The Sword That Cut the Burning Grass

PHILOMEL BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
Published by The Penguin Group
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Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 (a division of
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hoobler, Dorothy. The sword that cut the burning grass : a samurai mystery /
Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler. p. cm.

Summary: In his latest adventure in eighteenth-century Japan, fourteen-year-old samurai
apprentice Seikei, with the help of a servant girl and an imperious old man, sets out to
rescue the young Emperor Yasuhito from his kidnappers. 1. Japan—History—Tokugawa
period, 1600-1868—Juvenile fiction. [1. Japan—History—Tokugawa period, 1600-1868—
Fiction. 2. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction. 3. Samurai—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective
stories.] I. Hoobler, Thomas. II. Title. PZ7.H76227Sw 2005 [Fic]—dc22 2004020320

eISBN : 978-1-440-68427-2

First Impression

http://us.penguingroup.com

To Ellen

PROLOGUE

Yasuhito thought he could not sit still for another moment. The robes in which the priests had dressed him that morning were so heavy that he could not even stand up in them without help. They had had to lift him onto the throne, and then it took six priests to raise it onto a platform higher than the head of anyone in the hall.

Even there, Yasuhito could not rest. His arm ached from holding his sceptre upright as his officials approached, knelt, and then retreated on their knees. For most of the afternoon, the sickly sweet smell of incense had filled his nostrils. The sounds of chanting, gongs, flutes, and thirteen-string
kotos
had gone on and on until he thought his head would burst.

He saw with relief that the line of officials finally seemed to be coming to an end. Of course, Yasuhito knew, there might be still another group of them waiting outside the huge wooden doors of the Sacred Purple Hall. If he had had his way, he would have told them all to go home or do some work or whatever it was that they did when they weren’t bowing in front of him.

But then he remembered the moment that morning when Uino, the high priest, had tied the ribbon that held Yasuhito’s hat on.

Uino’s face had been so close that Yasuhito could see the tiny red veins in his eyes and the hairs in his nose. Yasuhito was seldom frightened, because no one was permitted ever to hurt him, but Uino’s eyes bored into his as if they were darts. Uino did not even have to speak, for Yasuhito knew what his message was: He
had
to do this. Do it the proper way. The way he had been taught to do it for months, ever since his father had died. It was his duty.

Yes.

And now, Uino approached again. At his signal, the younger priests lifted Yasuhito down from the high throne. With relief, he handed the sceptre to one of them. He stood quietly as they removed his outer garments and then the stiff, uncomfortable hat. Yasuhito raised his arms, just to experience the feeling, but immediately dropped them to his side again when he saw Uino’s look of disapproval. No movements were permitted except those Yasuhito had rehearsed.

Uino pointed out the place where he was supposed to go now: a pool sunk into the floor at the far end of the hall. As Yasuhito reached the edge, another priest lifted the last of his clothing from his body, and Yasuhito stepped into the water. It was cool, soothing, and made him feel as if he weighed nothing at all. He imagined himself rising up to heaven, escaping all this . . .

Uino clapped his hands loudly. That got Yasuhito’s attention, but it was the
kami,
the spirits, that Uino was really calling. Uino began to chant a prayer. It was in the ancient language that people no longer spoke except here in the palace. He called on the kami to come and accept this boy, to let him be born again from Amaterasu, the goddess who had given birth to all his ancestors. The water would purify him so that he would be worthy. Yasuhito thought he saw Uino’s eyes flick over him, as if he remembered how unworthy Yasuhito really was.

Uino gestured again, and two priests ran forward carrying a long, rolled-up bamboo mat. They placed the beginning of it at the edge of the pool and started to lay it out in front of Yasuhito. Dripping and naked, he stepped onto it and began to follow as the mat unrolled. He knew that its purpose was to prevent his feet, now purified, from touching the floor. Another priest rolled the mat up behind him after he passed over it. No one but Yasuhito would be permitted to walk on the mat. No one but the emperor stepped here.

Yes.

He knew where they were going, where the unrolling mat would take him. He didn’t really want to go there, but it was unthinkable to turn away, walk off the mat and go somewhere else. What he wanted didn’t matter. That was the strangest part about being the emperor.

Yasuhito followed the unrolling mat into a stone courtyard. The mat stopped at the entrance to a small wooden hut that appeared to be very old. The wood was full of wormholes and looked as if centuries of rain and wind had given it a moldy gray color.

Yasuhito knew that the hut had been built just this week. He had watched the carpenters from the window of his bedroom high above. They had used wood that was kept in a secret place. Tomorrow the hut would be taken down and put away until the next time a new emperor used it. Maybe that would be a long time, because Yasuhito was only eight years old.

A priest handed him the first of the three treasures: the sacred sword, the very one that Amaterasu’s brother had taken from a dragon’s tail. Yasuhito stepped off the end of the carpet and went inside the hut. Candles were burning all around the walls, and he could see a low table in the center of the room. Two bowls of rice sat on the table, steaming as if they had just been placed there. Between them lay the other two sacred treasures: the jewel and the mirror. All three treasures had been gifts from Amaterasu herself, presented to one of Yasuhito’s ancestors thousands of years before. They had been passed down to each new emperor ever since.

A pillow covered with silk rested on the floor, and he sat down, relieved that he could be comfortable at last. No one would disturb him until the next morning. No one else could come inside, except of course the goddess herself. Amaterasu would enter the hut during the night. When she appeared, Yasuhito would be reborn, just as all his ancestors had been when they became the emperor.

That worried him a bit. “Does it hurt?” Yasuhito had asked Uino, which made Uino angrier than Yasuhito had ever seen him.

“Do you remember being born before?” asked Uino.

Yasuhito admitted that he did not.

“Then it didn’t hurt,” said Uino, “and even if it does, you will never speak of it to anyone.”

One
person would know if it hurt or not. Grandfather would know. But he was gone now. Yasuhito had last seen him four years ago, when Father became the emperor. Yasuhito had overheard some of the servants say that Grandfather had gone to live on the summit of Fujiyama, where he spoke only with the spirits of nature.

Amaterasu would know how to find Grandfather, Yasuhito told himself. She knew everything, because day and night she watched over all of Japan. He had many questions to ask her. She would tell him what he wanted to know. All he had to do was wait for her to arrive.

Yes.

A STRANGE TASK

I
have a task for you,” said the
shogun.

Seikei found himself unable to speak. The shogun wanted
him
to do something? He glanced at his father Judge Ooka, who was seated to the shogun’s right. A third man, dressed in a
kimono
with a hollyhock design that identified him as a shogunate official, sat on the other side of the shogun. They were in a room that was usually used for much larger meetings. Reflecting the shogun’s simple tastes, the walls were bare and the only furniture, aside from straw mats and pillows, was a small table that held a teapot and some porcelain cups.

The judge smiled to break the silence and said, “Perhaps Seikei feels unworthy of serving you.”

“Oh,
no!
” Seikei blurted out. “I mean, yes, I’m unworthy, but no, I’ll do anything you want.”

The shogun nodded. “Your father told me when he wanted to adopt you that you have the true
samurai
spirit. He was correct. You haven’t even asked what the task will be. Suppose I wanted you to defend me against a
ninja
who was determined to kill me?”

“I would,” Seikei said instantly.

“He has already defeated a ninja,” murmured the judge.

“That’s right,” said the shogun. “He does not lack for bravery.” He gave Seikei a look of approval and pride. It warmed Seikei’s heart until he noticed the expression on the face of the third man. His dark brown eyes were as hard as flint stones, and showed his clear contempt. Seikei, who was always conscious that he had not been born into a samurai family, felt that the man must know Seikei’s original father had been a lowly merchant.

“You would not need weapons for this task,” the shogun continued. Seikei could not prevent his hand from reaching to touch the hilt of his long sword. He had only recently earned the right to carry it by defeating the ninja. He would have fought to the death to keep it. The twin swords at his waist—one long, one short—were the mark of a samurai warrior.

The shogun noticed his gesture. “No need to defend me here,” he said dryly.

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