Pathway to Japanese Literature

Magic—what a laughable word that is.

However, in every country and every age, what we call magic has existed in people’s hearts. And perhaps it may still exist even now. Egypt, India, China, Arabia, Persia—all were nations that dealt in magic as their trade. If one were to seriously study magic—how might that be? It would present numerous aspects for anthropological study. There would also be many aspects that should be treated as part of religion. There would also be many aspects that should be treated within legend studies. There would also be many aspects that should be treated as literary creation, as psychological phenomena, and from various other perspectives. Chemistry, astronomy, medicine, mathematics—it would be appropriate to say that all these fields had connections with magic in the earliest stages of their histories.

Therefore, were one to classify magic—from the philosophically profound and lofty to the petty and shallow akin to crude handiwork—the number of its varieties and gradations would be beyond reckoning.

And if one were to speak of the world’s magic, it would not be something exhausted in a mere month or two. For example, even something like magic squares—a minuscule fragment within the smallest portion of Aversion Magic, itself but a tiny sliver within the vastness of magic—is truly not even worth mentioning. Even so, in China and other nations alike, they had believed it to possess the power to ward off illness and calamity, or else deduced from it to gain knowledge of the future. The Luoshu was the simplest magic square. That related to the I Ching as a canonical text. The theories of the Nine Palaces Directions, the doctrines of Eight Gates Divination, the Three Destinies prognostication, and the Nine Stars Divination—all followed in succession from that. Even those discussions alone were by no means easily exhausted. By placing numbers from one to nine within a nine-square grid—each number occupying one cell—the sum of any vertical line, horizontal line, or diagonal would always equal fifteen. By placing numbers from one to sixteen within a square grid, every vertical line, horizontal line, diagonal, each corner, and any four-cell square anywhere would sum to thirty-four. By placing numbers from one to twenty-five within a twenty-five-cell grid in the same manner, they summed to sixty-five. By placing numbers from one to thirty-six within a thirty-six-cell grid in the same manner, they summed to one hundred eleven. They could be created indefinitely beyond that. However, without knowledge of the method, even if one were to spend an entire day, arranging them became impossible once the number of cells increased slightly. It was no wonder that ancient people had marveled at them; however, today, if one knew methods like Bachet’s or Poignard’s, arranging even considerably large magic squares became an easy task. Yet even just discussing magic squares alone—if one were to cover their history and influence from ancient times in China and India through to modern mathematical interpretations and methods—a single volume would not have sufficed. Even a minor part within an extremely small portion held true. That being the case, discussing magic became an endless endeavor.

Let us survey the history of magic in our land. First, in ancient times there was Aversion Magic. The term *maji* in *majina(u)* (ritual incantation) proves lexically remarkable for its vast geographical distribution across the world—what intrigues is how even within our nation it shares etymological ties with Latin and Zend. The practice of reading *kin'en* (禁厭) as *majinai yamuru* (ritual incantation to quell) dated back to antiquity. It had existed since the Age of the Gods. However, the Aversion Magic of that divine era served to suppress and prohibit evil and calamitous things. When it came to the Nara period, there emerged disreputable individuals who performed curse rituals by placing hair within defiled skulls from the Sahogawa River. This constituted curse ritual and subjugation—Aversion Magic bearing ill intent. Such esoteric techniques appeared to have already existed at that time, with practitioners engaging in these dark arts.

Deity summoning rituals and divine possession—these too must have existed since ancient times. These practices could be clearly observed during the reigns of the fifteenth and sixteenth human emperors. Yet both the *Kojiki* and *Nihon Shoki* appeared to contain numerous fabrications in those accounts. This was known even from a poem in *Man’yōshū* Volume Nine—“Though cedar from Kaminai’s god was meant for boards / It could not match love’s fierce growth”—and later, “koto boards” crafted from cedar were used to receive divine teachings. These ought not be called magic; since they involved revering sacred doctrines through sincere devotion, they should not be discussed as magic. The Buddhist shamans’ “refined methods”— These may have borne some resemblance to what was termed “*yoriki*.”

With Buddhism’s arrival, curses and such likely arose; yet as *Mizukagami* records even Moriya—who detested Buddhism—stating, “Their cursed arts are most formidable,” if opponents defended themselves and assailed others using foreign methods, perhaps our side too resorted to domestic curses. However, the *Mizukagami* is not a credible text. When En no Ozunu emerged, true wizards—those genuinely matching our conception of magic practitioners—came into being. He was said to have commanded the Katsuragi deities, subjugated demons Zenki and Goki, flown from Izu Ōshima to Mount Fuji, and ultimately departed for foreign lands with his mother sealed in an iron bowl—though such tales strain credulity. Ozunu allegedly attained these powers through the Peacock King Mantra—though whether praying to such grandiose entities and completing rituals could truly enable miracles remains doubtful, particularly since nothing regarding the Peacock King had yet appeared in Tang China during his era. This merits closer examination.

Taichō of Hakusan and the prostrate ascetics too appear to have been splendid magic practitioners. Accounts of rice bundles flying consecutively through the air from ships at sea to mountain hermitages, or of the Shishinden Palace swaying from a handmade earthquake to startle court nobles, would make for truly amusing motion pictures—but the lively tales found in works like the Genkō Shakusho stem not from popular literature but popular religion, making them apt for casual listening with a bemused “Ah, how intriguing!” When it came to Kume no Senjin, even films had begun producing lighthearted fare. The sage was skilled in architecture—so much so that even Kōbō Daishi initially studied at Lord Kume’s temple—and being quite the magician, he likely rode clouds with ease; yet defeated by a laundry woman whose magic surpassed his own, he became a failed disciple—a tale dripping with charm and whimsy, marking him as truly a likable figure.

From the Nara period through the Heian period—and when it came to the Heian period itself—this was truly an age of outward beauty masking inner decay, making it supremely suited for magic-tinged practices to thrive. *The Tale of Genji* recounts how commonplace incantations had become and speaks to the reverence accorded to mystical power. The people of this era largely accepted without scrutiny the words of corrupt monks specializing in worldly invocations; even when Masakado raised his rebellion, they presumed to quell it through ritual fire offerings and prayers. Their emotional fibers had frayed to spider-silk thinness, clinging desperately to every superstition while subsisting—barely—amid hollow courtesies, ornamental pretenses, and moral dissolution. Living spirits and dead ones alike—curses, Onmyōji arts, shamanic proclamations, directional taboos, supplications, poltergeists, reincarnation, malevolent entities, karmic bonds, supernatural phenomena, animals’ occult powers—they bowed before them all in fearful credence, exploiting some and depending on others. Examining literary works beyond *The Tale of Genji*—descending through later miscellanies like *Tales of Times Now Past*, *Uji Shūi Monogatari*, and *Chomonjū*—reveals how profoundly this era embraced beliefs that, if not outright magic, were at least tinged with the supernatural. Though I cannot adduce further examples here, it remains evident that most Japanese superstitions took root in this era and persisted well into modern times.

This general discussion was set aside for now.

Let us enumerate the appellations of magic in our land. First comes magic, followed by sorcery, illusion techniques, heretical practices, fox manipulation, the Izuna Method, the Dakini Method, ninjutsu, aiki techniques, Christian padres’ methods, spirit summoning, and the employment of shikigami. These were generally the main ones. Among these, Christian methods may have appeared somewhat peculiar, but from today’s perspective, they were likely exaggerations stemming from fear of the incomprehensible. The use of shikigami had become a narrative limited to Abe no Seimei. Spirit summoning and Azusa Miko mediums appeared to be transformations of ancient Japanese divine possession rituals that had intermingled with Buddhist reincarnation doctrines. These persisted until the Meiji era and might still exist covertly in remote areas today, though now commercialized. However, “Heretical Practices” were connected to this. As for ninjutsu, while the term came to signify magic and sorcery by the Meiji era, its essence lay in wartime espionage techniques for discerning enemy conditions—though incorporating elements like Shingon Buddhist hand seals and incantations—remaining fundamentally military craft. The Aiki Technique crushed enemies’ spirits through swordsmen’s divine authority, channeling refined *ki* via subtle opportunities. By contemplating Masaki’s discourse on kiai, one could surmise its nature. This was not magic’s ilk. Sorcery and illusion techniques were precisely as their names suggested. However, traces of transmitted Chinese-style sorcery or Indian illusionist methods proved scarce. The miracles of En no Ozunu and Jōzō were not categorized as sorcery but treated as divine power manifestations. En no Ozunu was handled in works like *Dai Nihon Shi* within Daoist ascetic lineages, yet all accounts about him were embellished posthumously around Shōbō’s emergence two centuries later. Given this gap, while Shōbō’s greatness and contributions could be acknowledged, En no Ozunu’s true nature remained discernible only through legend. Shōbō practiced esoteric Buddhism. En no Ozunu was no Daoist. Of course, Daoist and Buddhist schools had mutually influenced each other since their Chinese syncretism; thus in Japan too, Shugendō bore Daoist traces—Buddhists cutting “Nine Syllables” and using Daoist incantations or talismans. The syncretism of Shinto and Buddhism arose in Japan; Daoist-Buddhist blending in China; Buddhist-Brahmanic merging in India.

This was hardly surprising. However, what our land terms sorcery and illusion techniques do not represent any lineage transmitted from China or India; they exist purely as matters of nomenclature.

Now we come to "Heretical Practices". Whether this *gehō* refers to the Dazzling Method (眩法), Illusion Method (幻法), or Heretical Practices (外法) remained unclear; regardless, the term "gehō" had been in use since medieval times and persists to this day. The *Masukagami* Volume 5 records that Grand Minister Fujiwara no Kimisuke—whose large head bore a pronounced bulge and who favored *gehō*—became subject to an incident where "due to the presence of such an unrefined head related to *gehō* worship, a certain ascetic from the Higashiyama area took it away," resulting in later notable discussion—it was said his still-unpolished head had been seized. Considering this man's death occurred in Bun'ei 4 during Hōjō Tokimune's regency, individuals called "Heretical Practices" (*gehō*) existed at that time, and the term had become so widely recognized that people immediately understood its meaning. Just as we distinguish Buddhist from non-Buddhist texts, so too Heretical Practices (*gehō*) represented methods outside orthodoxy; akin to how non-Buddhist paths denote teachings beyond the Dharma, would these not signify methods outside Buddhist law? In any case, it was extraordinary—Heretical Practices were clearly magic. Even afterward, the term "Heretical Practice head" persisted; even today in the Kansai region they likely still call a Fukurokuju-like head a *Heretical Practice head*, while in Tokyo until Meiji times there existed a term *Heretical Practice* to describe geta shapes. Early Tokugawa-period storybooks—whether by Chikusai or others—contained references to "Heretical Practice heads," and there existed an eccentric proverb, "Heretical Practice's downhill path"—though with a head like Fukurokuju's, such a descent would surely be unnervingly swift.

In Volume 36 of the Popular Edition of the *Taiheiki*, within the section chronicling the rebellion of Hosokawa Sagami-no-kami Kiyouji, it states: "Shōichi Shōnin, who had mastered Heretical Practices, came up from Kamakura..." The Kanda-bon edition of the same text states: "This Shōichi Shōnin was already a master of the Dakiniten Method; moreover, having recently inspired many in Kamakura to regard him as extraordinary and devote themselves with profound reverence—and with Hatakeyama Nyūdō deeply entrusting all matters to faith in him—he became one who manifested wonders even in Kantō." Kiyouji relied on this Shōichi and presented a petition to Dakiniten to curse Ashikaga Yoshiakira to death. Thus, "mastery of the Dakiniten Method" referred to achieving ritual success through supplications to Dakiniten, and the monk Shōichi was one who "manifested wonders" through this method. From this, we discern that what was then called Heretical Practices was indeed the Dakiniten Method. It would seem Heretical Practices emerged from around the Heian period.

Fox manipulation may likewise have been rooted in the Dakini Method. However, China too had long recognized foxes as spiritual beings—absurd tales like Yu the Great wedding a nine-tailed fox likely circulated since antiquity, while the *Zhou Yi* treated foxes as more than mere beasts. Later eras saw Fox King Temples proliferate, and narratives of vulpine seduction became tediously common in miscellanies and fiction. In India as well, foxes frequently appeared in Buddhist scriptures—jackals (distinct from true foxes) were ever portrayed as cunning creatures. Since Dakiniten rode a fox much as the Peacock Wisdom King manifested through peacocks and the Garuda Wisdom King through garudas, Dakiniten likely represented the fox's apotheosis into divinity. In Japan, foxes initially held no particular distinction—yet Keikai’s *Nihon Ryōiki* already attested their classification as supernatural entities by that era. Though foxes serve as Inari’s messengers, these “messengers” originated through elegant wordplay associations: doves from Hachiman’s *hata* banners, deer from Kashima-no-kami’s processional mounts at Kasuga Shrine, crows via Kumano’s Yatagarasu mythos, monkeys through Sarutahiko’s simian links at Hiyoshi Shrine—or so earlier scholars posited. Yet Inari shares no true kinship with foxes. The name “Inari” derives from “rice growth” within Uke Mochi-no-Kami’s belly, while “kitsune” emerged via strained etymology from Miketsu-no-Kami’s “Miketsu”—a connection even more tenuous than Daikoku-sama’s purported rat associations. Nevertheless, foxes became Inari’s divine messengers early on. This vulpine role likely stemmed not from Inari but Dakiniten—fox-riding Dakiniten—making practitioners of her method true fox manipulators. Far from Uke Mochi’s benevolence, Dakiniten resembled hungry ghosts craving human hearts; outmatched by greater demons, they learned deaths six months early to stake claims—hardly auspicious like Inari. Dakiniten also bore the name Ashura Hako (“Blood-Drinker”). Fox manipulators’ beasts brought calamity and death—clearly Dakiniten’s brood rather than Inari’s messengers. Ōe no Masafusa recorded a Great Fox Banquet in Emperor Horikawa’s Kōwa 3 (1101). As ox bones were offered then, one might speculate Dakiniten’s foxes had entered popular consciousness—though this remains conjecture. Chronicles document Takama—physician to Shogun Ashikaga Yoshimochi—and his sons clearly employing foxes; exposed in Ōei 27 (1420), they were exiled to Sanuki Province that October. While likely Dakiniten practitioners, reports of two foxes bursting from Muromachi Palace suggest third parties exploited widespread fox-possession beliefs during Yoshimochi’s incurable illness—perhaps framing innocents. Regardless, magic and heterodox practices thrived undisputed in Ashikaga times. That society so esteemed foxes birthed kyōgen like *Tsurigitsune*—viewed thus, the play reveals profound wit.

When one speaks of the Izuna Method, it has come to be regarded by people as magic’s orthodox grand system. Izuna was originally the name of a mountain—a considerable peak in northern Shinano Province, north of Nagano, connected to Mount Togakushi. This mountain contains remains of ancient microorganisms that had become like soil, with a particular deposit existing in the area approaching Mount Togakushi. Referred to by names like *tengu’s barley rice* or *hungry ghosts’ barley rice*, such deposits existed not only on this mountain but in various places. They were also present near Mount Asama’s observatory. They existed in Hokkaido and China as well—hence their mention in *Tai Ping Guang Ji*. This material was edible because it originated from animal-based matter. Thus, Izuna came to be written with variant kana or ateji characters, leading to its designation as Mount Iizuna. Because such slightly anomalous elements existed here, Uke Mochi-no-Kami—that is, Inari—might have been enshrined at this site since antiquity. However, as recorded in *Chōmonshū*, when Lord Chitei-in practiced the Dakini Method under Daikenbō—a monk renowned for miraculous efficacy—he obtained a live fox’s tail in a dream; this demonstrated both the method’s ancient practice and how Inari and Dakiniten had become conflated through their shared fox associations. The account in *Montoku Jitsuroku* of a sorceress in Sekida District—whose spirit transferred itself to devour hearts, spreading like a blight to poison the populace—also appeared ancient when viewed through how “devouring hearts” evoked Dakiniten’s methods. Furthermore, since “Heretical Techniques” in *Konjaku Monogatari* likely corresponded to “Heretical Practices” as Dakini Method variants, one surmised these rites had been extensively transmitted among seekers of esoteric arts through generations. According to legend, in Ogihara of Minouchi District lived Itō Bungennokami Tadanawa—a man who ascended this mountain in Tenpuku 1 (1233 CE; Emperor Shijō’s first year under Hōjō Yasutoki’s regency), abstained from grain consumption, and devoted himself to prayers upon receiving divine will from an unidentified deity. Even having renounced grain, he had endured by consuming edible soil. Thereafter he attained Great Sovereign Power and lived over two hundred years before dying in Ōei 7 (1400 CE) during Ashikaga Yoshimochi’s reign. This marked Izuna Method’s inception; his son Morinawa likewise mastered its techniques and manifested miraculous efficacy. The institution called Izuna no Senjika originated with this father-son lineage, becoming what amounted to Izuna Gongen’s bettō administrators before receiving an official vermilion-seal grant of 100 koku in early Tokugawa times.

It is now Izuna Shrine, the government-listed Kōtarihonomikoto Shrine of Minouchi District. In ancient times, it was called Izuna Daimyōjin or Izuna Gongen, and was primarily a sacred Shugendō area associated with esoteric Buddhism. While those outside largely considered it a site for venerating Dakiniten, the mountain practitioners themselves regarded Shōgun Jizō as their principal deity. Shōgun Jizō is a Japanese-made Jizō statue, clad in armor, astride a warhorse, holding a khakkhara staff and a wish-fulfilling jewel, and adorned with a halo. Truly a samurai-like Buddha of the Kamakura or Ashikaga periods, but since the *Jizō Jūrin Sutra* states that this bodhisattva may manifest as an Ashura form, it is no wonder he wears armor, rides a horse, and bears an unsmiling countenance. Atago Gongen of Yamashiro also enshrined Shōgun Jizō, and following this, it became notorious for fearsome figures like Tarōbō Dai Tengu. Shōgun Jizō is the focus of faith said to always protect military fortunes and bestow blessings and virtue. Even Akechi Mitsuhide visited Atago before killing Nobunaga and went so far as to present a renga sequence beginning with the verse: “The time is now May when Heaven decrees.” Izuna Mountain is no less than Atago Mountain. Takeda Shingen had prayers offered at Izuna Mountain. Uesugi Kenshin, upon seeing this, mocked him: “Shingen, rather than achieving your aims through bow and arrow, you resort to Gongen’s power—how like Kenshin, whose martial prowess excels!” Yet how could Shingen—who freely engaged not just with Izuna but also Zen, Tendai, even Ikkō sects, dispatching Ikkō monks as envoys across provinces, and whose grand style embraced all—whether he practiced the Izuna Method remains unknown. But in Volume 76 of the *Kai Province Gazetteer*, a draft inventory of items sent from Jigen-ji Temple in Sueki Village, Yatsushiro District, Kōshū to Kōya lists “Izuna Principal Deity and Ritual Procedures, One Volume: Lord Shingen’s Personal Possession,” suggesting he may well have practiced the Izuna Method.

Whether it be Shōgun Jizō or Dakiniten, it mattered not which was considered Izuna’s true form; however, Dakiniten had been passed down since ancient times, while Shōgun Jizō was a newer creation—Dakiniten being one honored deity in the Outer Vajra Court of the Womb Realm Mandala, and Shōgun Jizō merely a transformation of Jizō. In Volume II of the Mahāvairocana Sutra, Dakini appeared, and the ritual manuals and mantras associated with her had been transmitted since ancient times. If one spoke from the grand principle of esoteric Buddhism, Dakini too was Mahāvairocana, and all other deities were Mahāvairocana; when discussing the profound mysteries of their significance and logic, it would have been foolish to insist on distinctions between superior and inferior. Yet for now, we shall position her as Dakini. To record here the iconography or mantras of Dakiniten would serve no purpose; moreover, as I did not possess knowledge of the Izuna Twenty Methods, I refrained from writing about Izuna ritual practices. Yet one might assume they were performed—like those of other celestial and yakṣa deities—through transmitted initiation, progressing in accordance with proper ritual observance. In areas near Tokyo, even from Bushū Takao-san—though I cannot speak to the present—in times past, it had provided images of Dakiniten. There were numerous places across the provinces where Dakiniten was enshrined, but there were likely none who still practiced its methods today. Moreover, since these were deemed heretical forms of magic, there could hardly be any true practitioners; but even if one were to attempt explaining the actual conditions and rationale behind such ritual practices—their beneficial functions and underlying principles—it would have proven utterly impossible to make those wholly unfamiliar with such matters understand, let alone engage in critical discourse about them. As for claims about receiving from the mountains a small fox called *kudagitsune*—no larger than a rat—and employing it, such matters were what the secular world readily circulated; I myself knew nothing of them. Tengu were also affiliated with Dakiniten: just as Atago had Tarōbō, Izuna had its demonic site called Tengudake; within Dakini Mandalas resembling Gaki Mandalas, tengu existed as well—and there were those who considered Dakiniten itself to be a tengu riding a fox. They said that long ago, Bishop Henjō captured a *tengu* in a metal net and burned it to ashes—but we lacked such spiritual power; perpetually harassed and worn down by various *tengu*—haiku *tengu*, waka *tengu*, calligraphy *tengu*, painting *tengu*, jōruri *tengu*—and if on top of that we were to encounter a real *tengu* and be scolded, it would have been unbearable—thus I laid down my brush.

When speaking of magic in our land, it would first come to the Izuna Method and the Dakini Method—but then, what kind of people besides those previously discussed practiced such magic?

Shiichi and Takama were not worth mentioning; as for mountain ascetics and monks, being professionals by trade, they held no interest. Was there no one? What of amateur magic practitioners?

There were.

First, I shall put forth Hosokawa Masamoto as the prime example.

As is well known, the Ōnin War arose because Hosokawa Katsumoto and Yamana Sōzen divided the realm in half and fought over it—and Katsumoto’s son was none other than Masamoto. He possessed lineage, retained his father’s residual authority, and had twice become Kyoto Deputy Shogun—this Masamoto was a practitioner of magic. Masamoto had been connected to magic since before his birth—there was no escaping it. Initially, though Katsumoto occupied a position that was his alone, he was unfortunately childless. Being a man of that era, he naturally made supplications to gods and buddhas—but whereas praying to Kannon or similar deities through the vows of the Universal Gateway chapter might have granted him a fine child, Katsumoto directed his entreaties to an altogether peculiar quarter. To what did he direct it? Though as a military commander it would have been fitting to pray to Bishamon or Hachiman, he entreated Atago Daigongen. Katsumoto differed from Sōzen—a man of gentle demeanor, sound judgment unswerving from reason, meticulous emotions, and thorough wisdom—yet as one who had borne the great turmoil’s burden, he evidently retained a severe aspect that led him to make vows to Atago Gongen. Atago Mountain, as one of the Seven High Mountains, served as a major Shugendō training ground. Whether its principal deity was Raijin, Susanoo-no-Mikoto, or Hakin, all were violent gods; by this time, it had already enshrined Shōgun Jizō as its main deity, while its inner sanctuary served as the domain of Tarōbō, the tengu lords. Through warrior-class veneration, Atago likely reached its zenith of prosperity—but Masamoto, born under such circumstances, had been bound by karmic ties to something fearsome since before his birth.

Masamoto revered Atago from childhood due to this karmic connection. While reverence for Atago was likely a prevailing trend of the time, he engaged in exceptional devotion due to his own special bond. Amidst his numerous shrine visits—having heard from ascetics their awe-inspiring tales of divine wonders and mystical feats that must have profoundly affected him—even as he grew into a daimyo of unimpeachable status, he abstained from pungent foods and rich flavors, maintained ascetic discipline, and resolutely eschewed worldly pleasures in his quest to transcend human limitations. In this regard, even Masamoto was remarkable. The regret remains that he seemingly never found a proper teacher. He avoided interaction with women. This too proved unproblematic. In this unstable age when all who could act freely gravitated toward hedonism, that one possessing such absolute liberty would suppress even carnal desires testified to a terrifying coagulation of religious devotion. Then with fearsome iron-like sternness and coldness of demeanor, he commenced ritual practice. Of course, this was no undertaking for those of naive disposition.

Masamoto spent his days and months with steadfast solemnity. Twenty, thirty—he neared forty. Funooka-ki documents this condition: "It is recorded: 'Hosokawa Ukyō-dayū Masamoto, Kyoto Deputy Shogun, until around forty years of age maintained a prohibition against women while practicing the Izuna Method of magic and Atago Method rituals, comporting himself like a monk or mountain ascetic. At times he would read sutras and recite dhāraṇīs, causing the body hair of onlookers to stand on end.' 'Thus, with no heir to succeed the Hosokawa house, both inner vassals and outer retainers repeatedly entreated him with varied expressions of counsel.'" Indeed, in such a state, he himself remained unperturbed, but those around him must have feared him profoundly. One can almost visualize his cold, rigidly formal countenance.

Through the mediation of various daimyos and others, they adopted the son of Daijō-daijin Kujō Masamoto—who was connected through the shogun Yoshizumi’s aunt—had him undergo his coming-of-age ceremony with the shogun serving as his eboshi parent, bestowed upon him one character from the shogun’s name, and thus made him Minamoto Kurō Sumiyuki. Sumiyuki came from a good family and was a refined youth, so people rejoiced at having such a fine young lord and decided to grant him Tamba Province; thus Sumiyuki entered the capital there. However, Masamoto fell ill from time to time, so during his previous illness, the members of the Hosokawa family consulted among themselves and, deeming the son of Hosokawa Sanuki-no-kami Yukikatsu—grandson of Awa’s shugo Hosokawa Jiun-in—to be of excellent character and stature, contracted to adopt him by dispatching Sesshū’s shugodai Yakushiji Yoichi as their envoy.

The one contracted as this adopted heir also received one character from the shogun and took the name Hosokawa Rokurō Sumimoto. In other words, Sumimoto was the adopted heir arranged by those within the family, while Sumiyuki was an adoption achieved through the mediation of prominent figures. There are various theories regarding this, some of which present a chronology that contradicts the above account. Yakushiji Yoichi—the Hosokawa vassal dispatched as envoy for the Sumimoto adoption contract—was an illiterate man yet innately honest; together with his brother Yoji, he stood as a peerless warrior who resided at Yodo Castle and had repeatedly distinguished himself in service—a man held in high esteem within the Hosokawa clan. When Sumiyuki arrived as an adopted son from the Daijō-daijin family to where Sumimoto resided, Yakushiji Yoichi—who had become the envoy for the adoption contract—found himself in a difficult position regarding both the Awa Hosokawa family and Sumimoto himself. Thus Yoichi—whose nature comprised dutiful valor alone, narrow-minded and lacking discernment—flared up in wrath. As for Lord Masamoto during this period—he grew ever more engrossed in magic, manifesting various wonders: leaping into the air and standing suspended midair; his joys and angers diverged from those of ordinary people; at times he would utter incomprehensible things. Ascending into the air was something Western magicians also did; since he had trained so long, we may regard him as having achieved such capability. That his emotions defied measurement and he uttered supernatural speech stemmed from his original desire to transcend the ordinary world through ascetic practice—thus these outcomes arising from accumulated training followed natural logic, therein precisely lay magic’s wondrous virtue. From Masamoto’s perspective, those who muttered “Something’s amiss” or “This feels dubious” could only appear as tedious fools—creatures who would drone endlessly about snow being white or crows black without ever tiring of stating the obvious. Yet Hosokawa’s vassals found themselves beleaguered. Thus Yoichi consulted with a man named Akazawa Munesuke; concluding their circumstances left no alternative, they formed an alliance to forcibly install Lord Rokurō Sumimoto of Awa as family head and retire Lord Masamoto to let him devote himself wholly to magic or whatever he pleased. Yoichi demonstrated his resolve by barricading himself in Yodo Castle, while Akazawa Munesuke led troops to march upon Fushimi-Takedaguchi with coercive bravado.

A majority had not agreed with Yoichi’s proposal. Many had also favored Sumiyuki. In any case, as Yoichi’s methods were somewhat erratic, it was decided to strike him down—a subordinate seeking to overthrow his superiors. Yoichi’s younger brother Yoji was compelled to lead the assault on Yodo Castle as commander. Endowed with valor, commanding superior numbers, and thoroughly acquainted with the terrain, they swiftly stormed Yodo Castle, whereupon Yoji forced his brother to perform seppuku at Ichigen-ji Temple. Through this merit, Yoji succeeded his brother’s position and became deputy military governor.

Hosokawa Rokurō Sumimoto of Awa had likely received an envoy from Yoichi's faction; he proceeded to the capital with composure. As this could not be accomplished alone, Rokurō's father Sanuki-no-kami assigned two men to accompany him: Miyoshi Chikuzen-no-kami Yukinaga and Takahata Yozō. Both were warriors of renowned valor. Under Masamoto's command, Yoji wielded great authority due to his prior achievements, but having slain his brother, he found himself poorly regarded in society. Meanwhile, as Rokurō's supporting retainer, Miyoshi Chikuzen-no-kami Yukinaga conducted himself in ways that prevented Yoji from acting freely for Rokurō's authority and benefit—leaving Yoji thoroughly discontented.

So Yoji consulted with Takeda Genshichi, Kōsai Mataroku, and others, and attempted to follow a path similar to his brother’s. The difference lay in this: whereas his brother had sought to install Rokurō Sumimoto, he himself aimed solely to elevate Minamoto Kurō Sumiyuki. If Masamoto were to remain so obsessively devoted to magical austerities and continue comporting himself as no ordinary man, he would not long endure in this world. Should Lord Rokurō assume power, it would only allow the Miyoshi to expand their authority and assert dominance. Thus, having no alternative, they resolved to persuade Lord Masamoto to end his life, install Lord Minamoto Kurō of Tanba as heir to the Kanrei house, and seize control of the realm themselves.

It was June 23, 1507.

Masamoto had no way of knowing his vassals were plotting such things. Today as well, with his usual stern and cold countenance, he thought of nothing beyond performing his daily magical training according to the rites. However, it was an age of war. There were rebels in Takaya, Kawachi, so against them he dispatched forces from Settsu-shu and Yamato-shu, along with Fukuōji Kishima Genzaemon and Wada Genshirō—the younger brother of Akazawa Munesuke, who had previously joined Yoichi’s faction but surrendered and been pardoned. He also directed Akazawa Munesuke to suppress the rebellion in Tanba. Those men wore heavy armor in the sweltering heat of late June; amidst the battlefield’s cacophony of battle cries, clanging swords, tolling bells, and thundering drums, they poured sweat and shed blood while chasing and repelling each other in turn. Masamoto did not dwell on those matters—the ritual practice itself brought him joy. A Go player undoubtedly strikes each stone intending to savor victory by five or ten points, yet this misses the essence. For it is in placing each stone—no, in the very act of placing that single stone—that true delight resides. A falconer ventures into the outskirts intending to rejoice in capturing cranes or wild geese—yet finds ineffable delight in each slow step through marshes and thickets, savoring pleasure with every stride. In all matters, those who find joy solely in achieving objectives remain shallow—they are not ones who have entered deep into the mountains of that path. When one attains the realm where the present moment is fully realized—where behind a placed stone lies an entire game’s intrigue, and a single step overflows with a day’s joy—then victory becomes more delightful than its purpose, defeat too brings delight; capturing prey surpasses its aim, and failing to capture remains joyful. Thus, setting aside success or failure of phenomena and ripeness of opportunities, all things come to maturity. Whether Masamoto’s magic had succeeded remained unknown; unfailingly through long years he enshrined the principal deity according to ritual, solemnly adorned the altar, then entered the bathhouse to cleanse himself of grime and impurity. Purification of the Three Karmas is fundamental to all ritual practices. Now he neither spoke nor attempted speech, neither stirred thoughts nor tried moving them—serenely purifying his being. The shifting sun shadows during this time—each inch, each minute—must have manifested as a pleasant demon realm for Masamoto, or perhaps a world where karma flowed freely. Though incomprehensible to observers, he was after all a man who practiced unflaggingly through long years; he must have found sustenance to continue so tirelessly.

Dakini-ten was a demon; was a Buddha; was not a demon; was not a Buddha. Dakini-ten. It devoured human hearts. It devoured the heart’s impurities. What rituals Masamoto had performed, what state he had attained—these remained unclear. People knew only that he had practiced that magic. Masamoto performed his ablutions. The yukata that should have been there was missing. Naminami Hakube, his page, went to fetch one. A moonless evening breeze swept through on the twenty-third day. Togura Jirō, a scribe, burst into the room. When Naminami returned, Togura swung his bloodied sword at him. He dodged and escaped with only shallow wounds.

The next day was a battle. Naminami Hakube struck down Togura and avenged his lord, who had been killed at forty-two, but from then on, the Hosokawa clan—its two factions locked in mutual attacks—descended into utter chaos. It was not that Masamoto did nothing during the long years he practiced magic. He deposed and installed Ashikaga Shoguns and waged battles across various regions.

This is not to chronicle Masamoto’s life.

Among those who practiced the Izuna Method after Masamoto, there existed some remarkable individuals. That person was far more splendid than Masamoto.

Regent, Minister of the Interior, Clan Chieftain of the Fujiwara, Junior First Rank—it was such a person who mastered the Izuna Method. Daijō-daijin Kōsō had his head taken due to heretical practices, but this man encountered no misfortune throughout the terrifying era spanning Tenmon to Bunroku, safely attaining ninety years of longevity and concluding his life auspiciously. That is the man known as Kujō Ujimichi—successor to the renowned Kampaku Kanezane—and called Lord Kuyama. In Lord Ujimichi’s youth, the realm was in chaos like tangled hemp. Landholdings grew sporadic; even those of noble birth found daily life difficult. Before Oda Nobunaga’s time—how much do you suppose the Imperial Court’s income was? According to certain records, it is said to have been approximately three thousand koku. Even if they maintained a lifestyle of utmost simplicity and austerity, three thousand koku could hardly suffice. As for the noble courtiers, they must have fallen into dire straits indeed. Thus, in those days, one frequently finds in unofficial histories and anecdotal records accounts of people from distinguished families wandering in all directions and seeking refuge with wealthy warrior clans. Ujimichi too wandered through Sakai in Izumi Province—a place where wealthy merchants resided—or perhaps through the western provinces, refusing to abandon his son-in-law Togawa (likely a descendant of Togawa Kazumasa), and though an aristocrat by station, laid aside his ceremonial scepter and brush to take up bow, arrow, spear, and sword, engaging in feats of martial valor.

This man spoke to his disciple Chōzumari. “In all matters, once I have resolved to do something, I never abandon it halfway but strive to pursue it to its ultimate conclusion. “I practiced the Izuna Method, but what made me finally consider it achieved was that wherever I lay down to sleep, an owl would surely come to cry upon the roof around midnight; moreover, whenever I took to the road, a whirlwind would invariably arise ahead of me.” He is said to have spoken these words. Owls were regarded as manifestations of tengu. The aforementioned Bishop Henjō also captured owls transformed by tengu in an iron net and burned them. The meaning of an owl crying on the roof was that tengu attended upon one who had achieved mastery of the Izuna Method. The meaning of whirlwinds arising was that invisible retainers protected and preceded as vanguards. The Izuna deity was a tengu riding a flying fox.

Ujimichi, this awe-inspiring master of the Izuna Method, proved every bit as formidable in the actual world. When Oda Nobunaga destroyed the Imagawa clan, subdued the Sasaki, Azai, and Asakura clans, disposed of the Miyoshi and Matsunaga factions, marched on the capital to support the Shogunate, and paid homage at the Forbidden Palaces, the entire realm revered him as if he were a demon god. Particularly given his reputation as a short-tempered and fierce commander, court nobles and lofty guests alike both feared and fawned upon him, their demeanor resembling those who had witnessed Kiso Yoshinaka’s ancient entry into the capital. Yet Ujimichi faced Nobunaga directly while standing and merely said, “Lord Kazusa? Congratulations on entering the capital,” before departing. The title “Lord Kazusa” derived solely from Nobunaga’s former position as Kazusa-no-suke. However formidable Lord Kazusa might have been in strength or stature, before Kujō Ujimichi—a man of exalted court rank—such curt treatment was only natural. Ujimichi brought no disgrace to his station and upheld his noble house’s prestige. Given Nobunaga’s temperament, receiving such a greeting made him sulk furiously; he grew incensed, muttering “Lord Kujō came here to extract an apology from me,” and behaved brusquely. From Nobunaga’s perspective—having cleansed the realm—he likely believed he could compel even Lord Kujō to apologize. Yet precisely because this was a man who had mastered the Izuna Method, Ujimichi held his head as high as a tengu. It was indeed fitting that among court nobles there existed at least one person of such unyielding resolve.

The momentum with which Kinoshita Hideyoshi destroyed Akechi, succeeded Nobunaga, and managed the realm also stirred the senses of all people. At that time, Hideyoshi made the following declaration: “I have attained this noble station through heaven’s providence, yet I lack clan or pedigree—a man risen from humble origins as a grass cutter. Thus, by invoking the venerable name of Minister Kamatari of old, I wish to become one of the Fujiwara clan.” This was his underlying intention to become Regent. Given Hideyoshi’s splendid momentum at the time—deeming it appropriate and a rather simple matter—Lord Konoe Ryūzan attempted to arrange the affair. At that moment, Lord Ujimichi reprimanded him: “No, no—while there may be no distinction among the Five Regent Houses, the clan chieftain resides in our house. This should not be left to Lord Konoe’s discretion.” As for forcing matters despite objections—Hideyoshi would not dare do such a thing. Moreover, as these were the words of Ujimichi—a man of profound erudition revered by all—Hideyoshi ordered Tokuzennin Gen’i to have the opinions of both the Kujō and Konoe houses heard at Daitoku-ji. Both houses firmly adhered to their respective positions, but Ujimichi’s argument was more substantiated and compelling. Then, true to form, Hideyoshi declared, “Rather than entangle myself as branches and leaves of this thorny Fujiwara clan, I shall simply create a new clan name that has never existed before.” Thereupon, Lord Kikutei examined the clan registry, and he became Toyotomi Hideyoshi for the first time.

This too was fitting for Ujimichi. Having given a light flick to the noses of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi, it was indeed fitting that among the dear noble courtiers there existed at least one person of this sort. That Hideyoshi did not become a Fujiwara was of course fitting.

Both tengu had been achieving great success after great success here lately.

Hideyoshi finally became Regent. Next, Hidetsugu also became Regent. Ujimichi, master of the Izuna Method, would often say: “If you become Regent, you’ll incur divine punishment.” Sure enough, when Regent Hidetsugu incurred guilt, Lord Konoe was consequently exiled to Bōno-Tsu in Kyushu, Lord Kikutei was exiled to Shinano, and his daughter, Lady Ichidai, was transported by cart. It was terrifying—the words of one who had mastered the Izuna Method held invisible authority.

He was of course a master of waka poetry. Though he may not have devoted his heart fully to renga, he had attained mastery in that art as well through peripheral engagement. Hōkyō Jōhō was the grandmaster of renga at that time. Yet when Chōzumari visited Lord Ujimichi and was asked whether there had been any noteworthy gossip lately, he replied: “At Lord Mōri of Aki’s residence in the settlement during a renga session, Master Hōkyō Jōhō composed this verse on the garden’s red plum blossoms—‘Plum flowers whose hue and fragrance went unheard even in the Age of the Gods’—and everyone praised it.” To this, Lord Ujimichi observed that while Narihira’s poem about dyeing Tatsuta River’s waters crimson had earnestly emphasized how “not even that wonder-filled Age knew such marvels,” there was no justification for applying “unheard even in the Age of the Gods” to an utterly unremarkable plum blossom. It is said that long ago when Mu’an saw winter-blooming cherry blossoms in Ise Province and composed the verse “Cherry blossoms blooming in winter—unheard even in the Age of the Gods,” this resonated precisely because it was Ise—the true intent of classical allusion through honkadori—to which Ujimichi laughed, remarking: “Lord Mōri Daizen is no Shinto priest.” Even Jōhō Hōkyō was no match for this man. Mitsuhide had questioned Jōhō about whether the character “shi” in “May heaven bestow” should instead be “na,” but once again Jōhō proved no match for this lord. The verse would indeed have been terrifying had Lord Mōri been a Shinto priest.

Jōhō occasionally visited this lord. On one such occasion, when he came to visit, Jōhō asked, “What have you been perusing lately?” Then, without another word, the lord slowly uttered a single phrase: “Genji.” Jōhō asked again, “What splendid collection of poems might that be?” The answer was simple. “Genji.” That was all. Jōhō asked again, “Might someone come to offer solace for your secluded life?” The lord’s reply was truly admirable. “Genji.”

All three times came the same reply; Jōhō retreated with a groan. Indeed, whirlwinds arose not only where this lord walked but before his very words. In *The Tale of Genji* too, beyond annotations on language and material things, there lies an exposition of profound concepts—what is termed the theory of cessation and contemplation. This lord’s commentary on Genji, the *Mōtsushō*, is said to have been composed with this intent of cessation and contemplation regarding Genji—much as the Lotus Sutra’s exegesis contains its *Profound Meaning* and *Textual Commentary*, followed by ten volumes on *Cessation and Contemplation*. He was a most devoted reader of Genji, declaring that “perusing this makes one feel as though dwelling in the Engi era,” and was said to have pored over the tale from dawn till dusk. What fascinates is how he never wearied of this fixed routine—immersed in Genji for sixty years—much as Masamoto devoted twenty years to Izuna Method rituals.

Around the time Chōzumari occasionally sought his teachings, the lord spent quiet mornings and evenings in a decaying temple called Kenten-in—nestled within thickets before Tōfuku-ji’s gates in Kyoto. Each dawn, he donned his surplice, formed ritual mudras, and performed his ascetic practices without fail, praying for the imperial court’s longevity, peace across the realm, and prosperity for his house. After meals, he would simply lean against his desk and read Genji. One imagines the manner of his life: utterly serene, refined yet austere, free of worldly clamor—a flat, settled existence like sunlight bleaching an empty room white. It seems he had not only mastered the Izuna Method but achieved mastery over himself. To have lived in the world spanning from Tenbun to Bunroku, and yet to dwell in the Engi era—this was truly fascinating.

On one occasion when Chōzumari—that is, Teitoku—visited the lord, he found him engaged in the refined pursuits of his reclusive life: stepping out into a garden bathed in gentle sunlight to plant larch saplings in a well bucket with his own hands. Were it a five-needle pine, that might warrant such care—but larch saplings were hardly remarkable. Yet there he was planting them in a well bucket of all things; when did he expect to appreciate what might become of those frail seedlings? But therein lay the fascination—this was where only a person of attainment could grasp true delight. Teitoku stood far younger than the lord. Contemplating his own youth against the lord’s pure yet withered frailty—the faint green sprigs of pine, the desolate well bucket worn with age—Teitoku felt his gentle heart stir unbidden. “May these pines at least grow a foot or two auspiciously,” he offered in blessing, reciting: “From this day planted, may their verdure endure—that you might behold it.” To this, the lord replied as though stating plain fact: “Having dwelled beneath the sun in quiet sorrow—thus from this day I plant pines to behold.”

In one born to an age of chaos—where none lacking such capacity, virtue, and talent could hope to endure—the sight of this octogenarian planting larch saplings resonated through the poem of the sunlit realm with the sound of falling tears. The person who had attained mastery of the Izuna Method—was that not admirable as well?

(April 1928)