Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Orikuchi Shinobu

At the beginning of spring, I resolved to discuss "Yashima."
The place is Yashima, and from some era onward, they began using celebratory characters such as "Yashima" or "Yajima," resulting in a victorious shura play.

One was a time when this country's atmosphere, having reverted to its past ways, brimmed with vitality.
The second reason lay in its deep connection to the lyrics of the cherished Ōe Kōwaka dance near Hakushū-san's birthplace of Yanagawa - I believed it perfectly suited my wish to celebrate this dear friend's health.
Moreover, I felt moved to offer prayers for good fortune upon Mr. Itō Ryōkichi, who had long ago recorded and preserved these materials for me.

Though this may seem rather abrupt, please hear me out. In Shōwa 8 (1933), the Kuga family documents I had loaned to a certain friend—specifically those concerning the tōdō and mōsō groups—were pressed for return and came back into my possession. As they had lain neglected for so long, I was now occupied with sorting and examining them. Among these materials, within the performance repertoire of biwa players known as Earth Deity Blind Monks—referred to as shi no bō—who were active throughout Kyushu, the piece that carried particular weight was "Yashima." The image of the late Mr. Kikuchi Takenori—who once described in detail the life of these shi no bō on Iki Island—still rose vividly before me: him pacing that seaside Chōjahara plain while recounting "Yashima" in his slightly cadenced speech, lost in reminiscence. Yet regrettably, I never did lay eyes on Iki’s version of the "Yashima" script itself.

When people speak of "Yashima," many may think—as if the Noh play "Yashima" immediately comes to mind—that the Yashima battle is abruptly recounted. However, even that Noh chant—as per convention—appeared before the traveling monk in the guise of the old salt merchant and narrated. Therefore, while the location was indeed Yashima Bay itself, the narrative had transcended a certain structural convention.

Why had "Yashima" been narrated repeatedly in various ways since ancient times? I would consider it most fortunate if I could discuss their nature and what appeared to be their underlying reasons. The reason I began to develop such an interest was that some years ago, an old dengaku dance from Nishinoura, Okuyama Village in Shuchi District of Enshū came to the "Local Dance and Folk Song Gathering" at the Japan Seinenkan. Among the performed items was one called "Yashima," in which two people wearing demon masks performed a paired dance. Rather than calling it that, it might have been better categorized as a "confrontation" type. The sung phrases were merely corrupted versions of the lines from the Noh libretto "Yashima." What drew my attention more than that was its melodic phrasing. As I listened to its melody, what came to mind was that this chant itself was of course far removed from authentic forms, and furthermore, the question lay in what degree of old vestiges it preserved. However, compared to that, the current chant had advanced significantly. Moreover, it had even changed. The old chants, if anything, must have been even more pitiful. That very chant which induced loneliness—and yet, the sight of two figures in demon masks pacing back and forth in their paired dance appeared unmistakably as Kagekiyo and Mihonoya, and also as Noto no Kami and Tsugunobu. For me, who had visited this village for two spring seasons, there remained a particularly profound impression.

Here too, "Yashima" carried profound significance.
Why must there be Noh chanting to such an extent?
Within Japan’s various performing arts, I came to consider how Yashima had often been woven in from diverse angles.
For example, in the stylized performances of Yoshino-yama, there existed the journey scene of Shizuka and Tadanobu—such scenes were not limited to romantic couples.
There were also journey scenes between lord and retainer.
The same applied to works like *Tsukushi no Kuruma*.
Journey scenes were a form of performing art that interwove the poignancy of such people’s travels through chanting and dancing.
Namely, one of these—the third act of *Yoshitsune Senbonzakura*—had been particularly exaggerated in Edo theater through the Tokiwazu style into an indiscernible beauty.
In the midst of flowers, Shizuka and Tadanobu performed the tale of Yashima through a paired dance.
It had become no place for storytelling along the way.
If one were to say this was done to reenact Tsugunobu’s death because Tadanobu was present, that would be the extent of it—but there was truly no reason to go to such lengths in a situation like this.
That must surely have been due to a different reason surging up from the depths, compelling such actions.

This is but one example; "Yashima" has since ancient times found its way into various scripts whenever an opportunity arose.
While I consider Yashima in Kōwaka dance to be closest to a typical example, similar elements have sporadically emerged in other forms as well.
As I stated at the beginning, even when speaking of Yashima, it does not directly narrate the ordinary Genpei War Battle of Yashima.
The Noh play Yashima belongs to the battle category, where its shite protagonist narrates scenes from ancient warfare.
Having finished narrating, it moves into an intermission.
The interlocutor appears and speaks.
When he enters, Yoshitsune as the latter shite makes his appearance.
This is considered to be Yoshitsune himself manifesting in his present-world form.
However, the former shite turns out to be a ghost, creating the illusion that the latter shite belongs to reality.
This fact remains common to all shura plays in Noh chants, but in this particular Noh play, that sensation resonates especially profoundly.
In this Noh libretto Yashima there exist approximately three pivotal sections.
That is to say: within the mae-jite's battle narration lies Kagekiyo and Mihonoya's armor-pulling contest tale, followed by Satō Tsugunobu's death-in-battle account.
Yet in the Noh libretto this story appears in summary form—while Tsugunobu's death receives passing mention, Kikuō's demise on the Taira side as Noto no Kami's page gets abruptly introduced without explanation: “When he fell with a thud—on their ship Kikuō too had been struck down—they were pitied together...” so it states.
Kikuō's slaying gets presented as common knowledge.
When shifting to the latter shite's role comes Yoshitsune's bow-floating scene.
Yet when considering stories linked to Yashima there also exists Nasu no Yoichi's fan target episode—which further extends even to Battle of Ichi-no-Tani narratives.
The Kumagai group's slaying of Atsumori counts among these.
The Battle of Yashima stood as a war tale abundant in narrative interest.
Therefore it got adopted into various works.
Having said this one might think all reasons for Yashima's diverse retellings have been exhausted—yet there remains something related I wish to discuss.

In the Noh libretto "Yashima," within the old salt merchant’s lines,

"...From the remains that deigned to bear the name Minamoto no Yoshitsune—Ah, splendid!—he appeared as a great general."
“is thus recalled in this very moment, deign.”

so it states.
This appeared to be a unique narrative approach even among warrior plays (shura mono).

The fact that these phrases and the previously discussed matters concerning Tsugunobu, Tadanobu, and Kikuō were disposed of so abruptly—these two points struck me as presenting considerable issues.
In other words, the Noh libretto 'Yashima' demonstrated that omissions were made because there existed older versions prior to it that everyone was aware of.

The elements visible in the old salt merchant’s narration from that point onward were indeed truly story-like.
"The line 'is thus recalled in this very moment'" was particularly so.
One felt that if there were someone who went about narrating "Yashima," they would likely do so in such a manner.
In other words, it was written in such a way as to make one feel that there indeed existed such narrative methods in society.

However, when examining the Kōwaka dance script of "Yashima" mentioned earlier, we find the protagonists are not Yoshitsune but Tsugunobu and Tadanobu. In this version, Yoshitsune's party—during their journey from Ōshū—happened to lodge at the brothers' ancestral home, where at their mother's request, they proceeded to recount the circumstances of the two brothers' deaths in battle.
This corresponds to the "Sesshō" in the Noh libretto.
In other words, in Noh, it is through the combination of *Yashima* and *Sesshō* that the story of Yashima achieves completeness.
In form alone, the Noh libretto does not appear so, but when the Kōwaka dance script is placed at its core, it branches into two.
In Kōwaka, Yoshitsune—still alive—appeared before the mother nun of the Satō brothers and recounted the circumstances of Tsugunobu’s death in battle.
Yoshitsune was the one who narrated the story, but it suggested that the listener was not actually the nun but rather an external entity.
The Kōwaka *Yashima* was a reminiscence tale that precisely incorporated into its narrative the manner of speaking that “such things happened in the past.”

The Noh libretto "Yashima"
If one considers it thus, then indeed it holds true.
Yet when shifting to the latter shite role, it assumes expression and movement closer to reality.
Therein reality and antiquity begin to intermingle.
While the former shite remains merely a narrator, the latter shite becomes one possessed—so to speak—by a spirit that seizes the storyteller and erupts into frenzy; this convention materializes them as ghosts.
This stems from Noh's nature as theater.
In Kōwaka—experienced through auditory means alone—the approach inherently diverges.
A traveler deemed credible for having witnessed events arrives to recount the past as lived experience.
To narrate bygone times required a living witness extending into reality itself.
Nothing carries greater certitude than Yoshitsune and Benkei emerging to tell of Yashima. Moreover, that the listener proves to be Mother Nun Satō—parent to those involved—serves to amplify the tale's authenticity.
Since this signifies narratives told to Mother Nun being transmitted through successive hearings, it stands as testament to their status as genuine originals.

However, in narratives recounting the Yashima battle, there existed two distinct types of protagonists.
Namely, Tsugunobu and Tadanobu.
Then, those who narrated came to be Yoshitsune or Benkei.
Yet matters of this world could not be explained through simple logic.
This form had suited the hearts of people from the Muromachi period—when Kōwaka dance flourished—through the early Edo period.
That it was merely a tale of youth or beauty could not fully account for why listeners became so profoundly engrossed.
The true question lay in why these two had become protagonists.

"Yashima" holds crucial importance in Kōwaka dance while simultaneously serving as one catalyst for its flourishing.
When Kōwaka dance prospered, numerous scripts emerged, yet tracing back to those scarce early texts reveals "Yashima" as the most pivotal.
Mōnai Naoharu—revered as Kōwaka's founding master—was reportedly originally an acolyte at Mount Hiei, exceptionally skilled at improvising melodic narration from storybooks.
Tradition holds that his recitations drew from Yashima storybooks.
These accounts of Naoharu contain misconceptions layered within oral transmission.
Naoharu appears a fictional figure—his very presence in genealogies being inherently problematic.
Indeed, it nearly suggests the existence of an organization called Kōwakamaru.
To press the point: arguing that Mōnai Naoharu emerged from within Kōwakamaru's lineage aligns better with reason.
Kōwakamaru constituted a collective designation for premier performers, akin to Umewakamaru of Tanba fame.
The Kankin Gyoki records what seems a depiction of Tsugunobu and Tadanobu as the "Yashima illustration."
This likely represents an illustrated narrative of the Satō brothers.
Illustrated narratives lacked fixed forms, their texts diverging from originals.
Even with works like Utsubo Monogatari, texts underwent abridgment for illustration.
Thus they came to differ from source materials.
This fluidity stemmed from illustrated narratives being intended for oral recitation.
Kōwaka performances frequently involved reciting these illustrated narratives.
Picture scroll recitation similarly entailed performing emaki texts.
Reciters displayed images while voicing captions themselves.
Hence illustrated narratives remained subject to performers' interpretations.

Therefore, since the Kamakura period, various variant texts of illustrated narratives emerged.
The fixation of such texts presented an area of considerable interest in research while simultaneously proving to be something quite challenging.
Therefore, generally speaking, illustrated narratives lack fixity and consequently have many variant texts.
However, prior to such stories being written down in text in this manner, one had to consider the following.
Many stories were told orally before being committed to written form.
The fact that these were committed to writing and that individuals began creating works from this practice had to be acknowledged.

As a prime example closely related to the Yashima narrative, we have the *Gikeiki*, and regarding this text's formation too, the same principles apply. However, concerning the *Gikeiki*, since Professor Yanagita addressed it long ago in *Snow Country Spring*, I saw no need for one such as myself to reiterate his findings here. A work similar in nature to the *Gikeiki* exists—the *Soga Monogatari*. This text too exhibits textual discrepancies within its prose. Here as well, two youthful brothers emerge as central protagonists.

At the core of this tale lie the two brothers Tsugunobu and Tadanobu. While the Soga brothers perished together at one site, the Satō brothers met their ends separately—the elder at Yashima and the younger at Yoshino Mountain—each acting as their lord's substitute before meeting death. Yet ultimately, both narratives arrive at identical conclusions. This has led me to ponder whether there existed an established custom of pairing such young men as dual protagonists in historical storytelling traditions.

Illustrated narratives generally began as small things and gradually grew larger.
However, there were also cases where large narratives were excerpted and simplified, as seen in how Uji Shūi Monogatari was created from Konjaku Monogatari.
This was an exception; through being seen with the eyes and heard with the ears, they gradually grew larger.
Accompanying them incrementally, step by step.
Therefore, the opening phrases of illustrated narratives were written as “Now then, after that,” “As time passed,” “In the beginning,” and so forth.
In this way, they gradually grew larger.
That occurred through a chance opportunity—for what endures in the world often does so by happenstance.
Thus, works such as the Soga Monogatari and Gikeiki endured.
Initially, there had been no cause for them to endure, but gradually they created reasons within themselves to persist, while on another front, works such as the Heike Monogatari and Genpei Seisuiki likely bolstered this. However, another factor that had to be considered was rural faith.

In rural communities, what people had believed without exception since ancient times was that the emergence of rice pests stemmed from the malevolence of vengeful spirits.
They needed to drive out those vengeful spirits.
When there was something that occurred annually, they attempted to preemptively divert it and thwart it through ritual countermeasures.
They did not know who caused the affliction or under what circumstances it occurred, but they believed there must have been some inevitable reason why it had to occur.
Since ancient times, between rice planting and harvest, ritualized performances depicting conflicts between deities who benefited the village and entities unconcerned with good or evil had been conducted.
When bad things occurred, they had come to follow a pattern of surmising that it must be "that" at work.
And thus, names had come to be assigned to those that caused affliction.
In Japan, initially, it had been regarded as a god possessing fearsome divine power.
However, as time passed, they gradually elevated its status in their conception, and the fearsome god instead became one that suppressed malevolent deities.
Namely, this was how the Gion Festival and Spirit Pacification Rites came into being.
Vengeful spirits, too, had long been a research subject of Mr. Yanagita.
As there were numerous vengeful spirits, their names had come to diversify.
They came to assign the names of the most familiar afflicting beings to such gods’ names.
Such people had come to be considered as those who met unexpected deaths and those who died harboring resentment.
In other words, the fact that even vengeful gods lacked names caused anxiety, so they endeavored to assign some name and ritually pacify them.
Therefore, when extracting their names, war chronicles were utilized as convenient sources for conceptualizing them.
There existed specialists who traveled about transmitting this—itinerant holy figures (yugyō shinin), ascetics, and the like.
In the stories told by those people, if there was an unfortunate person who met an unjust death, that person’s name would become the name of a vengeful god.
Therefore, even those who did not appear to have died harboring resentment—among renowned war dead, individuals who met unusual ends—came to be adopted.
That would be Sanemori.

Sanemori was originally considered something that ravaged fields and paddies.
The resemblance of the term “Sanemori” itself to words like sanae (rice seedlings) and sanaburi (rice rituals) might suggest a connection to rice agriculture. However, explaining this as merely attributing it to an ancient person’s name based on that perceived link does not suffice.
The manner of Sanemori’s death at Shibahara in Kaga Province of the northern regions was striking.
Rather, what served as a greater cause was how frequently it was recounted in stories.
Yet upon closer consideration, he met his end with composure.
Even when Tezuka implored him—so to speak—to “Declare your name!”, the fact that he died without doing so must have left a profound impression.
It is an appealing name, and moreover, one that seems connected to rural communities.
One factor is that people’s goodwill toward Sanemori conversely ameliorated the sanemori that ravages fields.
Sanemori dolls are distributed nationwide, yet people ascribe diametrically opposed effects to a single object: that it either lures away field pests or scatters rice blight insects.
If one sought figures who perished in deep paddies, Yoshinaka from antiquity or the loyalist Yoshisada would far better suit than Sanemori. Yet for these people, historical facts remained irrelevant knowledge; thus they did not attempt to seek spirits afflicting their paddies among such predecessors.

Yet curiously, one prominent tradition holds that Sanemori dyed his white hair and died in the guise of a youth.
This too may have played a role.
Not limited to him, the Soga brothers also died in their prime.
We picture those who perished in such ways as young and beautiful.
This may have been the virtue cherished by people of old.
However, when examining the Gikeiki, it describes Yoshitsune as fair-skinned yet with bulging eyes and protruding teeth.
Considering this, beauty does not seem to have been a prerequisite for the tale.
But even this may have constituted one minor criterion of appreciation in bygone days.

It may have been coincidental, but both Sanemori and the Soga brothers died during what is called the "Tiger Rain" season—a ritual timeframe associated with early summer rains. In any case, since this period coincided with rice field rituals being performed, the seasonal timing likely left a strong impression. Young, fresh resentment imbued with potent force yet unable to depart anywhere lingered. Such beings perfectly fit the concept of field-ravaging forces that rural communities held. At the same time, if one properly appeased such entities—by positively defining them as "You are this type of being"—they would likely come to reflect "Ah, that's indeed what I was," and act favorably. It was likely through such reasoning that even the Soga brothers came to be incorporated beyond warrior-class narratives into rural communities.

The Soga brothers never experienced a single bright era during their lifetime.
It makes one wonder what purpose their lives could possibly have served.
Thus we may imagine these two brothers looming over whatever entities plagued the rural paddies and fields.
When the Blind Priestess would come and declare to these field-afflicting beings, "You were the Soga brothers," their spiritual aura would grow favorable.
Even entities whose true nature remained unknown would settle into this assigned identity when so addressed.
In this manner, even the fervor of pro-Yoshitsune sentiment flourished and spread to farming villages.
Yoshitsune too was a man who received no recompense.
Yoshitsune's official biography has become so entangled with legends that it has itself turned legendary.
The Gikeiki excises his glorious period, chronicling instead his earlier tragic days before leaping forward to document his estrangement from Yoritomo through to his death.
At his final moments, only his wife and child remained by his side.
He met an intensely solitary death.
Though narratives like the Heike Monogatari and Genpei Seisuiki had already grandly depicted his circumstances prior to this tale, why did this account come to focus solely on such darkness?
Herein lies the reason for the Gikeiki's composition.
This wretched version of him likely developed gradually in accordance with rural people's desires—or rather, it would be more accurate to say this transformation occurred not through peasant wishes or storytellers' pandering, but through the spirit of the age.
A soul meeting a young and pitiful end, finding no foothold in life yet drawing sympathy—we may conceive of it thus.

Moreover, just as with those that ravage villages and those that ravage fields, it was believed that the entities devastating paddies simultaneously spread epidemics.
Why is this related to war? Why has it taken the form of what are called war chronicles?
It is misguided to think that this occurred merely to satisfy popular interest.
It was likely the notion that the root cause of lingering resentments—much like warfare itself—compelled them to adopt the same form as war chronicles.
Ritual field pantomimes are akin to warfare: gods arriving from elsewhere contend with the entities rooted in the paddies, but ultimately these obsessive beings of the fields must be defeated—for the harvest’s fulfillment cannot be achieved unless this comes to pass.
Therefore, ritual field pantomimes draw closer to war chronicles.
In this way, while war chronicles carried by religious figures became linked to rural narratives, rural rituals gradually extended into war chronicles.

However, what must be most considered is the transformation of characters—the Soga brothers being two, Sanemori being one.
Generally there is one; rarely, as with the Soga and Satō brothers, there are two.
Then again, there are also cases where the protagonist is a woman.
However, for protagonists in narratives, rather than recounting their own experiences, it is more common for them to narrate the experiences of those who were close to them.
When we trace back the old forms of Japanese narratives, they appear to converge on expressions stating "I did this."
However, in Japanese narratives, none that can be called purely first-person remain.
Even in the oldest works, first-person and third-person perspectives are mixed, and within them appear characters whose identities remain unclear.
The epic of the Ainu gods is purely first-person.
They force first-person expression even to the extent that such narration cannot naturally be expressed in the first person.
In Japan's old tales, there exist no purely first-person narratives, yet many are found that retain traces of the first-person while shifting into third.
Ultimately, it remains unclear who is speaking in such narratives.
Regarding such literature, scholars posit that because they do not use first person—it was likely created later by others adopting an entirely third-person stance.
There is no doubt that others created them, yet the reason for transmitting them as songs sung by those very gods or people remains.
For example, the famous poem composed by Ōbako, wife of Chōikanna,

Standing atop a castle in Korea, Ōbako waved her scarf indeed.

Facing Japan——Chronicle of Kinmei

"The phrase 'waves her scarf indeed' uses honorific language."
Nevertheless, later scholars explain this as a poem composed by Ōbako, but such an explanation alone proves insufficient.
There must exist a more substantive reason for attributing this poem to Ōbako.
I ought to present detailed examples of such cases; however, doing so would only weary everyone present, so I shall abstain for now.
Consider one example: In Japan, pronouns for second and third person are identical, and these are further applied to those indicating position or direction.
Kano and sono no ka equate to so to wa—there exists absolutely no distinction between them.
This linguistic reality may be understood as preserving vestiges of an era when confusion between first and third person pronouns birthed an anomalous second-person form within that interstice.

Generally speaking, except for those that retain exceptionally old narrative forms, the common style is one where a certain person narrates having observed the protagonist’s life from the sidelines.

However, among the protagonists passed down through storytelling, there were various kinds.
As we now describe, there were cases with one individual; cases with two—where the protagonist and the storyteller formed a pair; and cases where there was a protagonist and a secondary protagonist. Among these, there were times when—excluding the protagonist—the storyteller themselves became the protagonist.
Furthermore, as its form changed, two protagonists emerged.
However, those who had primarily observed the protagonist’s life proceeded to blatantly insert not only their own emotions but even their very lives into the narrative.
Then it could no longer be called a pure third-person [narrative].
They stood in the second position while narrating the story.
Such forms came to proliferate.
In Japanese narratives, there existed first-person and third-person [perspectives], and between them—though one could not call it second-person—there were many forms considered to have flourished where a person in the second position narrated in the first person.

When this occurred, the age-old condition that storytellers must be religious practitioners inevitably came to be reconsidered.
Moreover, it came to be believed that those who told stories lived long lives.
In Japan, it came to be believed that those who engaged in sacred professions did not die.
In ancient times, the concept of 'death' was not clearly understood, but even after this understanding of death became established, those who told the old stories were still required to remain alive.
Even something as faintly impressionistic as the aforementioned 'Yashima' libretto employs phrases like 'Bravo! So you were the commander.'
'Even now, it is remembered,' and such phrases are expressed as if spoken by someone who witnessed that battle.
In works with a strong religious flavor, I believe this was even more pronounced.
Ordinary people also believed that.
Regarding this matter, Professor Yanagita had written about it, and I had long considered it as well; however, I discussed it because without doing so, the foundation of the narrative could not have been established.

It came to be considered that storytellers were those who had witnessed the events while simultaneously living the narrative as their very existence.
Therefore, people came to believe there had been those who lived extraordinarily long lives.
In ancient times, those who had served close to the gods later changed roles and traveled through various provinces to propagate narratives for religious purposes.
They were people consecrated by the gods.
However, even in Japan, there existed cursed immortals akin to the Wandering Jew.
Yao Bikuni was such a one.
Hitachi-bō Kaison, whom Professor Yanagita passionately argued about, had not been present at the battlefield where Yoshitsune and his retainers met their deaths and thus survived.
This survival came to be regarded as the cause of his immortality.
For what reason did they need to live and go about telling stories?
There were those who appeared to live long in order to perform sacred tasks.
Originally, those who were meant to perform narratives came to be thought of as living long lives even when they abandoned storytelling in later generations.
To live long while traveling and telling stories was because there were matters they needed to make known through their narratives.
In other words, they came to be understood as leading lives of penitence to eliminate karmic obstacles.
The story aligned with that of the Jews who led Christ to his end—said to have lived eternally for that reason—while simultaneously narrating the Jewish people’s destined history of wandering.
However, whether this correspondence between the two narratives was coincidental or bore some connection remained unclear.
Examining the tales of Yao Bikuni and her lineage revealed accounts of her secretly eating mermaid flesh—just as Dongfang Shuo was said to have frequently eaten peaches from the Queen Mother of the West’s garden.
A shadowy aspect clung to longevity itself.
That they lived because they had stolen and consumed—though not the story’s main theme—why did this become a recurring motif?
When it came to men, figures like Hitachi-bō Kaison were believed to have lived for hundreds of years, occasionally appearing through the ages.
It was said that when Yoshitsune met his end at Takadachi, Kaison had been visiting a temple and thus survived, forced to flee; alternatively, some accounts simply stated he fled.

Regarding the matters of Kaison and his group, Professor Yanagita’s writings constitute such thorough research that one could leave all matters to them.

Somehow, something shadowy clung persistently.
Thus they spoke for atonement, but no matter how much they spoke, it remained irreparable.
Kaison too had been one who should have expounded thus.

However, there were also elements that could not be explained in such a manner.
There existed traditions that did not call those who told stories human, instead making them raccoon dogs or foxes.
(That raccoon dogs live long is not unique to Japan.) Non-human beings dwelling alongside humans—those capable of forming intimate relationships with them—lived long lives, observed human existence, and transmitted narratives.
Thus, in addition to humans observing from proximity and narrating through their own emotions, there also arose instances where non-human beings took human form to tell stories. That foxes and raccoon dogs lived long lives could not simply explain why they engaged in such acts.
Even if it had been snakes or something else, I could not explain why foxes and raccoon dogs told stories.
It could not be explained solely by their knowledge of ancient matters or their status as spiritual animals.
There seemed to be more causes.
To take one example, there were the brothers Oniō and Danzaburō—men deeply connected to the Soga brothers.
However, when going to Sado, there existed a tanuki called Danzaburō-tanuki.
No tradition stated that he had told stories.
The name Danzaburō had been given to those perceived as tanuki.
Moreover, in Sanshū there existed the Otora fox.
This name too undoubtedly derived from that of a human who had narrated the Soga monogatari.
The affectionate prefix “O” had been added later; originally, it had undoubtedly been Tora Gozen’s “Tora.”
However, I wished to avoid explaining that religious practitioners employing such spirits went about narrating stories.
In any case, whether Danzaburō-tanuki or the Otora fox, the fact that they had told stories had been forgotten.

The deeds of the brothers Oniō and Danzaburō walking about and Tora Gozen’s coming had been passed down in various places; this was entirely due to the lingering impressions of their traces. Then again, Minamoto no Yoshitsune’s lover from his youth, Jōrurihime, walked about. Jōrurihime was the person who should be called the heroine of the Jōruri Jūdan Sōshi and stories of that lineage. This, too, constituted traces of a woman who performed jōruri, having become those of a character within the musical piece itself. However, it did not end there. At the same time, it served as evidence that there had been those who went about narrating their own stories through Jōruri tales (those predating the Twelve-Section Sōshi).

There are numerous stories about raccoon dogs.
In Shikoku, there are only raccoon dog stories, and not a single fox story.
Regardless of whether foxes exist in Hondo, it is believed that Kōbō Daishi made it so that foxes do not come to Shikoku.
Among those Shikoku raccoon dogs, there exists one called Yashima-tanuki.
This raccoon dog shows the Battle of Yashima as if it were a moving picture right before one's eyes.
Documents concerning Yashima-tanuki are gradually increasing.

In this manner emerged those who told their own stories as protagonists themselves; those who had been by their side recounting tales; unrelated individuals who had lived long lives to tell stories; and even performers who acted them out—appearing here and there.
When examining Japan's history of epic narratives in this way, one came to understand there had existed shrine and temple servants who traveled about disseminating them.
Moreover arose a strange question—that animals having lived long for unclear reasons were involved in this.
Yet in our case—since we had to speak primarily of Yashima—the scope of our discussion became extremely constrained.
Among all wars in our country—no matter how one speaks of them—the Genpei War stood as paramount.
Among its battles too—the most significant were those at Yashima and Dan-no-ura.
There also existed tanuki that reenacted Dan-no-ura's battle.

Just as impressive heroes' names were given to spirits prone to bringing calamity upon rural villages, there was reason for placing the scenes of heroes' deeds at Yashima.
Yashima stood as war's representative; when attempting to narrate warfare, one inevitably turned to Yashima.
Moreover, when viewed through Noh theater, the Battle of Yashima lacked any shadowy obscurity; termed "victorious shura," it had come to belong among celebratory events and transformed into an auspicious symbol.
Whether Yashima was foregrounded for this reason remains unclear now, but Yashima had likely enjoyed popularity since early times.
In Kyōgen plays too, whenever they staged Genpei Seisuiki, they invariably performed Yashima.
Just as human affairs gave rise to tales of the Soga brothers, Yoshitsune, Tora Gozen, Jōrurihime, and Shizuka, there existed an unspoken rule that speaking of war necessitated presenting Yashima.
Another modest contributing factor lay in biwa-playing blind monks traversing society widely.
In pre-shamisen Japan, authentic performing arts centered on the biwa held significant religious and artistic importance; yet one cannot claim Yashima occupied its lofty position solely through this means.
If this counts merely as a minor cause worth noting, I would rather discuss the immense influence of "Yashima" stemming from Kōwaka dance.

In Japanese war tales, the Yashima narrative frequently intruded.
For it to intrude，there was a reason.
In truth，the causes had already been prepared in an era when even the Battle of Yashima had not yet occurred.