperor has remained at the shrine. Let us through.”
Seikei had to admire this strategy. Except for a few people who wanted just to touch the empty kago, the crowd moved aside. It did not take long before they arrived back at the house where Seikei had met Yabuta. The ministers set the kago down much less gently than when they had carried the “emperor.” Seikei had to open the kago door himself.
This time, no one knelt on seeing him. He faced Takanori, who stood ready to draw his sword. “Take off that costume,” he told Seikei, “and leave it in the kago.”
Seikei did as he was told, keeping only the undergarments. Takanori took him inside the house. Once more Seikei noticed the smell of blood. This time he was certain his own blood would soon be mingled with it. He could think of no reason why Yabuta would want him to live, and several why Yabuta would want him dead.
The two ministers had disappeared. Takanori showed no interest in them. He slid open the door to a room and motioned Seikei inside. “Sit,” Takanori said, and Seikei took a seat on the matted floor. He looked around, but saw no bloodstains. If he were going to kill someone, he would choose a room where there would be no mats that would need to be burned later.