Pathway to Japanese Literature

Magic.

Magic—ah, what a laughable term it is. However, in any country, in any era, what might be called magic has existed in people's hearts. And perhaps it may still exist even now. Egypt, India, China, Arabia, Persia—all are nations that serve as great emporiums of magic. What would happen if one were to approach and examine magic with genuine seriousness? That would likely contain numerous aspects that anthropology should address. There would also likely be many aspects that should be treated as part of religion. There would likely also be many aspects that should be incorporated into the study of legends. There would likely 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 fair to say that all these fields had connections with magic in the early stages of their histories.

Consequently, if one were to classify magic—ranging from quasi-philosophical profundities to petty trivialities akin to household chores—one could scarcely fathom how many varieties and gradations might emerge. Therefore, were one to speak of the world's magic, it could not be exhausted in a mere month or two. Take for instance something like magic squares—a minuscule fraction within the smallest portion of apotropaic arts found in magic—which truly prove unworthy of mention. Even so, in China and other nations alike, people had believed they possessed the power to ward off disease and calamity, or had attempted to deduce from them means of knowing the future. The Luo River Chart represented the simplest form of magic square. This connected to the I Ching as a sacred text. The theories of the Nine Palaces and Directions, the doctrines of Eight Gates Divination, the Three Destinies divination, and the Nine Stars prognostication—all followed in succession from it. Even such discussions alone proved inexhaustible. By placing numbers from one to nine within a nine-square grid—each in its own cell—every vertical line, horizontal line, and diagonal line added up to fifteen. By placing numbers from one to sixteen within a square grid, every vertical line, horizontal line, diagonal line, each corner, and every 2x2 square totaled thirty-four. By similarly arranging numbers from one to twenty-five within a twenty-five-square grid, they reached sixty-five. By filling a thirty-six-square grid with numbers up to thirty-six, they summed to one hundred eleven. Beyond that, one could create them endlessly. However, attempting to arrange them without knowing the method meant failure within a day once the elements grew slightly numerous. Ancient people's marvel became understandable, yet today—armed with Bachet's method, Poignard's method, and other techniques—even considerably large magic squares could be arranged with ease. However, even limiting discussion to magic squares alone—from their ancient origins in China and India through historical influences to modern mathematical interpretations—a single volume would scarcely suffice. Even an exceedingly small part within a minor portion followed this pattern. For this reason, discussions of magic proved truly boundless.

Let us survey the history of magic in Japan. First, in ancient times, there existed apotropaic arts. The root *maji* in the term *majinau*—referring to apotropaic rituals—is a word of remarkably wide geographical distribution across the world; what proves particularly intriguing is how even within Japan, it demonstrates linguistic connections to Latin and Zend. The practice of interpreting prohibitive apotropaic rituals (*kin'en*) as "warding off through incantations" (*majinai yamuru*) dates back to antiquity. It has existed since the Age of the Gods. However, that of the Age of the Gods served to suppress and prohibit evil deeds and violent acts. When the Nara period arrived, there appeared malcontents who would place hair inside defiled skulls from the Saho River to create cursed objects. This was curses and subjugations—malevolent spellcraft, things of ill intent. It appears such esoteric techniques already existed during that era—and that there were indeed those who practiced them.

Spirit summoning and divine possession—these practices too doubtless existed since ancient times. They became clearly visible around the time of the 15th and 16th generations of human emperors. However, both the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki are thought to contain many fabrications in those sections. This is also known through the poem in Book 9 of the Manyoshu—"Even cedar planks consecrated by the Kamunabi deity cannot withstand love's intensity"—but later, objects called "koto boards" were indeed made of cedar, intended to receive divine teachings through them. These should not be called magic; since they involve revering divine teachings through sincere devotion, they ought not to be discussed as magic.

The "Yorimashi" of Buddhist Shamans It likely bore some resemblance to the practices surrounding "Yoriki."

As Buddhism was introduced to Japan, curses likely arose in its wake. Yet even Mononobe no Moriya—a noted opponent of Buddhism—is recorded in *Mizukagami* as remarking, "The foreign magical arts are truly fearsome." If adversaries defended themselves and attacked others using foreign methods, our side too may have conducted domestic-style curses in retaliation. However, *Mizukagami* is not a credible text. With the emergence of En no Gyōja, it could be said that true magicians finally began to appear. He commanded the Katsuragi deities, subdued demon attendants Zenki and Goki, flew from Izu Ōshima to Mount Fuji, and ultimately placed his mother in an iron bowl to journey abroad—though none of these tales hold much credibility. It is said that En no Gyōja attained such abilities through possession of the Peacock King Mantra—though whether praying to such majestic entities could truly enable miraculous feats remains uncertain—for it appears nothing concerning the Peacock King had yet emerged from Tang China during his era. This warrants some investigation.

Taichō of Hakusan and Gagyōja also appear to have been splendid magic practitioners. Tales of rice bales flying continuously through the air from ships at sea to mountain hermitages, or homemade earthquakes making the Shishinden Hall sway unsteadily to startle court nobles and dignitaries—these would have made splendid moving picture films. Yet the grandiose accounts found in works like Genkō Shakusho belong not to popular literature but to popular religion; one can only nod and think, “Ah, how amusing,” as one listens. When it came to Kume Sennin, even films began producing grinning spectacles. The hermit 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. Yet when defeated by a laundry woman whose magic proved superior by a degree, reducing him to a failed disciple, one can only picture him dripping with both charm and drool—truly an amiable figure.

From the Nara period through the Heian period—and especially by the latter Heian era—it was truly an age of external splendor masking inner corruption, making it the most fertile ground for magic-tinged practices to flourish. The Tale of Genji chronicles how ubiquitous apotropaic rituals had become and attests to how ritual potency was venerated. The people of this era largely accepted without scrutiny the words of corrupt monks devoted to worldly invocations; even when Masakado raised his rebellion, they presumed to quell it through goma fire offerings. Their emotional fibers had frayed to spider-silk fragility, clinging to every superstition while subsisting on hollow etiquette, ornamental affectations, and carnal indulgences. Living spirits and dead spirits, curses and Onmyōji arts, shamanic prophecies and directional taboos, prayers and haunting entities, rebirths and malevolent charms, karmic retribution and supernatural phenomena, animals' occult powers—they bowed before all such things indiscriminately: believing them, fearing them, at times depending on them, at others exploiting them. Scrutinizing works beyond Genji—and later texts like Tales of Times Now Past, Uji Shūi Monogatari, and Chōmonshū—reveals how profoundly this era embraced matters steeped in magic's aura if not its essence. Though unable to adduce further examples here, we find that most Japanese superstitions took root during this era and endure even now.

We shall set aside this broad overview for now.

Let us enumerate the varieties of magic practiced in our land. First comes magic, followed by sorcery, illusion techniques, heretical methods, fox manipulation, the Izuna method, Dakiniten rites, ninjutsu, the art of harmonizing energy, Christian priest methods, spirit summoning, and the use of manipulated spirits. These are generally the principal ones.

Among these, Christian practices may have exhibited some peculiarity, but from our present perspective, this was likely an exaggeration born of dread toward that which lay beyond comprehension. The use of manipulated spirits was discussed solely in relation to Abe no Seimei. Spirit summoning and azusa shrine maidens appeared to be transformations of ancient Japanese spirit-invocation techniques that blended with Buddhist theories of reincarnation. This persisted until the Meiji era and may still exist covertly in remote areas today, though now as a commercialized practice. However, this was connected to heretical methods. Ninjutsu came to be used in the Meiji era to mean magic and sorcery; however, its true essence lay in the techniques of infiltration and espionage to discern enemy conditions during times of war. Though it did incorporate elements such as forming hand seals and employing mantras from the Shingon school, it fundamentally belonged to the realm of military strategists. The art of harmonizing energy employed swordsmen and martial artists’ own divine authority to crush the enemy’s fighting spirit; through subtle opportunities, it penetrated adversaries by means of their refined spiritual acuity cultivated through rigorous training. By considering Masaki’s theories on kiai, one could surmise what manner of thing it was. These were not forms of magic. Sorcery and illusion techniques were exactly as their written forms suggested. However, traces of Chinese-style sorcery and illusion techniques or Indian-style illusionist methods being transmitted were rather scarce. The miracles performed by En no Gyōja and Jōzō were not classified as sorcery or illusion techniques but had instead been regarded as manifestations of divine spiritual powers throughout history. En no Gyōja was treated in works like *Dai Nihon Shi* as belonging to the lineage of Taoist practitioners; however, all accounts concerning him were variously embellished starting around the time Shōbō emerged—roughly two hundred years after Gyōja’s death. Given this two-century lacuna, while Shōbō’s greatness and the path he established may be broadly acknowledged, what En no Gyōja truly was could only be recognized through the person as he became legend. Shōbō was a practitioner of esoteric Buddhism. En no Gyōja was not a Taoist. Of course, since the Taoist and Buddhist schools mutually influenced one another—having already blended in China—it followed that in Japan too we found Shugendō practices redolent of Taoism, with Buddhists employing Taoist spells like cutting the “Nine Syllables” or using talismans. The syncretism of Shinto and Buddhism arose in Japan, Taoist-Buddhist syncretism arose in China, and Buddhist-Brahmanic syncretism arose in India. There was nothing mysterious about this. However, what we in our land call sorcery and illusion techniques did not constitute a lineage transmitted from China or India; it was merely a matter of terminology.

Now we come to what is called "gehō." This might signify dazzle method, illusion method, or heretical method—its meaning remains unclear—but in any case, the term "gehō" had been in use since the medieval period and persists to this day. The fifth volume of *Masukagami* records an incident involving Grand Minister Fujiwara no Kimisuke, whose large, misshapen head and fondness for *gehō* led to an account stating: "Due to such a raw head being present—one that might invite *gehō* worship—a certain ascetic residing near Higashiyama took it away." This caused considerable commotion afterward, as his head was seized before it could even be styled fashionably. Considering that this man passed away in Bun'ei 4 (1267) during Hōjō Tokimune’s regency, practitioners called "gehō" had already emerged by that time, with the term itself becoming so widely recognized that people immediately understood its implications. Just as we distinguish inner and outer scriptures, *gehō* would correspond to "heretical methods"—and akin to heretical paths, signify teachings outside Buddhist Dharma—would it not? In any case, it was a grave matter—heretical methods undeniably constituted magic. Even thereafter, the term "heretical-method head" persisted; to this day in the Kansai region, one would likely call a Fukurokuju-like cranium a "heretical-method head," while in Tokyo until the Meiji era, there existed a designation of "heretical method" for the shape of geta. In early Tokugawa-period chapbooks—Chikusai or similar works—we find references to "heretical-method heads," along with an eccentric proverb: "the downhill slope of heretical methods." Yet with a Fukurokuju-like cranium, that slope would prove curiously swift.

In Volume 36 of the vulgate version of *Taiheiki*, within the section chronicling the rebellion of Hosokawa Sagami-no-kami Kiyouji, there appeared the passage: "Priest Shiichi, who had achieved mastery of heretical methods, came up from Kamakura..." The Kanda-bon edition of the same text stated: "This Priest Shiichi was already a master of heretical Taoist methods; moreover, recently in Kamakura, many regarded him with wonder and profound devotion, while Hatakeyama Nyūdō placed deep faith in all matters through him—a man through whom marvels manifested even in the Kantō region." Kiyouji, relying on this Shiichi, presented a petition to Dakiniten praying for the death of Ashikaga Yoshiakira. Thus, the phrase "achievement of heretical Taoist methods" referred to the successful ritual invocation of Dakiniten, and Priest Shiichi was one who—through these rites—"manifested marvels." From this, it became clear that what had been called heretical methods at the time were in fact Dakiniten rites. It appeared that heretical methods had emerged around the Heian period.

Fox manipulation might likewise have constituted Dakiniten rites. However, the veneration of foxes as spiritual beings had existed even in China—where preposterous tales like Yu the Great marrying a nine-tailed fox had likely circulated since antiquity—and in the *I Ching*, foxes were treated not as mere beasts. Later eras saw Fox King Temples proliferate across various locales, while accounts of fox enchantments and bewitchments appeared with tedious frequency in miscellaneous texts and novels. In India too, foxes featured prominently in Buddhist scriptures, where jackals (distinct from foxes) were invariably depicted as cunning creatures. As Dakiniten rode a fox—just as Kujaku Myōō manifested through peacocks and Garuda Myōō through golden-winged birds—Dakiniten herself must have represented the deification of foxes. In Japan, foxes had initially held no particular significance, yet Keikai’s *Nihon Ryōiki* already attested to their recognition as supernatural entities by that period. Though foxes became Inari’s messengers, such designations of “divine emissary” originated from elegant metaphorical associations born of wordplay—as scholars noted: doves through Hachiman’s “hata,” deer through Kasuga Shrine’s processional mounts, crows via Kumano’s eight-span crow legend, and monkeys through Hiyoshi Sannō’s monthly rites linking them to Sarutahiko-no-Ōkami. Yet Inari shared no inherent connection with foxes. The name Inari derived from “inanari” (rice growth) within the food deity Uke Mochi’s belly, while “ketsune” (fox) emerged merely through phonetic association with Miketsu—the offering deity—bearing less relation to Daikokuten (Ōnamuchi-no-Kami) than rats did to that god of wealth. Nevertheless, foxes had served as Inari’s messengers since ancient times. This could not imply Inari-sama’s involvement in fox manipulation; rather, the practice stemmed from Dakiniten—the fox-riding deity—making practitioners of Dakiniten rites the true fox manipulators. Unlike Uke Mochi, Dakiniten resembled a hungry ghost craving to devour human hearts postmortem. Unable to rival greater demons, she allegedly learned of deaths six months in advance to stake claims—a far cry from Inari’s auspicious nature. Also called Ashura Hako (“Blood Drinker”), Dakiniten’s foxes were believed to inflict curses and death. These had to be Dakiniten’s creatures rather than Inari’s messengers. Ōe no Masafusa recorded a grand fox banquet during Emperor Horikawa’s Kōwa era—the offering of ox bones suggesting nascent beliefs about Dakiniten’s foxes, though this remained speculative. Historical records explicitly mentioned fox manipulation in Ōei 27 (1420), when Takama—physician to Shogun Ashikaga Yoshimochi—and his sons were exiled to Sanuki Province after being exposed for placing a fox on the shogun. While likely involving Dakiniten rites, accounts of two foxes escaping Muromachi Palace through others’ invocations suggested possible frame-ups exploiting prevalent superstitions during Yoshimochi’s prolonged illness. Regardless, magic and heretical methods were undeniably widespread during the Ashikaga period. That society’s awe of foxes birthed comedic kyōgen plays like *Tsurigitsune* only heightened the irony—making the farce itself profoundly intriguing.

The Izuna method came to be regarded as magic's true orthodox system. Izuna was originally the name of a mountain—a significant peak in northern Shinano Province north of Nagano, part of the Togakushi range. Within this mountain lay deposits where ancient microbial remains had decomposed into soil-like material near its Togakushi-facing slope. These formations—called Tengu's barley or hungry ghosts' barley—were found not only here but elsewhere too: near Asama-yama Observatory, across Hokkaido, and even in China where they appeared in *Taiping Guangji*. Composed of animal matter, they remained edible. The mountain's alternative kana spelling led to its designation as Iizuna-yama. Such unique properties likely prompted ancient enshrinements of deities like Uke Mochi (Inari) there. Yet *Chomonjū* records how Chitei-in-dono, practicing Dakiniten rites under miracle-worker Daikenbō, obtained a living fox's tail in a dream—proof these rituals predated Izuna practices while conflating Inari with Dakiniten through shared fox symbolism. *Mon’toku Jitsuroku* describes a Sekida District sorceress whose spirit devoured hearts like Dakiniten's rites; when paired with *Konjaku Monogatari*'s “heretical techniques,” this suggests occultists perpetuated such methods across generations. Legend tells of Ito Bungennokami Tadanawa from Suwa District’s Ogihara who climbed Izuna Mountain in 1233 during Hōjō Yasutoki’s regency. Abandoning grain yet sustained by edible soil during his asceticism, he reportedly gained transcendent powers and lived two centuries before dying in 1400 under Ashikaga Yoshimochi. His son Morinawa continued the lineage, establishing Izuna no Senjika as chief administrators of Izuna Gongen cult—later receiving a 100-koku vermilion-seal grant from Tokugawa authorities.

It is now Iizuna Shrine, the Kōtarihonomikoto Shrine of Minouchi District listed in the Engishiki.

In ancient times, it was called Iizuna Daimyōjin or Iizuna Gongen, and was foremost a spiritual site of esoteric Shugendō practices. While those outside largely worshipped Dakiniten, in the mountains they enshrined Victorious Army Jizō as the principal deity. Victorious Army Jizō was a Japanese-made Jizō statue, clad in armor, astride a warhorse, and wielding a staff and a wish-fulfilling jewel, while adorned with a halo. Utterly samurai-like—a Buddha of Kamakura or Ashikaga-period styling—yet as the *Jizō Jūrin Sutra* states that this bodhisattva may manifest an Asura form, it was no wonder he appeared clad in armor, astride a steed, bearing an unsmiling countenance. Atago Gongen of Yamashiro also enshrined Victorious Army Jizō, and was further renowned for subsequent fearsome figures like Taro-bo Daitengu. Victorious Army Jizō was the object of faith believed to always protect military fortune and bestow blessings. Akechi Mitsuhide too had visited Atago before killing Nobunaga, even going so far as to present a renga sequence with the opening verse: "The hour is now—May when Heaven deigns to command." Iizuna Mountain was not inferior to Atago Mountain. Takeda Shingen had prayers offered at Iizuna Mountain. It was said that Uesugi Kenshin, upon witnessing this, mocked Shingen—laughing that he must be resorting to Gongen's power since he could not achieve his aims through archery, a jest implying Kenshin's own martial superiority. Yet how characteristic of Shingen's grand vision that he not only handled Izuna practices but freely engaged with Zen, Tendai, and even Ikkō sects, employing Ikkō monks as envoys across provinces. While it remains unknown whether he practiced the Izuna method himself, Volume 76 of Kai Province Chronicles records an inventory draft sent from Jigen-ji Temple in Sueki Village, Yatsushiro District of Kai Province to Mount Kōya—listing "Izuna principal deity image and one volume of ritual procedures among Lord Shingen's personal effects"—suggesting he may indeed have conducted Izuna rites.

Whether Victorious Army Jizō or Dakiniten, either could serve as Izuna's true form—yet while Dakiniten had long been recounted in tradition, Victorious Army Jizō was newly created: the former being one deity in the Outer Vajra Section of the Womb Realm Mandala, and the latter merely a single transformation of Jizō. Dakiniṭī appeared in Volume 2 of the Mahāvairocana Sūtra, and its ritual procedures and mantras were among those transmitted from ancient times. If we spoke from the great principle of esoteric Buddhism, Dakiniṭī was Mahāvairocana, and all other deities were Mahāvairocana; when discussing profound and secret meanings and principles, there ceased to be any distinction between superior and inferior—thus it would have been foolish to belabor such distinctions—but we shall first treat her as Dakiniṭī. There would have been no benefit in recording Dakiniten’s iconography and mantras here, nor was I versed in the Izuna Twenty Methods—thus I refrained from writing about Izuna rituals. Yet they would presumably have been practiced, like those rites for other deva and yaksha deities, through proper transmission following ritual sequences in accordance with orthodoxy. Even from Mount Takao in Musashi Province near Tokyo—though I cannot speak to the present—in former times they had provided images of Dakiniten. There were not a few places across the provinces where Dakiniten was enshrined, but there were likely none who practiced those rites today. Moreover, being what was called heretical magic, there were likely none who truly practiced its rites; but even if one had attempted speaking of ritual practices—their beneficial effects and underlying principles—it would first have been impossible to make those wholly ignorant of such matters understand, all the more so to discuss them with critical analysis. That people received from the mountains small foxes called kudagitsune—no larger than rats—and employed them was something the secular world was all too quick to spread, but I knew nothing of such matters. Tengu too were connected to Dakiniten; just as Atago had its Taro-bo, Izuna possessed its demonic site called Tengu-dake. Within Dakiniten mandalas resembling those of hungry ghosts, tengu also appeared. Moreover, there were those who regarded Dakiniten herself as a tengu riding a fox. It was said that long ago Bishop Henjō had captured tengu in a golden net and burned them to ashes, but we lacked such spiritual power. Thus we were constantly beleaguered by various tengu—haiku tengu and poetry tengu, calligraphy tengu and painting tengu and jōruri tengu—and should we ever have encountered a real tengu and faced its rebuke, it would have been unbearable. Therefore I lay down my brush.

In our land, when speaking of magic, it would first be the Izuna method and Dakiniten rites—but then, besides those practitioners discussed above, what others cultivated such arts? Shiichi and Takama were not worth mentioning; as for mountain ascetics and monks, being professionals, they were of no interest. Was there no one else? What of amateur practitioners of magic?

There were.

As our first specimen, let us present Hosokawa Masamoto.

The Ōnin War—as all know—had erupted when Hosokawa Katsumoto and Yamana Sōzen split the realm between them to wage their struggle; that Katsumoto’s son was none other than Masamoto. Though born to noble lineage, wielding his father’s residual authority, and having twice attained the position of Kyoto Deputy Shogun—this very Masamoto became a practitioner of magic. Masamoto had been tied to magic since before his birth—an inevitability beyond recourse. Initially, even as Katsumoto stood firm in his singular station, he remained tragically childless. Being a man of his age, he naturally devoted prayers to deities—yet where one might expect supplications to Kannon through the Universal Gateway chapter’s vows to secure an heir, Katsumoto instead directed his plea toward unorthodox powers. To what did he appeal? Though a military commander who might reasonably have entreated Bishamonten or Hachiman—he instead petitioned Atago Daigongen. Katsumoto differed from Sōzen in his gentle demeanor, judicious reasoning, meticulous sensibilities, and penetrating wisdom; yet as one who had borne part-responsibility for that great upheaval, he evidently retained a severity within—this man who vowed devotion to Atago Gongen. Atago Mountain stood among the Seven High Peaks as Shugendō’s paramount training ground—whether its principal deity be Raijin the Thunder God, Susanoo-no-Mikoto, or some god of ruinous force, all were deities of violence; by this era Victorious Army Jizō had been installed as its central enshrined deity, while the inner sanctuary served as stronghold for Tarōbō, Lord of Tengu. Through samurai veneration Atago likely reached its zenith of grandeur; yet Masamoto—born through these circumstances—had been bound by fate to fearful forces since before drawing breath.

Masamoto revered Atago from childhood due to these circumstances. While reverence for Atago was likely a widespread custom of the time, he performed acts of special veneration due to his unique karmic bond. Amidst his numerous shrine pilgrimages, having heard grand tales of divine wonders and mystical feats from Shugendō ascetics—tales that must have seeped into his very being—he maintained an austere discipline over his person despite being a daimyo lacking no material comfort as he reached adulthood, abstaining from pungent meats and rich flavors while daring not indulge in worldly pleasures; so fervent was his aspiration to attain a realm beyond the human. In this regard, even Masamoto was remarkable. The regret lies in his apparent failure to secure a worthy mentor. He did not consort with women. This too posed no hindrance. In this unstable age where all who possessed freedom tended toward hedonism, that he—endowed with supreme liberty—suppressed even carnal desires revealed a terrifying coagulation of religious devotion. And with formidable iron-like sternness, he commenced the ritual. Of course, this was not something achievable through naive thinking.

Masamoto passed his days with steadfast solemnity. Twenty years old became thirty; forty approached. The Funaoki chronicle has recorded this condition. It states: "Hosokawa Ukyō-dayū Masamoto - Kyoto Deputy Shogun - until around forty years of age maintained prohibition against women while practicing Izuna magic and Atago rites, living like a tonsured monk or mountain ascetic. When he chanted sutras or recited dhāraṇīs on occasion, witnesses' body hair stood erect." Thus lacking an heir for succession, both his inner retainers and outer vassals made earnest entreaties. Truly in such circumstances - while satisfactory for himself - those surrounding him must have quaked with fear. That icy countenance locked in rigid austerity seems visible still.

Thus through the mediation of his retainers and various daimyo, they had him adopt a son of the Daijō-daijin Kujō Masamoto—connected through the shogun Yoshizumi’s aunt—conducted his coming-of-age ceremony with the shogun serving as ceremonial guardian, bestowed one character from the shogun’s name upon him, and had him styled as Minamoto Kurō Sumiyuki. Sumiyuki, being of distinguished lineage and a refined youth, was welcomed by all as a fine young lord, leading them to grant him Tanba Province whereupon he entered the capital. However due to Masamoto’s frequent illnesses—during his previous ailment—the Hosokawa household members alone consulted and determined that Hosokawa Sanuki-no-kami Yukikatsu’s son (grandson of Awa’s military governor Hosokawa Jiun’in) possessed suitable talent and stature for adoption; they contracted to adopt him by dispatching Settsu’s deputy military governor Yakushiji Yoichi as envoy.

The individual who contracted this adoption also received a character from the shogun and assumed the name Hosokawa Rokurō Sumimoto. In essence, Sumimoto's adoption had been arranged by household members themselves, while Sumiyuki's was accomplished through the mediation of distinguished figures. Concerning this matter, various theories exist—some even reversing the sequence of events described above. The Hosokawa vassal Yakushiji Yoichi—who served as envoy for Sumimoto's adoption contract—was an illiterate man yet innately honest; together with his younger brother Yoji, they formed peerless warriors. Residing in Yodo Castle and having repeatedly distinguished himself in service, he was a man held in high esteem by the entire Hosokawa clan. When Sumiyuki arrived as an adopted son from the household of the Daijō-daijin to where Sumimoto resided, Yoichi—now serving as contractual envoy—found himself in a precarious position regarding both the Awa Hosokawa family and Sumimoto himself. Thus Yoichi—a man fundamentally rooted in loyalty and valor alone, yet narrow-minded and lacking discernment—erupted in fury. As for Lord Masamoto during this period—growing increasingly obsessed with magic by degrees—he manifested various marvels: levitating into the air or standing aloft, his emotions deviating from ordinary men's norms, occasionally uttering incomprehensible statements. That he could ascend into air—a feat even Western magicians perform—we may reasonably assume achievable given his prolonged training. His immeasurable emotions and utterances of supernatural language stemmed precisely from his ascetic pursuit to transcend the mundane world; thus such outcomes became inevitable through sustained practice—herein lay magic's true value. From Masamoto's perspective, those muttering "This seems odd" or "Rather suspicious" undoubtedly appeared as tedious fools—endlessly parroting obvious truths like snow's whiteness or crows' blackness without wearying of their own banality. Yet Hosokawa's vassals found themselves overwhelmed. Thereupon Yoichi conspired with a man named Akazawa Munesuke—concluding matters had reached an impasse—and formed an alliance to forcibly install Lord Rokurō Sumimoto of Awa as family head through coercive measures, retiring Lord Masamoto to indulge fully in magical pursuits. Demonstrating his resolve, Yoichi barricaded himself within Yodo Castle while Akazawa Munesuke led troops marching imposingly toward Fushimi-Takedaguchi.

Yoichi’s proposal did not gain majority agreement. Many also supported Sumiyuki. In any case, because Yoichi’s approach was somewhat too abrupt, it was decided to strike him down as a subordinate overstepping his superiors. Yoichi’s younger brother Yoji was made to lead the attack on Yodo Castle as general. Being both courageous and numerous, and thoroughly familiar with the terrain, they swiftly captured Yodo Castle, and Yoji forced his elder brother to commit seppuku at Ichigen-ji Temple. Due to this achievement, Yoji succeeded his brother as deputy military governor.

Hosokawa Rokurō Sumimoto of Awa, having presumably received some manner of envoy from Yoichi’s faction, proceeded unhurriedly to the capital. Since this could not be accomplished alone, Rokurō’s father Sanuki-no-kami assigned Miyoshi Chikuzen-no-kami Yukinaga and Takabatake Yozō to accompany him. Both were men of martial valor. Under Masamoto, Yoji had greatly wielded authority due to his recent achievements, but having slain his brother, he was ill-regarded by society. Meanwhile, Miyoshi Chikuzen-no-kami—acting as Rokurō’s supporting retainer—conducted himself in ways that prevented Yoji from acting as he pleased for Rokurō’s authority and benefit, leaving Yoji deeply displeased.

Thereupon, Yoji consulted with the likes of Takeda Genshichi and Kōzai Mataroku and attempted to take a path similar to his brother’s. The sole difference lay in this: whereas his elder brother had sought to install Rokurō Sumimoto, he himself intended merely to elevate Kurō Sumiyuki. Given how he remained obsessively devoted to magical training and behaved as though he were no ordinary man, Lord Masamoto could not long endure in this world. Should Lord Rokurō seize power, Miyoshi alone would exercise authority and wield influence. Thus, having no alternative, they resolved to urge Lord Masamoto’s ritual suicide, have Lord Minamoto Kurō of Tanba succeed as head of the Kanrei house, and thereby seize control of the realm for themselves.

It was the twenty-third day of the sixth month of Eishō 4 (June 23, 1507). Masamoto had no way of knowing his vassals were plotting such things. As had become his custom, he wore a stern countenance and sought to fulfill his daily regimen of magical training according to ritual—not a single other thought occupied his mind.

Yet this was a war-torn age. There were those rebelling in Takaya of Kawachi, so against them they had dispatched forces from Settsu Province and Yamato Province, along with Fukuoji Kijima Genzaemon and Wada Genshiro—the younger brother of Akazawa Munesuke, who had previously conspired with Yoichi but surrendered and was spared. They had also dispatched Akazawa Munesuke to suppress the rebellion in Tanba. Those men, clad in heavy armor beneath the sweltering heat of late June, were sweating and bleeding in the maelstrom of battle—amidst whistling arrows, clanging blades, tolling war bells, and thundering drums—chasing and repelling in turn.

Masamoto did not dwell on those matters; he simply found his ascetic practices enjoyable by now. A go player undoubtedly plays with the intention of winning—savoring the feeling of achieving a five-point or ten-point victory—yet one relishes each stone placed: his stone, my stone, in the intervals between moves. No—it was the very act of placing that single stone, that solitary stone, which brought delight. A falconer ventures into the outskirts intending to rejoice in catching cranes or wild geese, but in truth finds inexpressible delight in each slow step through marshes and thickets, savoring joy with every pace. To find joy solely in achieving objectives and fulfilling intentions remains the perspective of those still lingering in the lowlands—not that of one who has ventured deep into the mountains of their path. When one attains the realm where each moment is fully realized—where behind placing a single stone lies the entire game’s fascination, where with each step taken overflows a day’s worth of joy—then victory becomes more delightful than its purpose, defeat too brings delight; catching game surpasses its aim in pleasure, and failing to catch likewise brims with joy. Thus, setting aside whether ritual matters succeed or fail and whether karmic conditions ripen or remain immature—all things reach maturity. Whether Masamoto’s magic had succeeded remained unknown, but he spent long years without weariness or neglect. Today too, he enshrined the principal deity according to ritual and solemnly adorned the altar, then entered the bathhouse to first cleanse himself of bodily impurities and remove defilements. The purification of the three karmic actions was foundational to all ritual practices.

Now he neither spoke words nor attempted to speak, neither stirred his thoughts nor sought to stir them, serenely purifying his body. In this interval, each passing moment—each fraction of an inch, each sliver of time—as the sunlight shifted, must have manifested for Masamoto as a desirable demonic realm, or perhaps a world where karma flowed freely. Though such things remained inscrutable to outsiders, he was after all a man who had practiced unwearyingly through long, long years; he could not have persisted without having obtained that which kept weariness at bay.

Dakiniten was demon and Buddha; neither demon nor Buddha. It was Dakiniten. It devoured people's hearts. It devoured mental defilements. What rituals Hosokawa Masamoto performed or what state he attained grew ever more unfathomable. People knew only that he had practiced that magic. Hosokawa Masamoto took his ritual bath. The yukata that should have been there was missing. The page Nami〻Hakube went to fetch the yukata. On the moonless twenty-third day, an evening wind rose sharply. Todokura Jirō the scribe burst into the room. When Nami〻Hakube returned, Todokura swung a bloodied sword at him. He dodged and escaped with only a shallow wound.

The next day was battle. Nami〻Hakube struck down Todokura and avenged his lord who had been slain at forty-two, but from then on, the Hosokawa clan—the Kanrei house—descended into utter chaos as both factions attacked and counterattacked each other. It was not that Masamoto had done nothing during the long years he spent practicing magic. He had merely been deposing and installing Ashikaga shoguns or waging wars in various regions.

This is not to chronicle Masamoto’s deeds.

Among those who had practiced the Izuna method after Masamoto, there was an intriguing figure. That was a far more eminent figure than Masamoto.

Imperial Regent, Minister of the Interior, Uji no Chōja of the Fujiwara clan, Junior First Rank—such a man had practiced the Izuna method. While Grand Minister Kimisuke had his living head taken through heretical methods, this man passed through the terrifying era spanning from Tenbun to Bunroku without suffering any misfortune, peacefully attained ninety years of longevity, and met an auspicious end. That person was Kujō Tanemichi—successor to the renowned Kampaku Kanezane—known as Lord Kuyama.

In Lord Tanemichi’s youth, the realm lay in chaos like tangled hemp. Landholdings became sporadic, and no matter how noble one’s status or lineage, even daily life proved difficult. Do you suppose what the imperial court’s revenue amounted to before Oda Nobunaga’s time? According to certain records, it was said to have been approximately three thousand koku. However frugally and austerely one might live, three thousand koku could never suffice. As for the court nobles—truly, they must have fallen into direst penury. Thus in those days, one frequently finds scattered through miscellaneous histories and anecdotal records accounts of people from distinguished families roaming in all directions and seeking refuge with wealthy warrior houses. Tanemichi too wandered to Sakai in Izumi Province—a place where wealthy merchants resided—or roamed through the western provinces; unwilling to abandon his son-in-law Togawa (possibly a descendant of Togawa Kazumasa?), he, though a court noble by station, set aside his ceremonial baton and brush to take up bow, arrow, spear, and sword, even engaging in martial exploits.

This man spoke to his disciple Nagatamaru.

“Once I resolve upon something,” I declared, “I never cease midway but devote myself to probing its furthest depths.” “I trained in the Izuna method,” I continued, “and knew I had attained mastery when owls invariably came crying upon my roof at midnight wherever I slept, and whirlwinds ever arose before me when I journeyed.” Such were his recounted words. Owls were held to be manifestations of Tengu. The aforementioned Bishop Henjō had likewise confined and burned in an iron cage an owl transformed by a Tengu. An owl’s cry upon the roof signified that Tengu attended one who had perfected the Izuna method. Whirlwinds’ rising meant unseen retainers guarded and preceded their master. The Izuna deity was a Tengu astride a winged fox.

Tanemichi, who had achieved such fearsome mastery of Izuna, was in the actual world a man who proved himself equal to that reputation.

When Oda Nobunaga destroyed the Imagawa clan, subjugated the Sasaki, Asai, and Asakura clans, disposed of factions like Miyoshi and Matsunaga, marched upon the capital to support the shogunate, and paid homage at the imperial palace, the entire nation revered him as if he were a demonic deity. Given this commander's notoriously irascible temperament, even court nobles and lofty guests trembled with fearful flattery, as though beholding Kiso Yoshinaka's legendary entry into the capital. Yet Tanemichi remained standing before Nobunaga and remarked, "Ah—Lord Kazusa? How auspicious your capital arrival," before coolly taking his leave. This address derived from Nobunaga's former title of Kazusa-no-suke. However formidable a Kazusa-no-suke might be, before Kujō Tanemichi—a man of exalted rank—such curt treatment stood beyond reproach. Tanemichi preserved both his official dignity and his noble house's prestige. Being Nobunaga, this greeting provoked furious indignation; he reportedly raged, "Lord Kujō came solely to extract courtesies from me!" While Nobunaga—having unified the realm—likely anticipated gratitude from Lord Kujō, Tanemichi's mastery of Izuna rites left him holding his nose aloft like a tengu chieftain. Truly fortunate that among courtiers there existed at least one man of such unyielding mettle.

When Kinoshita Hideyoshi destroyed Akechi and succeeded Nobunaga to take control of the realm, the momentum of that time stirred the senses of all people. Hideyoshi at that time declared: "Thanks to heaven’s providence, I have now attained this noble station—but being a man without lineage or pedigree, a mere grass-cutter risen in the world—I wish to become a Fujiwara by invoking the name of Minister Kamatari of old." This revealed his hidden intent to become Imperial Regent. Given Hideyoshi’s formidable influence at that time—deeming it acceptable and a simple matter—Lord Konoe Ryūzan moved to arrange it. At this, Lord Tanemichi rebuked him: “No, no—while there may be no distinction among the Five Regent Houses, the clan chieftainship resides with my household. This cannot be left to Lord Konoe’s discretion.” Despite existing objections, Hideyoshi refrained from forcing through such measures. Moreover, as this was Tanemichi’s pronouncement—a man revered for his erudition—Hideyoshi ordered Tokusen’in Gen’i to have Daitoku-ji temple hear arguments from both the Kujō and Konoe houses. Both houses staunchly maintained their positions, but Tanemichi’s argument proved more substantiated. Then Hideyoshi—ever himself—declared: “Rather than becoming some branch or leaf of the troublesome Fujiwara clan, I shall forge an entirely new lineage unseen until now.” Thereupon Lord Kikutei consulted the *Shinsen Shōjiroku*, and he became Toyotomi Hideyoshi for the first time.

In this too, Tanemichi proved commendable. That there existed at least one court noble bold enough to tweak the noses of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi was indeed most fortunate. That Hideyoshi never became a Fujiwara was naturally for the best. Truly remarkable were the feats of late achieved by both tengu—truly remarkable.

Hideyoshi finally became Imperial Regent. Subsequently, Hidetsugu also became Imperial Regent. Tanemichi, having mastered Izuna, would often declare: “Become Imperial Regent, and you’ll incur divine punishment.” When Hidetsugu Kampaku indeed incurred guilt, Lord Konoe was consequently exiled to Bōno-Tsu in Kyushu, Lord Kikutei to Shinano Province, and his daughter Ichidai-dono transported away by cart. It was terrifying—the words of one who had mastered Izuna held an unseen authority. He was of course a master of waka poetry. Though he likely did not devote his heart to renga as deeply, even as a secondary pursuit he had attained mastery in that art. Hōkyō Shōha was then the great master of renga. Yet when Nagatamaru visited Lord Tanemichi and was asked whether there had been any notable gossip of late, he replied: “At a renga gathering held at Lord Mōri of Aki’s residence in the village—when composing on red plum blossoms in the garden—Hōkyō Shōha crafted the verse: ‘Plum blossoms—their hue and fragrance unheard even in the Age of Gods.’ People were all praising it.” To this [Tanemichi] observed that Narihira’s poem about being “unheard even in the Age of Gods” had devoted its essence to marveling at crimson-dyed waters in the Tatsuta River—a wonder absent even in that mythic era—yet there was no justification for applying such lofty language to commonplace plums. Long ago in Ise Province when Muian saw winter-blooming cherry blossoms and composed “Cherry blossoms blooming in winter—unheard even in the Age of Gods,” it was precisely because this occurred in Ise that such classical allusion held true intent. As for Mōri Daizen—he was no shrine priest after all—they say [Tanemichi] laughed. Even Shōha was no match for this man. Mitsuhide questioned Shōha about whether the character ‘shi’ in “Throughout the land reigns this fifth month” should instead be ‘na,’ but Shōha too proved no match for this nobleman. Had Mōri been a shrine priest, this verse might have held merit—terrifying indeed.

Shōha occasionally visited this nobleman. One day when he came to call, Shōha asked, “What has Your Excellency been perusing of late?” Without another word, His Excellency slowly uttered a single phrase: “Genji.” Shōha inquired again: “What poetry text would be most auspicious?” The answer was simple. “Genji.” That was all. Once more Shōha asked: “Might someone come to solace Your Excellency’s solitude?” His Excellency’s reply proved truly admirable. “Genji.”

All three times met with the same reply, Shōha withdrew with a drawn-out "Ugh—".

Indeed, not only did whirlwinds arise wherever His Excellency walked, but they also swirled forth before his very words. In *The Tale of Genji* too, beyond annotations on language and material things, there existed an exposition of profound concepts known as the theory of cessation and contemplation. It was said that His Excellency’s commentary on Genji, the *Mōtsushō*, had been expounded with the intent of applying cessation and contemplation to *The Tale of Genji*—much like how the *Lotus Sutra*’s exegesis contained sections on profound meaning and philological analysis, followed by its ten volumes on cessation and contemplation. He was an ardent devotee of *The Tale of Genji*, said to have declared, “Gazing upon this, one feels dwelling in the Engi era,” and spent dawn till dusk immersed in its pages. That he never wearied of rereading this very same *Genji* for sixty years became as fascinating as Masamoto’s twenty-year dedication to Izuna rituals.

In the days when Nagatamaru occasionally sought his teachings, His Excellency spent quietly desolate mornings and evenings in a crumbling hermitage called Kentei-in—nestled within thickets before Tōfuku-ji’s gates in Kyoto. Each dawn, he donned his stole, formed mudras, and performed his ascetic rites 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 a life as weathered yet refined as sunlight bleaching an empty room—uncluttered, serene, free of worldly dust. Here was a man who had surely mastered Izuna, yet seemed equally to have mastered himself. To have lived through the world spanning from Tenbun to Bunroku, while simultaneously dwelling in the Engi era—this was truly fascinating.

When Nagatamaru—that is, Sadanori—visited His Excellency on one occasion, the lord, engaged in the elegant pursuits of a recluse, had gone out into a garden bathed in gentle sunlight and was personally planting larch saplings in a well bucket. Were it a five-needle pine, one might understand—but larch saplings were hardly anything special. Yet here he was planting them in a well bucket of all things—when exactly did he expect to appreciate what would become of those tiny seedlings? Yet this was precisely what fascinated—here lay the true delight that only one who had mastered his art could attain. Sadanori was far younger than His Excellency. Contemplating his own youth against His Excellency’s frail form—pure yet withered with age—the faint green of the larch saplings’ diminutive size and the pathos of using a weather-beaten well bucket for such a purpose, Sadanori found his heart softening of its own accord. “May these pines at least grow one or two feet auspiciously,” he offered in celebration, reciting: *“From this day we plant them—may their green endure for you to behold.”* His Excellency replied as if merely stating fact: *“Having dwelled wearily beneath the sun through ordinary days—from this day I plant pines to see.”*

In one born into a turbulent age—one who could not have endured without such capacity, virtue, and talent—there resided, at around eighty years of age, a man planting larch saplings; in his poem beneath the sun, the sound of falling tears could be heard. Is not one who has mastered the Izuna rites also admirable?

(April 1928)