Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Even after departing Shiga’s Point, the sea remained a calm untouched by inland waters. Adjusting the parasol to block the light that shifted with the bow’s angle, he gazed intently at the ship’s smoke rising straight into Genkai’s sky. Lying on the gunwale pillow at the stern, not a single drop of spray reached him. Occasionally, when he raised his head to look, the island—resembling Ishū’s sea deity headdress—gradually transformed into parasitic shellfish and cormorant birds, finally taking on a form befitting that land. Three hours had already passed since that cruise steamer—akin to an elder sister to this motorboat—departed from the pier. The appearance of having been cast adrift in the vast sea—as if abandoned at birth—evoked associations perfectly suited to the island’s ancient name “Ten’ippira,” along with a faint melancholy.

After the Dog Days had passed and the sun began to sink, they entered Ashinobe Bay, where only the waves glittered fiercely.
The moment his eyes focused, he wondered if there was another steamer docked for loading.
With such an unusually loud whistle resounding toward Seto Beach on the opposite shore, it was urging the barge passengers onward.
The people who had grown weary from the sweltering voyage from Hakata, though anxious about whether they would still make it in time for the bus to Gonoura, nevertheless disembarked.

That I had come to feel such familiarity with the people of Iki and hold such rich expectations for finding this same refined tranquility on their island even before arriving was due to the boy who, until just moments ago, had spent nearly half a day silently gazing at the waves beside me.
Since he carried a medicine bottle labeled with Fukuoka University Hospital, he had likely gone to undergo surgery on that bandaged leg he’d left untreated.
He wore knee-length straight sleeves in a white checkered pattern, something resembling pants, and cinched his waist with a leather belt into a gourd-like constriction.
He was probably sixteen or seventeen.
His complexion showed no signs of sun weathering.
His cheeks were hollowed, but against his pallid skin, eyes that seemed to bear the listlessness marking boyhood’s end nonetheless glistened jet-black.
Even after the crowd who had boarded the cabin disembarked, he remained beside me—I who had spent four hours like this silently contemplating only the blue sky—fixated on staring at the sea’s surface.

Whenever I raised my head, I always met this boy’s eyes.
It was a wordless act so filled with goodwill that even someone as reserved as I felt compelled to broach a topic as mundane as asking whether he had been going to the university hospital.
He had the bearing of the son of a small seafood shop who cycled around the island’s villages to collect ※（魚＋昜） and dried abalone—one made to serve as a substitute apprentice.
And yet, perhaps because my eyes—having spent forty days in Okinawa seeing only faces of men and women with high cheekbones and evenly aligned white teeth that seemed to mock others through slits in stiffened paper—had grown accustomed to such sights, I thought this tranquility was something even educated youths in Tokyo rarely possessed.
Indeed, through Iki flowed what remained of Kyoto and Osaka’s noble bloodlines.
In my hasty optimism, I had begun to feel my planned twenty days here might pass pleasantly enough for conversing with islanders.

On this island, until seventy years ago, there lived people who in their messages to Kamigata's capital lamented the difficulty of passing lonely days, "dripping with sorrow."
The plea "Take pity on me" clung like shoreline seaweed through that dense emotion, leaving no room to stifle a yawn.
Upon wind-battered stone monuments of generations of such educated exiles remained a lineage that still lays fragrant offerings unceasingly.
These quiet eyes would not have emerged even had one grasped the psychology of sea clans or tenant farmers.
The exiles who brought humanitarian concerns to the island's way of life must have first deeply felt their own restlessness, longing for connection, and regret's poignancy before conveying these to idle islanders.

Since the first exile these islanders believed in—Minister Yuriwaka—every rock on the capes facing the island’s south must have been drenched by teardrops welling from pensive eyes; not a single one could have remained dry.
For city dwellers, “mono no aware” had been an abstract concept, but in the minds of those on this remote island, it lived as visceral truth.
The boy’s contemplative, glistening eyes could never have emerged into the island’s society through mere compulsion of crop levies.
That, in its longing, resembled love; in its desire to express itself, approached the heart that gives birth to literature.

But for that to take form as folk songs, different circumstances were required.
The island lacked those essential conditions.
The island's development was relatively delayed.
It was an era when songs, instruments, and dances had fully evolved into artistic disciplines elsewhere.
The art of this traditionless island all arrived alongside its peasant farmers.
A civilization born when festivals, banquets, and rituals no longer strictly required song would never bear its own distinctive music through the ages.
There was motive and desire—yet no form ever coalesced.
Merely singing regional ballads could never become the rallying cry to conceive new music or birth literature.
Hearts with no songs to vent their sorrow only deepened the darkness behind eyes.
Like groves on summer-hazed mountains standing motionless—it sank quietly and thickened.

It was the year Yagibushi was in vogue.
Moreover, it was around the time when I too heard the popular song “Karesusuki” in Nagasaki town two or three days prior.
It was the mood of an older person—one who felt that unless he gave form to the cloud-like tumult welling up from his heart’s depths through the rhythm of a folk song, there would be no outlet for such feelings.
Just when I thought traces of his convalescence still lingered, the face he raised now brimmed entirely with youthful vigor.
The arm resting on the gunwale, the outstretched leg, the bent knee—all were crisp as though the white checkered pattern suited his form, and dignified as the leather belt’s tautness.
In the wholesome purity of the boy’s composed bearing and glistening eyes—evoking thoughts of a good home, a good village, a good society—he first measured the islanders’ emotions and courtesy.

While my daydream wandered off into wild tangents, the figure of this youth vanished.
From below the porthole, on one of the two boats that rowed apart in both directions, the black-eyed boy stood holding the bundle of medicine bottles.
It was returning to Seto’s shore.
During my stay on this island, might I yet encounter the master of eyes who represents the inner world of these Iki Islanders?
As I found myself stirred by a youthful, almost poetic sentiment I hadn’t felt in years, my traveler’s heart grew increasingly sodden.
Enough of that—let me fully take in these first impressions of the island’s land now entering my vision.

II

Over the desolate rooftops of the port town seen from behind hung a high hill tinged with summer-dried hues.
Over the fishing village nestled in the northeastern shadow crept a deepening gloom.
Though nightfall remained distant, the engine room's tick-tock clock showed it drawing close to five.
Clouds gathering faintly left the fishing village along the horseshoe-shaped inlet fully exposed to sunlight now blazing intensely.
Even this yellow-grass slope received the strong horizontal light streaming in.
A white path wound up the mountainside where small graves lay scattered.
In two or three spots lingered remnants of grave decorations though Obon had passed.
The sight of grave markers resembling picture scrolls evoked the old-fashioned quiet life persisting on this sea island.
A bicycle descended that slope.
One could infer the plateau above.
For what felt neither ten nor twenty minutes, this alone had moved across the cliffside village's face that I'd been gazing up at.
As these thoughts took hold, I felt my heart grow taut with the island society's obscurity.

The two brightly colored boats anchored some distance apart were houseboats from Amakusa here for squid fishing, I was told.
It was the urgency of sailors drawing out engine-heated water over gunwales while washing their bare dark skin.
They came to work seasonally—caught fish in nearby waters—processed them all at Iki Province’s three ports: Gōnoura, Katsumoto, and this Konoashibe—and converted them into money.
When their target prey shifted toward flanking waters in season’s turn, they went to Tsushima or other regions and earned their livelihood there anew.
As for Iki’s seasonal workers—theirs too followed this pattern.
From Tsushima across to Korea they left their villages during fishing seasons.
Those who stayed rooted in their land through all seasons—busying themselves only with nearby waters—were people of fishing villages.
Even so—in recent years—there came those who ventured out toward Korean coastal waters.

Amidst listening to these tales, the fireman—having completed loading regional-bound cargo and taken a leisurely breath for the fixed time allotted—inserted his sword bean pipe into its tobacco pouch and stood up.

Amidst seabirds called *umigarasu*—resembling kites—flitting about like mosquitoes, the ship proceeded south along the shore with the boiler’s rhythmic chugging.
It had suddenly cooled because a slight wind had risen.
The reason the ship had begun rolling considerably was that waves had started rising.
“Might a storm come tonight or such,” muttered the passengers still remaining on the ship as they finished preparations to disembark, came out onto the deck, and talked among themselves.

Along the eastern shore of the island at Hakozaki and Tsutsuki’s rocky coasts, black rocks, green leaves of shrubs, and sunlight—scattered by the wind as it moved between the trees—already heralded the sunset.
As the sun diminished to scattered fragments and the waves began to take on subdued hues, the rock face of Kinhakushō Reef—as if dusted with thin snow—emerged distinctly before my eyes.
The sixtyish gentleman in a summer coat, who had been courteously initiating various conversations since earlier upon seeing I was from another land, was idly stroking his white beard.
This rock called Kinhakushō was one of many found around Iki Province.
Black rocks jutting out from the sea looked as though they’d been dusted from above with finely powdered white sugar.

“The most splendid one lies offshore from Yunoto Hot Springs, so we call this ‘Snow Island.’”
“Old texts apparently wrote Iki as ‘Yuki.’”
“Have you seen the Iki Zoku Fudoki—the Continued Topography of Iki—researched by ancestors of Hakozaki’s shrine priest?”
“Village offices and enthusiasts borrowed them without returning copies, leaving even subsequent households with incomplete volumes.”
“Ah—I viewed a complete volume at Tokyo’s Cabinet Library.”
“Indeed, they do seem to exist there.”
“But those sent from our island to investigate Tokyo’s archives called it a mere abridgment fixated on geography—a useless book.”

“Are you suggesting that if gathered under the county office’s oversight?”
“They discern hierarchy yet maintain liberal leanings despite their courtesy.”
“Since antiquity—townsfolk as townsfolk, farmers and fishers as farmers and fishers—each upholds propriety within their circles. Such humility in bearing and gentleness in speech would scarcely be found beyond these shores.”
“This stems from exiles who came here—mostly high-born souls with minor offenses, nobles from the capital especially estate managers—and their influence.”
“Some settled at temples; others were placed in villages. But chiefly, it was exiles who educated our islanders.”
“Even from olden days, they appear to have been relatively pure-hearted folk.”

There were also those from daimyo clans of Kyushu and Chūgoku who fled here. Those individuals established residences in various slightly elevated spots, built mansions, and governed their subordinates. Beyond that, there were ordinary farmers, townspeople, and sea clans, but the familiarity born of shared touch and shared script was remarkable. Even in the villages beneath the mansions, all except the lords were equal. Even more so, in other classes, there was little distinction made between who was upper or lower. There was also a samurai status system, but this involved Hirado Domain recognizing and promoting former rural samurai. Eventually, funds were allocated from the domain’s finances to create individuals of samurai status. They granted samurai status treatment and stipends of eighty *koku* or below to those who paid fixed sums; those versed in marine products—primarily whales, abalone, and seaweed—and attained skill in accounting; appointing such individuals as officials under the Hirado Product Bureau. These were merely what one might call clerks of the domain, existing solely for product affairs. The castellan of Hirado had come to Ota Hill in Takefumimizu above Gōnoura, but he had no interaction with these officials.

Regarding households of samurai status in the traditional sense, the historically related villagers and fishing villagers had not lost their respect.
However, toward those of new samurai status created for product affairs, they held no particular master-servant or master-apprentice sentiments either.
Moreover, here, the *handen* land-allocation system appeared to have been implemented continuously since at least the Sengoku period—and this, as they say, had continued until Meiji years 7–8.
For the fishing townspeople and sea clans, equality existed in their occupations, while village farmers allocated land under the *handen* system would be evenly apportioned their shares, such that around the twenty-third year, all circumstances reverted to their original state.
Thus, among their circles, wealth remained evenly distributed until recent times, and there was no such thing as competitive jealousy.
“Thus naturally, they interacted with samurai-status people in a nearly equal manner, and among themselves associated without hierarchy.”

That became the very foundation upon which they properly integrated those teachings of humility obtained from such exiles.
“Indeed, even we take pride in being both elegant and peaceful.”
“For example, when visiting someone else’s home and taking one’s leave, they say ‘Persevere diligently’—”
“—phrases like ‘Be vigilant in rest’ exemplify this.”
“When returning at night, they use ‘Be vigilant in rest’ to mutually warn against nighttime dangers in rural life; even when simply going out nearby, they say ‘Persevere diligently.’”
“It’s considered to mean ‘Apply yourself diligently to your family trade,’ as it were.”
“However, this is said to mean ‘Strive to increase your meals’—that is, ‘Take heart and improve your health.’”
“Such traces of old ways still linger even now.”
“New classes outside their long-established systems appear difficult for them to grasp.”
“That’s why the county office’s authority still doesn’t quite seem to take root.”

III

By now，the ship had circled to the southern side of the island．Visibly fraught with hidden reefs，it was the waters off Ishida and Hatsuyama．It ran on，sending unhurried vibrations reverberating through the entire hull．

“If I’m mistaken, please forgive me.
“Aren’t you the eldest son of the revered priest of Kurosaki, now residing in Tokyo?”

The one who cut into the conversation—posing a question so abruptly mistaken it might bewilder its recipient—was a man in his mid-forties wearing an unlined yukata, whose well-groomed parted hair alone suggested considerable social standing.
Even as I answered "No," I realized that the very person I had been mistaken for was someone I knew.
He was a close acquaintance of my student brother, working in the economic sector for a newspaper favored by connoisseurs.

With such matters—from this island that etches its desolate contours into my heart—could someone of such expertise have emerged? Such intricate thoughts had surfaced through a flash of association. Having discerned this was my first crossing to the island, this well-intentioned middle-aged intruder peered around the towering cliff inlet—now nearly darkened—and addressed an elderly companion in consultative tones: “Would it not be here?” before continuing, “Though scarcely visible now, Hashimotoiwa—the pillar rock—should be marked on your map… Ah, here it lies.” “This rock stands precisely yonder—though I glimpsed it but once long ago,” he explained, his account evoking upon the swiftly dimming waves a sensation as though unseen listeners leaned forward, ears pricked to interject. Amidst this unbroken thread of mood-forged fantasy that gripped me, we had already arrived. From a Kawajiri-like place where two destroyers lay moored, [the ship] entered a lengthy waterway.

This was Gōnoura.
Even when it grew so dark in the fading daylight that people’s faces became indistinguishable, the town still seemed to have no electricity.
On one of the moored boats, only the burning of a mosquito coil—without any connection—evoked the sensation of having arrived in an ancient land, an ancient port.

Transferring to the lighter, no sooner had they boarded than they were immediately hoisted onto the shore’s stone steps.

The one who created for me the opportunity to research Iki Island’s folk traditions and covered the expenses was an affluent individual who had left this island and was now dedicating himself wholeheartedly—rolling up not just one sleeve but both sleeves—to its education.
At the inn this person had told me about, there was no cart to carry the large travel bag I held in both hands.
From behind the standing stones at the boat landing, a woman called out, “Would you like this one to carry your luggage?” and approached.
In the dim twilight at the edge of town—now grown quite dark—I felt as though I had clearly perceived her: her overall appearance reminiscent of a woman around fifty, her mouth with blackened teeth, her obi neatly tied at her back—as if she had been transformed from the boy in the boat.
Having this woman carry my luggage and let her guide me, I could not suppress the rich anticipation that welled up within me at every turn.
Once again, the conviction surged within me—this island, its vestiges of old life had been waiting to welcome my arrival for research.
I felt as though those precursors—becoming that boy, becoming the scenery of Ashibeura, becoming the mistaken identity with the Tokyo-returned Ishū man, becoming this elderly woman—had all come to dwell in my heart, and an attachment welled up within me toward everything I saw in this port town’s cramped houses.

My lodging was situated at the promontory of the plateau overlooking Gōnoura town.
When I stepped onto the veranda and undid my trouser suspenders, the upper part of town abruptly brightened—the electricity had come on.
Yet my room contained no electric light.
Neither did the adjacent room nor the entryway.
Soon a bamboo stand lamp was produced.
The face of the young maid who knelt before me serving rice.
Here too resided softened archaic contours and eyes that combined innocence with humble virtue.
The maid began recounting various tales in response to my inquiries.

The maid’s house was in a place called Mugiya, one hill beyond Gōnoura.
During Obon, a ritual called Mugiya Nenbutsu was performed.
In settlements newly established by peasants beyond the old villages under the lord’s domain—those who had crossed the island under leaders—they had come here for the spirit festival.
Thus, even the Buddhist training that once served as a historical benchmark for the island’s villages was no longer attended by people from other communities, and the island’s elders—those perhaps two or three generations prior—had come to know nothing of the origins of Mugiya Nenbutsu.

The maid also told of how a kappa had disguised herself as a human woman, pledged herself to the lord of the manor, borne a child, and—after being discovered—leapt into a well to return to the sea, recounting this tale of the Shinoda Wife of the water realm; she then informed me that the ancient well of Tonegawa mansion still remained in Mugiya to this day.
Though this aligned with knowledge I had prepared through the *Iki Meisho Zushi*, upon arriving here, even before visiting those sites firsthand, I felt something akin to tangible reality bringing it into sharp relief—a flickering stimulus that seemed on the verge of revealing its underlying cause.
Tomorrow I would visit Watarano fishing village from Mugiya.
Thinking this, I flipped up the mosquito net and lay down on the futon, which faintly smelled of mildew yet retained a stiff starchiness.

IV

This land was a living island.
An island that wandered alive across the seas.
Thus did it come to bear the name Iki.
When the gods first shaped this island realm—finding their creation adrift in ocean currents—they contrived means to moor it against the tides.
Eight pillars they raised and bound with sacred ropes.
These pillars now endure as shattered stone.
The Broken Pillars they are called.
All eight still stand unyielding.
They mark eight sacred sites: Watarano Ōshima and Kamise; Kurosaki’s Tōjin Kami’s Promontory; Katsumoto’s Long Isle; Morozu; Seto; Hachiman’s Cape; and Kuki’s Shore.

Among these, Kamise’s was the largest, while Kuki’s was also called Hashimotoiwa (Pillar Base Rock).
The one at Tōjin Kami’s Nose had been enclosed within a fortified zone, making it impossible to visit now.
Because those pillars broke, the ropes snapped, and the island was gradually moving across the sea and drifting.
In the occasional complaints of the elderly, there was this sentiment: "If only they had gone all the way and connected it to Chikuzen Province, it would have been better."
Though the name "Broken Pillars" was still spoken today, this legend—save for the person who told me—was something even the island’s experts and elders uniformly claimed to have never heard.
It was merely that when speaking of when the gods gave birth to the island, there appeared to be a point where the divine name "Amehitotsu-hashira" for Iki Island related to the Broken Pillars—a connection that may have undergone rationalization in later periods.

The island being alive and moving, the breaking of the pillars that anchored it, their transformation into rocks that remain—these could be said to remarkably preserve, as folktales, the full form of mythology.
It was indeed strange that these stories never became children’s tales, and despite possessing all necessary elements to evolve into heroic narratives of supernatural strength, they remained as they were.
Minister Yuriwaka’s Genkai Island was proclaimed to be the land of Iki—a country where all stories bearing heroic tales had become syncretized into Yuriwaka’s legend.

In other regions, the Amanjaku folktales have become highly fragmented, yet on Iki they still retain mythic resonance.
Long ago during an age called "This World's Single Life, Upper Moonlit Night"—when no darkness existed—the five grains flourished abundantly, and all people daily ate rice with soup made from thinned greens.
Rice stalks branched profusely, wheat stems multiplied, millet and foxtail millet each bore fruit on every bough.
In that golden era, they say if one stood at a field's edge and called "Come! Come!", rice and beans would gather of their own accord, allowing harvest without lifting a hand. It was then that Amanjaku grew envious—snapping off every branch, leaving only stalk tips.
He forgot to strip the beans, so only these grew many branches.
Then when stripping millet last, he cut his palm on its leaves.
The blood stained the millet leaves, creating red streaks.
He went sowing weed seeds through paddies and fields.
At Shinjo the seed bag's mouth overturned, spilling all contents.
Thus Shinjo's fields became choked with weeds and hard to till.

The deity—known as Takeda no Banshō—gradually built Iki Island, and finally, attempting to connect Keimagezaki to the opposite shore of Kurosaki as continuous land, fashioned three thousand straw effigies, cast spells upon them, set them to work, and sought to complete the task in a single night.
Amanjaku, in an attempt to interfere, imitated the crow of the first rooster.
Takeda no Banshō shouted, “Bend it! Abandon it!”
And so, in the end, the work was never completed.
The failed bridge remained in the inlet sea.
This is Keimagezaki.

This tale represents an archetype found everywhere—a spectral narrative akin to those where demons or tengu spirits abandoned their creation of mountains, valleys, or grand halls when a rooster crowed at the crucial moment—and thus has been preserved through generations. On Iki specifically, the contrast between the deity—renowned for civil engineering feats and thus memorialized as a master artisan—and nature spirits remains particularly vivid. The island's formative processes gained distinct clarity precisely through their coastal confinement. Takeda Banshō achieved legendary status across northern Kyushu as a craftsman rivaling Hidari Jingorō himself; throughout Iki Island stand stupas and architectural works still attributed to his hand. Islanders invoke him through epithets like *Tatta no Banshō* or the archaic *Takuta no Banshō*.

Depending on the storyteller, it was Banshō—that is, the deity—who imitated the rooster’s crow. It is also said that there had been an agreement: if Amanjaku had completed the bridge in a single night, they could have taken and killed all the islanders.

The straw effigies became kappa—river children—because in the end, the deity or Amanjaku had commanded them to go separately to the sea, mountains, and rivers (wells). It was for this reason that a thousand kappa dwelled in the sea, a thousand in the mountains, and a thousand in the rivers. If someone pulled a kappa’s hand, it came off because the straw effigy’s hand had been inserted into it. That kappa’s hands were easily taken by people, and this pattern of straw effigies becoming kappa was both ancient and found nationwide. Even the Ainu people spoke of straw effigies and the Mintsuchi water spirits. In legends from Hishaku Cove on the same western coast too, they did not mention Takeda no Banshō but instead referred to Lord Tenjin while recounting the same narrative form.

It drew remarkably close to the Kunibiki myth, while Amanjaku’s envy revealed a precarious boundary teetering on becoming a folktale.
The Broken Pillars legend too may have formed through this deity’s conflict with the spirits—a narrative explaining how they broke.

V

The tales of divine descent had also diversified.
In the area around Tsutsuki Hachiman on the eastern shore, they spoke of Lord Hachiman; in the central part of the western shore, Empress Jingū; and slightly further north, Lord Tenjin.
Yet all were said to have come ashore by boat on a certain night long ago.
This derived from the form of divine descent observed during festival nights—a practice performed annually by ritualists and shrine maidens—constituting a ceremonial event intertwined with myth.
Indeed, at Sumiyoshi Shrine in this land, it became customary for ritualists to traverse the island with divine authority during the Military Crossing Ritual and conduct incantations.
To encounter this sacred procession meant being punished by death—a fate all took care to avoid.

However, among families that pride themselves on their ancient lineage of settlement, many have established it as occurring on New Year’s Eve. On New Year’s Eve, while making preparations for spring, the deity descended, and they welcomed [the deity] as they were. Since then, this faction has refrained from pounding rice cakes for New Year’s and decorating with sacred ropes. Another commonly observed form tells of when their family’s ancestors arrived from the mainland on New Year’s Eve; unable to prepare for the festivities, they slept using the sacred New Year rope they had been making as a pillow and welcomed spring. Alternatively, it is said they had no time to pound rice cakes. Thus, they explain that their descendants uniformly do not make New Year decorations or food. This is all an older form than the tales of Fuji-Tsukuba and Somin Shōrai.

The shrines across Iki Island were broadly categorized into four types: those venerating deities who had come from this sea; those enshrining deities at sites where they alighted after flying through the sky as swans; those said to contain vengeful spirits that had drifted ashore as drowned corpses; and those claiming a sacred object had washed ashore.
They all demonstrated that they were deities who had crossed the sea.
These four forms of deities were merely branches of the faith in deities who periodically descended from across the sea.

While many families on the mainland observed New Year without spring preparations, this stemmed in part from the early modern rationalization of a custom where—on the night of the deity’s arrival—all but those with special roles (housewives or girls tasked with welcoming the deity) would discreetly conceal themselves.
The customs of spring food storage, using shimenawa ropes and pine decorations, and adorning homes with mountain herbs were styles that had become attached to deities coming from the mountains after faith in gods arriving from the sea had declined—practices that some villages and households did not observe.
It was during an era when these customs had become forms left behind by societal practices that people began attaching rational explanations.
At the court and among the imperial family, they did not put up New Year pine decorations.
This too was for the same reason.

When one adds explanations to such folk traditions interwoven with legends and customs and lays them out in sequence, it becomes apparent that the way of life in this country has remained anchored in a rather ancient form.

This may be presumptuous to say, but even Empress Jingū’s Chinkai Stones—those that existed in Chikuzen—were two massive rocks whose size was recorded even in the Manyoshu.
The description stating the stones were inserted into a hem was deemed too euphemistic, so the old interpretation—that they had obstructed the path for the Emperor’s birth in the womb—appeared forgotten, now seemingly attributed to abdominal pressure.
When I came to Iki and inquired, those stones had been removed and discarded, allowing the noble prince to emerge at this time.
Among Isshu’s pioneers were those who even attempted to construct a theory of Emperor Ōjin’s birth on Iki using such legends.
The reason two stones existed at Kuni Koshihara in Kyushu—though requiring effort—could be explained.
That august names like Ohohoto and Ohoto emerged also demonstrated how some considered these appellations a qualification for heroes and heroines born from such beliefs.
What remained unclear even in the Manyoshu—the island’s unrefined customs still preserved an antiquity retaining its original meaning.
Those stones still lie scattered on the beach north of Katsumoto’s Seibo Shrine.
It is said that on the white stones’ sharpened tips lie portions dyed red.
This is a small stone.

Even facts recorded in official histories by national chroniclers as great events merely grazed the minds of people clinging to their repetitive, mundane lives as transient occurrences before fading away.
It was said that when the Mongol army came, they had completely killed off the old inhabitants to such an extent that not a drop of blood from those rooted in this island flows in today’s islanders’ veins.
This required accounting for considerable exaggeration; regardless, no trace of such a major event remained in anyone’s memory.
Even legends of the Mongol army were merely retellings of old ogre stories.
It was Li Bai’s *Xiangyang Song*.
The stele of Lord Yang from the Jin Dynasty stood on the hill, its pedestal decorations weathered and moss grown.
Those who felt nothing upon seeing such a sight were descendants of people who had long ago erected those very monuments of gratitude.
Even when things remained, time made them forgotten as impressions gradually faded away.
The singular historical fact that had passed like a great storm was already completely forgotten by around the next generation of descendants or those who had settled near that era.
And thus, only annual events—far older and more enduring than history—remained ingrained in memory’s depths.
Their history had been nothing but rationally conceived origin explanations of folk traditions.
It was the vestige of what defined lifestyles until a certain era—not through events that occurred, but through repetitions of what had not occurred, wielding greater power than any actual event.

It was known that the people of Isshu largely descended from those who had come from the opposite shores of Kyushu and Chugoku.
The surviving folk traditions might of course have included those brought from their respective hometowns. Yet it was reasonable to consider that the traditions of villages remaining on Iki Island since ancient times had also brought prescriptions for daily conduct among new settlers arriving at this island.
Beginning with place names, roads, and locations of deities and spirits—alongside exchanges of land-rooted objects—an unexpectedly extensive imitation and inheritance had unfolded within a distinctive framework.
Concerning conceptions of deities, they likely had not been people who believed solely in gods arriving from across the sea as occurred in later eras.
This gradually progressed into a singular tendency.
Among remote regions like Goto, Hirado, Amakusa, San'in, and San'yo; northern Kyushu's coastal villages; and islands spanning Tsushima and Oki—viewed through their folklore traditions—it most closely resembled Goto.
Yet as we now understood, one could not consider Goto immigrants as pioneers in the island's reconstruction.
Beyond those who gradually migrated during the long samurai-dominated era, there might also have existed traditions—of people who long ago parted from Goto, settled here, then bid farewell to some departing for Tsushima—bearing resemblance to those brought from early modern Goto.

VI

What was even more astonishing was the divination of Iki’s sea clans—I had gone there expecting it to have been preserved on Iki Island, yet was utterly disappointed.
The later divination practices conducted in Isshu were those transmitted by chanters under the Onmyōji.
As for the sea clans, there were two villages; however, one called the Hachiman Ama appeared to be a modern migration and were not exempted from diving in the seas along Isshu’s eastern coast.
The Watanonokozaki Ama are said to have come from Chikuzen’s Shika Island and held rights over all the seas surrounding Isshu.
Even so, these cannot be considered successors to Iki’s sea clans—skilled in what was called “expert divination,” namely tortoise-shell divination—and should instead be regarded as modern migrants.

The ancient sea clans of Iki likely faced one of three fates: dying out, declining, or changing occupations. However, I place greater weight on the third possibility.
The people of Isshu were divided into two types of communities: those who could receive periodic land allotments and those who could not.
Those living in coastal villages who were permitted to engage in fishing and maritime industries—the townspeople—were, in exchange, unable to receive periodic land allotments.
However, the current Motoi Village—located at the edge of Takebu Mizumura Village’s Gōnoura district, nestled in the mountain shadows—was the original base of Gōnoura. Though referred to as a refushi village, it was treated much like the sea clans.
The fact that they could not participate in periodic land allotments was not because they could not cultivate fields due to the nature of their occupation.
There were numerous examples of people engaging in farming as a side occupation.
From the practice of trading their own harvested marine products, women from sea clan households gradually specialized in commerce, giving rise to communities like Kozaki composed solely of male sea clansmen.
Men skilled not only in diving but also offshore fishing shifted toward becoming fishermen rather than sea clan members.

In Isshu, among rural peasants who were not townspeople, those in villages along the coast engaged in fishing while receiving periodic land allotments.
In the towns, there were also many who had no commerce.
Since they were not allotted land either, there were those who eked out a living by going to rural villages to buy eggs or engaging in commerce-like activities.
Even from circumstances such as being permitted to open new fields and hold land beyond periodic allotments, it was evident that the qualifications for townspeople and peasants were largely determined hereditarily, and land ownership was considered an innate right.
Therefore, even those in circumstances where the distinction between townspeople and rural peasants engaged in fishing was difficult to establish were able to receive periodic land allotments by virtue of having been born in a village.

The occupations of the island’s townspeople were as simple as those previously listed. Even observing that various industrial professions were numerous among Shihara’s peasants, the scope of townspeople remained extremely narrow—comprising those who migrated after land affiliations were determined, those whose livelihoods were inherently unrelated to land, and those temporarily residing on coastal exempt lands: individuals with almost no political engagement (indeed, none originally). Even when these clustered residents formed villages and came under the political governance of the land, they were never allotted fields. This demonstrated its development from ama groups. When looking at ordinary townspeople of low status, one could discern their connection to the sea clans. The class that was equivalent to ordinary rural peasants and could not serve in town duties was called *kakonin* (“water people”) and also *urabito* (“coastal people”). For Lord Hirado’s alternate attendance, they were ordered to serve as sailors in their capacity as water people. Even when observing that the coastal people—who represented the townspeople’s leading class—were conscripted as sailors for public duties, one could discern that fishing developed as a side occupation. Therefore, in the entire body of townspeople who branched off from the coastal people, I believe it is fair to say that one can discern their original form in the figure of the ama.

Even the townspeople of the two towns could not be said to be descendants of Iki's sea clans.
Yet one could assert that the descendants of those who settled earlier than the Kozaki and Hachiman ama had become ingrained in their hearts.
Ultimately, the divination practices of Iki's sea clans became matters existing solely in written records.
The two renowned matters from books—though leaving no trace on the island—alongside unrelated invocations of Yamato Takeru or explanations of Emperor Ōjin, arose because traditions resembling their deeds had long been observed; people came to assign proper nouns to these traditions after past religious events were either codified or abandoned, thereby attempting to lend them historical authenticity.
One could only conclude they applied figures or objects that either fell within villagers' knowledge or bore some semblance of historical plausibility.

What was intriguing about Iki Island was that within this small island—so diminutive that even an exaggerated tale of its boy resenting a mainlander’s teasing remark (“if you threw a ball from this shore, it’d land in the sea over there”) felt like cartoonish hyperbole—there existed a single lineage of folk traditions manifesting various evolutionary stages. In some villages, the Divine Procession Ritual was actively conducted. Less than half a ri away, it had transformed into a folktale where grass that failed to bow to deities during the ritual night was cursed into seaweed even horses refused to eat. In a village separated by an inlet from that site, only divine names differed within the same framework, with locals explaining its connection to a certain family lineage’s New Year rites. Yet in eastern coastal villages, deities had been swapped again while similar tales persisted; meanwhile, a western village less than a ri away still performed rituals replacing deities with family ancestors to reenact Isshu migration’s first night. The god who came from across the same distant sea had become a renowned master carpenter—resembling the folktale of Hidari Jingorō’s clash with Yamauba.

The cause mentioned earlier must now be delved into more deeply.
The gods who came from the sea would recite blessing incantations centered on architectural structures.
Thus arose a custom where those involved in construction disguised themselves as deities and attended ceremonies such as groundbreaking rituals.
In later eras, master carpenters’ practices—including erecting Tamadono altars, decorating marker pillars and ceremonial bows and arrows—all stemmed from this tradition.
The connection between gods visiting new building sites and later carpenters disguised as deities faded, leading people to substitute divine figures with names of renowned craftsmen like Hida’s artisans and Takeda’s master builders.
The faith of villages along the central eastern coast—where this deity transformed into Ebisu—most naturally conveyed these shifts in divine identity; even in Kyoto’s understanding since late Heian times, this figure had come to be called Ebisu.

The reason these changes exhibited various stages was that while each village’s traditions came to imitate a single standard, they also preserved their individuality; as a result, partial modifications were implemented, and the aspects they respected differed from village to village, causing the patterns of continuation and abandonment to distinctly vary. Annual events and the like varied by households and villages, and the changes following migration to Iki were also clearly evident. When the proclamations differed and villages changed, even the minutest agreements came to vary significantly.

Dialects showed a marked tendency to reflect the ancestral origins of their respective villages; yet despite surface-level divergences—fluctuations in phonetic values, disparities in stress points, capricious mergers and splits of phonemes, and variations in articulation positions—many in fact appeared to share a single root. Differences in vocabulary were naturally numerous, but this was greatly influenced by the exiles.

Moreover, phonetic corrections and the adoption of the central language were carried out separately in each village. This too had to be taken into account. In particular, the language of the fishing villages was said to be unintelligible even to the islanders, but it was in the positions of articulation—rather than differences in vocabulary—that they exhibited a far greater divergence from standard pronunciation. Due to capricious mergers and splits, elision of sounds was actively performed.

henburi < heinuburi < hahinobori (crawling up = upper frame)

kumajin < kumazemu < kumajiemon (Kumaji Emon)

matsurageru < matsuriageru (offering/dedication)

shimari-bushi < shimai-bushi < shimei-bushi < shimegushi (marker stake)

Seven

I perceive in Iki’s civilization the profound influence of three distinct waves of arrivals.
Namely: first, chanting priests; second, blind monks; and third, the previously mentioned exiles.

Chanting priests were monk-like figures subordinate to Onmyōji.
They gradually began proclaiming themselves as Onmyōji, and in time came to be called by society as “monk-like Onmyōji” and such.
While chanting priests originated as slaves of large temples, there were some whose ties to temples gradually weakened over time.
The Urabe under the Onmyōji became involved in court rituals and gradually came to act as substitutes for the Imibe’s duties.
As this Urabe gained power, the rituals gradually became increasingly influenced by Onmyōdō, merging to the point of being indistinguishable.

When the Urabe took charge of ritual invocations and came to replace the Imibe’s peripheral rites, lascivious phrases and performances began to proliferate. Furthermore, these celebratory rituals and performances of the Urabe came to be conducted outside the court as well. “Senshūmanzai” refers to precisely this—emerging from the ritual invocations of the Tōka court dances.

The Urabe’s *shichō* ritual officers were not from fixed family lineages but were selected from sea clans across four provinces; however, in later eras, the Urabe of sea clans vanished, and under the Jingi-kan’s Urabe clan, hereditary figures akin to slaves emerged. The Urabe were also involved in Onmyōdō, and thus came to embody a form that combined Shinto and Onmyōdō.

The slaves under the Urabe clan resided in two locations in Old Sakuramachi, their ties to Enryaku-ji seemingly forgotten; though subordinate to Onmyōji, they also performed Shinto rituals of the Yoshida school through the Urabe clan.
The duties performed as Urabe were conducted under the name Senshūmanzai; they valued only the Nakatsuharae purification ritual and, when requested to perform misogi rites, took the name Onmyōji.
Moreover, without forgetting their connection to Buddhist teachings, they chanted the origin tales of the Buddha and local legends of the temples they belonged to, and performed dances like Okina.
At that time, their name was Chōmonshi, and it seems that even when spoken of collectively, they were still referred to as Chōmonshi.
These groups’ elders were also called kusemai performers, and the Shirabyōshi dance—originating from performances of temple origin tales—was considered the same as kusemai; under Senshūmanzai, they combined Shirabyōshi and kusemai.
All of these were offshoots derived from the elder styles of Senshūmanzai; while Kōwakamai belongs to the lineage of Kusemai, it too undoubtedly originated from Senshūmanzai.
From the female dances of Kōwakamai emerged Edo’s onna kabuki performers, and Saruwaka too appears to be a branch of Kōwakamai.

Chōmonshi were the vital progenitors of later theater, dance, and vocal music. Alongside this, they carried Onmyōdō and Shintō to the mountain hinterlands and offshore islands.

I suspect that some Chōmonshi may have also been connected to Shugendō.
Texts such as Yamabushi Saimon belonged to the Urabe lineage; acting as Onmyōji, they would utter deeply secret matters from their hearts to mountain deities instead of performing purification rites.
They interpreted the ancient Japanese method of addressing mountain pass deities as a form of confession and proclaimed it.
This became the foundation of Yamabushi Saimon—the origin of Saimonbushi.
Groups that were both Chōmonshi and Yamabushi-like developed new territories to become local lords; entering feudal domains, they worked as mercenaries, subdued enemies through curses, and routinely performed arts in service.
Descendants of powerful clans and families of fallen lords wandered through the land in this manner.

The arrival of the Chōmonshi to Iki appears to date back to ancient times.
The former priests of the island’s shrines were generally Onmyōji, and those of greater means sought licenses from the Yoshida family to hold dual qualifications.
Yet most were descendants of those subordinate to the Onmyōji.
In Onmyōdō, duty deities—that is, servitor spirits—later came to be called Misaki.
However, the Onmyōji disciples who came to Iki Province devised a simple method for employing these Misaki.
They resolved to harness through sorcerous power the spirits known as Yabosa that abounded across the island.

On Iki Island, there remain many shrines called Yabosa and Yaoosa even today; in the past, their numbers were so great as to be extraordinary.
In modern times, people lost track of what deities these even were; yet at a single site within the former residence of the Kashii Onmyōji, one finds a shrine called Misaki Myōjin, which in antiquity was likewise Yabosa.
In Shihara, on the hill where the Onmyōji’s residence stands, there exists a single site of what was once revered as Yabosa.
In Tsushima, what they call Yabosa are ancient tombs atop hills, which also bear the aspect of being yorishiro.
They are the ancestral spirits of ancient tombs—deities that serve as temporary abodes for possessing entities.
Thus, the numerous Yabosa on Iki—originally ancient tombs considered places where ancestral spirits dwelled—came to be utilized by Onmyōji as servitor spirits, their origins gradually forgotten over time.

The prevalence of Yabosa veneration was indicative of the Onmyōji’s influence.
That these disciples, as Onmyōji and Chōmonshi, imparted unifying principles to “Island Life” and planted the seeds of art could be discerned.
At a single site enshrined by the Shihara priest, there stood a small shrine fashioned from baked clay in the shape of a lacquered food container.

The arrival of Buddhist monks to the island appeared to have been a relatively recent development. As a result, scholarly pursuits emerged belatedly on the island. The play *Yuriwaka Sekkyō*, still transmitted among islanders today, does not derive from dance manuals or old *jōruri* but is narrated by those of the *ichijo* class—performers akin to *ichiko*. Biwa-playing blind monks also recount it, though not in any official capacity. In a volume titled *Divine Land Foolish Child Essays* by the Yoshino family of Hakozaki, it is written concerning Iki’s divine beings that Myōbu—the heads of female court officials—were either wives or daughters of the Chief Priest or Vice Chief Priest. Thus, one finds instances where an Onmyōji’s wife served as a shrine maiden.

It was said that ichijo constantly visited Yabosa Shrine.
Yuriwaka Sekkyō was chanted after striking the bow and reciting the *kami-yose* summoning.
As this ritual unfolded, living spirits and dead spirits were said to gather.
Considering the relationship between ichijo and Onmyōji practitioners, Yuriwaka Sekkyō appeared to have been brought by Chōmonshi—retaining a form closer to proper *sekkyō* than the Five Sekkyō and other older variants through repeated phrases like “threefold worship holds depth.”
Though more *sekkyō* once existed that ichijo chanted, none now remained—not even known to the ichijo themselves.

In addition, the old man of Shihara had been transmitting what appears to be a sekkyō called “Toramaru,” which he recited from memory.
Its origins were unclear, but it took a slightly more advanced form within the lineage of Jūnidan Zōshi; while resembling works like Ko Jōruri Oguri Hangan, it felt more antiquated than those.
He would chant sections such as “Mon no Dan,” “Shinobi no Dan,” and “Hyakuningiri no Dan” in a recitative manner for listeners.
Hyakuningiri stood quite robust and forceful while also containing phrases that drew laughter.
I wondered if this too belonged to such a lineage—though it remained unclear.

The *Shinobi no Dan* section showed detailed, old-fashioned depictions of mansions and gardens, but once it reached the princess’s bedside, the actions lacked elegance. Parting the princess’s hair, winding it around their hand, plucking it like a koto while uttering words meant to provoke her anger—even using rustic metaphors in scenes depicting their union—these childlike elements evoked the revisionary path *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling had undergone.

In recounting the foundational text, they had incorporated various interpolations; these were later recorded, spawning divergent versions of the original work. It appeared the old man of Shihara too had read and memorized such materials. No matter how persistently they pressed him, he refused to deviate from the narrative to address whether an urtext existed at all, whether his knowledge came from oral tradition or manuscripts. That they valued Toramaru’s tale likely stemmed from this man being its sole keeper on the entire island. Surely it couldn’t have been something taught to him in youth through some secret pact with one of the now-deceased *ichijo*.

Jōruri historians state that prior to *Jūnidan Zōshi*, there existed another work called *Yasuda Monogatari*, which expounded the origins of Inaba Yakushi, and that this likely marked the beginning of jōruri.
However, sekkyō Buddhist storytelling had a long tradition, and works like the *Shintōshū* from An’yō-in—being an older form of sekkyō—were undoubtedly narrated as such and thus indeed constituted a form of jōruri.
It was reasonable to assume that until the jōruri melodies became established, there had gradually been stories of that lineage.
Since dance lyrics and such were in the possession of the Chōmonshi, there was no reason they would not have been adapted into *jōruri*.

Jōruri was likely originally narrated by women, much like how the Soga Monogatari was recounted by blind female performers. I think that as long as Buddhist proselytizing significance had not been added to it, it still did not fall within jōruri’s definition. In place of blind monks and female performers, couples consisting of a Chōmonshi and a shrine maiden took up the roles: the husband would narrate lyrics for dance accompaniments while the wife recited verses independent of the dances—even performing dance lyrics themselves. Thus, it was likely the shrine maidens’ chanted verses that came to be favored. Moreover, this shift—where women not only chanted dance lyrics but began proactively performing dances themselves—was a transformation, yet it opened the way for dance to take precedence over lyrical verses as the primary performance element. From this lineage emerged the pairing of the wife performing Kōwakamai dances and the husband who did not perform beyond ritual dances. In this manner, I think that couples both holding traditional family occupations may have originated with the Chōmonshi.

Those who performed Ennenmai and Dengaku dances were likely all Chōmonshi as well.
The Chōmonshi who transmitted Tendai sekkyō gradually standardized the sekkyō phrases through their mastery of Senju Manzai verses.
Therefore, in addition to works like the *Shirabyōshi Origin Tales*, older forms of *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling likely included narratives that added slight literary embellishments to oral tales.
As can be seen by examining works like the *Amakusa Heike Monogatari*, forms such as existing texts, newly composed verses, and newly created colloquial writings emerged, and it could be said that colloquial written narratives of the early Edo period were thus established.

If we were to state the fundamental distinction between *jōruri* and *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling, it could be said that *jōruri* narrates worldly benefits while *sekkyō* speaks of rebirth in the next life.
*Jōruri* features female protagonists leaning more toward human emotion than Buddhist praise, while *sekkyō* features male protagonists who undergo transmigration after enduring worldly suffering.
Has such a fundamental distinction become indiscernible in surviving texts today?
In old *sekkyō*, there was no distinction between men and women.
Such are the Kamigami, Komochiyama, and Kōga Saburō of the *Shintōshū*.

Judging from its name, *jōruri* must be a type of confessional tale in which karmic afflictions are cured through the efficacy of Yakushi Buddha. Therefore, books such as *Jizō Bosatsu Monogatari*—narratives like *Jōruri Nyorai Reigen Monogatari* chanted by the disabled and those afflicted with karmic illnesses—were convenient for recitation by blind individuals in their profession, but I think there must have existed *jōruri* older than works like *Yasuda Monogatari*. There were tales such as *Tales of Leprosy Cures*, *Tales of Hungry Ghosts’ Restoration*, *Tales of Limping Journeys*, and *Tales of Mute Utterances*; then new *jōruri* emerged, telling the life of a chosen-child princess not entirely related to Yakushi Buddha. Thinking back, the name *Jōruri Jūnidan Zōshi* likely signifies a type of jōruri piece composed in twelve sections.

The prevalence of Joruri-hime hermitages suggests women once traveled narrating jōruri of earthly rewards; these would have been older jōruri compositions—stories where the deceased Joruri-hime somehow revived, as it were.
The *Soga Monogatari* likely followed this pattern—recited by blind female performers believed to be incarnations of Toragozen, journeying from place to place.
The age of Yakushi worship succeeded that of Jizō devotion.
This faith likely emerged from a society tormented by the practice of abandoning the infirm.

Jōruri concerns auspicious outcomes in this world; sekkyō places trust in the next life.
Next, there are confessional tales that narrate one’s own history.

Furthermore, patients' self-narratives are classified as jōruri, while love affairs, misdeeds, and the like fall under saimon; such is the general distinction.

Chōmonshi occupied positions of high standing on this island; as a result, their households were extremely numerous.

Let us now consider the mountain ascetics in connection with this.
As Hiko Mountain’s yamabushi held sway over this region, later generations suffered greatly under their tyranny—so much so that there are many so-called yamabushi mounds where people reportedly killed and buried them; yet among these, some were likely platforms actually constructed by the yamabushi themselves.
When one considers the era before these rigid Shugendō practices—a time when they, having mastered sorcery, adopted the guise of yamabushi to wander freely in search of land—it appears that rogues, yamabushi, mercenaries, rappa outlaws, kabukimono, entertainers, Chōmonshi with unshorn hair, and Senju Manzai performers… all such unbound figures drifted across the land.
Someone like Nagoya Yamazaburō was a kabukimono and ruffian who possessed performing arts—owing to this, Kōwaka dance lyrics too seem to have been transmitted to the country—while also being a mercenary-like drifter.
It is conceivable that members of the prevailing Chōmonshi faction—or local shrine and temple lords who had been defeated by emerging warlords—fled and wandered the land; furthermore, among these groups, many who shifted to priesthood likely became manor lords themselves.

The blind monks arranged this in the island’s temple-scarce villages in a manner akin to providing an explanation, granting them rights resembling those of mainland danna temples.
Probably, as a result of the Edo period’s ban on Christianity, they established such anomalous institutions.
As a result, it came to be said that blind individuals were dispatched to search for heretical sect followers, and so on.
It is strange that they gave this as a substitute for Christianity to such an extent.
The central event was the playing of the *jishinkyo*, and when considering its ritual procedures, they leaned closer to *yamabushi* ascetic practices—redolent more of Buddhism than the Shinto of the *Chōmonshi*.

The ritual procedures—also called Araharai—took considerable time when conducted formally.
They began with the Araharai mantra and proceeded to recite various sutras.
Between these came solemn narratives referred to as *Island-Seeking*, *Engi-san*, and *Biwa no Honji*.
What was called "Engi-san" likely concerned Sakagami and Semi Maru.
*Island-Seeking* told how Shimagari sought an island before settling on Iki—this being its origin story.

The Araharai mantra constituted a type of ritual incantation that enumerated prohibitions laced with humor, stemming from the onmyōji tradition.
It commanded pests in houses or fields while also listing forbidden acts for people.
This closely resembled both the admonitory phrases in Dengaku lyrics and the ritual incantations of the Uzumasa Ox Festival.

When the Araharai ritual concluded, there were times when they recounted collapsed tales.
It was impossible to tell how much this enriched “the island’s life” and made them contemplate the vastness of the world and the passage of time.

It was said that when blind monks narrated the Yuriwaka legend, strange occurrences would happen.
After all, this might have been thought to stem from its importance; however, being a matter involving onmyōji and shrine maidens, it might instead have been due to avoidance.
Kuzure did not appear to be an official Tale of the Heike work; it was referred to as Shōsuiki and narrated the Nagato Battle.
Other than these, most were sekkyō Buddhist storytelling.

On Hatsuuma Day, they were invited to conduct the "Inari Invocation." At that time, they played fox-like cries on the biwa. This was a phrase from the *Kuzunoha Sermon*, but they chanted it in a manner reminiscent of reciting *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling. Yet this very phrase had originated from *sekkyō*, evolved into renowned theater songs, appeared in *jiuta* songbooks, and continues to be sung today as *Kamigata hauta* folk ballads. The adoption of phrases from this *sekkyō* into theater songs dated back to the Genroku period. One could clearly see how blind monks exchanged their biwa lutes for shamisen and became minstrels performing *kouta* and *hauta*. Not content with merely playing sutras, narrating *honji* tales directly became equivalent to chanting *sekkyō*. They came to sing not only portions derived from *kouta* within degraded *sekkyō* narratives but also vulgarized *hauta* ballads that had markedly coarsened. Generally speaking, ritual incantations of the saimon tradition abounded with obscene, grotesque, and impolite phrases. Thus it became evident that blind monks had followed a path of incorporating not just degraded narratives but even worldly popular songs like *kouta* and *hauta* into their shamisen performances.

Though they disparaged *sekkyō* and other tales as degraded narratives, even *The Tale of the Heike* was fundamentally a type of *sekkyō*. They had merely extended the use of accompaniment instruments employed during sutra recitation to *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling as well. Therefore, in ancient times, *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling had inherently been accompanied by the biwa lute. The *Gikeiki* and similar works too belonged to the *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling lineage. The *Soga Monogatari* could be classified as part of the *jōruri* lineage based solely on its differing instrumentation. What biwa players narrated using shamisen would have been *jōruri*. While *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling persisted in clinging to the biwa lute for some time, it found itself left behind by the era; one might view it as having belatedly adapted to the shamisen. This would have been the state of affairs in the late Muromachi period.

As long as *sekkyō* had not yet fully evolved into entertainment, they likely did not abandon the biwa. When troupes of *sekkyō tayū* wielding shamisen began to form, even the *sekkyō* performed by blind monks came to be perceived as vulgar. Naturally, the *sekkyō* Buddhist storytelling chanted by blind monks was no longer the old *sekkyō*; it had evolved into entertainment with modernized lyrics.

After conducting the purification, the blind would chant incantations and narrative poems. This clearly indicates the performance sequence of the *hoka hito*. The *hoka hito* narrated a sacred epic after the purification incantation. Afterward, at the *naorai* gathering, they likely narrated new epics, old histories that had lost their authority, or legends of ancient people—tales both poignant and amusing. This [tradition] passed from the *hoka hito* to the Urabe, then from the Urabe to the Senju Manzai; the Senju Manzai was simultaneously both Chōmonshi Kuse Mai and Kōwaka Mai. Even in the *Shin Sarugaku Ki*, we see that *biwa hōshi* (lute priests) appear alongside Senju Manzai performers and *hoka hito* figures—evidence that there were blind monks who had turned to entertainment quite early. Before blind monks came to perform the Araharai purification alongside Senju Manzai and cleanse manors, the sequence of performances and their underlying principles had already thoroughly fused. Therefore, using biwa players as corroborative evidence and dissecting the Chōmonshi for analysis is not an error from the perspective of comparative research methodology.