The Puzzle Box

The Puzzle Box

1

Ise Grand Shrine, Japan

February 23, 2024

The Year of the Wood Dragon

The Shinto priest runs to the temple, lifting the hem of his robes to keep from tripping. There isn’t time to waste. The first light of dawn is falling through the trees, casting long shadows over fresh-­fallen snow. Soon, his brothers will enter the sanctuary and sit before the shrine in prayer. Soon, the most important day of his life will begin, and with it the sacred duty he’s spent years preparing to fulfill.

The priest shakes the snow from his robe, bows, and steps into the temple. Incense, thick and fragrant, fills the air. Beyond the shoji doors, candles flicker at the altar, their light bending over copper vessels and pooling over the tatami, leaving him with an impulse to fall to his knees and pray.

It’s instinctual. Ingrained. Every day for the past twelve years he’s arrived at the temple before sunrise to sit in meditation before the altar. He’s never questioned his duty—­not why he’s there, not what would happen if he failed. None of them did.

And yet, over the years he’d gathered fragments of information about the precious object he guarded, whispers of the lore surrounding the emperor’s Dragon Box. He heard that, during the war, the emperor hid the box to protect it from American bombs. In the years since, it had moved to shrines across Japan—­Ise Grand Shrine, Atsuta Shrine, the Three Shrines Sanctuary at the Imperial Palace—­where priests kept watch day and night, guarding it with their lives.

He’d heard rumors that the box hid a treasure, perhaps an ancient text, maybe even an artifact belonging to the imperial family itself. He’d heard of its dangers: One look will blind you; one touch will burn your fingers to the bone. He believed the warnings. Some decades before, a young priest had died cleaning the altar, and no doctor could explain why. The truth was not meant for men like the priest. And so he hadn’t asked questions. One indiscretion, the slightest capitulation to curiosity, could be disastrous.

Bells ring in the distance, calling the priests to prayer. The first ray of sunlight falls through the shrine and spills over the floor, illuminating the altar. The seconds rush past, faster and faster, outpacing him. He must hurry before the others arrive. Now is the moment.

Kneeling before the altar, he opens the doors of the tabernacle and there it is: the Dragon Box. Large, the size of two outstretched hands, the box is made of bands of hardwood expertly cut and joined to create a single block. On its surface, composed of curls of inlaid wood, is the twisting shape of a dragon.

The priest sees only the surface, but inside the box, wrapped in layers of deadly traps, lies an ancient enigma, one that has waited thousands of years to be solved.

His instructions are clear. He must wrap the box in a square of silk and carry it to Tokyo. He must not touch it; he must not even look at it. He knows this as well as he knows his norito. And yet, as he gazes down at the Dragon Box, his resolve wavers. Could it be true what they say?

One look will blind you; one touch will burn your fingers to the bone.

He runs a finger over the surface of the wood, feeling the subtle ridges of the jointing, seeking out an opening, slipping a fingernail into a groove, applying the slightest pressure. The razor cuts quick, the blade hot and bright as fire, and draws blood.

Wiping the blood away, the priest wraps the box in silk, ties the ceremonial knot, and tucks it under his arm. Bowing to the altar, to the growing sunlight, to all that he serves—­the kami, the emperor, the mountains, the seas—­he turns and rushes away.

But already, a seed of poison has dropped roots in his bloodstream. Before the sun will set over the shrine, before the priest fully understands the terrible mistake he’s made, he will be dead.