So this episode we continue with the reign of Mimaki Iribiko, and look at why the Chronicles refer to him as the August Founder, even though he is also the 10th sovereign.  We'll look at how he is said to have "pacified" the rest of the land.  We'll also compare what the Chronicles tell us with what we know through other sources.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-29

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 29:  The August Founder

Last episode we covered the first part of Mimaki Iribiko’s reign, with a lot of focus on Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime and the potential connections with the time of Queen Himiko, in the 3rd century, and while there are some who suggest that this account is actually taking place much earlier—possibly as early as the late 2nd century—for now we’ll keep it where it is.

Of course, that episode took us through Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime’s death and subsequent burial in what we believe to be Hashihaka kofun.  And with her passing it is now time for us to move on with our discussion of the ruler mentioned in the Chronicles—perhaps Himiko’s co-ruler—Mimaki Iribiko Iniye no Mikoto.  We’ll go through the rest of his account and talk about what it means that he shares with Jimmu that curious title of August Founder of Yamato.  We’ll look at the military and administrative expansion that he is credited with.

First, though, a little more on this name:  Mimaki.  Now, truth be told, we don’t really have a clear indication of its meaning.  Some have suggested that the “Ki” is from a Korean word meaning castle, and later we’ll see “Mimana” as a name for a state on the Korean peninsula, possibly a part of the Gaya Confederation that grew up around the area we believe have been home to the Pyonhan.   So, one idea is that Mimaki indicates that this ruler is actually from the continent.  This goes along with a popular theory that states that the royal line was actually founded by a conquering force from the mainland, and draws some of its inspiration from the idea of Iware Biko—who was also identified with a peninsular placename—making his way up from Kyushu, the direction that any invaders from the mainland would need to take.  We’ll revisit this later in the story of Oujin, one of the later sovereigns, and another important figure in the Chronicles, who is also cited as an example of this invasion.  This theory of continental origin conveniently explains why Himiko isn’t mentioned in the Chronicles, because in this narrative, the royal lineage isn’t truly from “Yamato” at all, but they either founded the state (in which case it was likely separate from the Yamatai state of Himiko) or they took over an existing state and simply put themselves up as the rulers, possibly marrying into the royal line.  This is often referred to as the horserider theory, because the horse and associated technology are thought to have been the innovation that gave these immigrants such an upper hand against the otherwise established entities on the archipelago.

I don’t want to get into all of this right now, but suffice it to say that I’m not currently a proponent of this theory, which I believe puts me in good company with a number of scholars.  That isn’t to say that we won’t see some influence from the peninsula later on the archipelago in later centuries, but I just am not seeing it in reference to our current subject, Mimaki Iribiko.  Although Mimaki Iribiko does seem to have his own conquests—acts of pacification—it is all described as starting in the Nara Basin and spreading outward from there.  Furthermore, his name doesn’t necessarily come from Mimana.  Various people have pointed out different possible derivations for the name Mimaki on the archipelago itself, so a Korean explanation isn’t required.  In fact, looking into the Wei Chronicles, I couldn’t help but notice that those chronicles mentioned several ministers with similar names.  One of them is either Mimashi or Mimato, depending on whether you follow Soumare or Kidder, and then likewise another’s is either Mimakaki or Mimawaki.  In Bentley’s take on ancient Japanese pronunciation they are something like Memasing and Memawake.  This makes me wonder if one of these two might not, in fact, be the Mimaki Iribiko of the Chronicles, but referenced as a minister rather than a sovereign.

Either way, I think there is enough to say that there is no need to suppose a Korean origin, and no reason to believe that the name Mimaki doesn’t come from the archipelago.  Of course, how much of his story is actually about him and how much is memory or legend of the founding of the state, it is hard to say, but let’s assume that he did exist, at least, and probably played some part in the early state formation of Yamato.  Even if he’s a composite character—like when a complex novel is translated into a 2 hour movie—we should still be able to get the general course of the plot.

And so, when we pick up the story from last time, although he no longer had his aunt Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime’s spiritual insights to guide him, Mimaki Iri-biko still had four generals and their armies, and that was no small thing. And so he once again sent them out to pacify the land.

As a reminder from last episode these four generals are named as Oho-hiko, Take Nunkawa Wake, Tamba no Chi-Nushi, and Isaseri Hiko—aka Kibitsu Hiko.

And I’d like to quickly pause here and just put in a reminder that the Wei Chronicles also mention four great commanders that helped to oversee the country.  Whether those had any relationship to these four, who knows.  But still curious, no?

Now, the first of the generals, Oho-hiko, whose name translates to just “the Great Prince”, was supposed to head north to Koshi but had been stopped when heard the prophetic song that forecast the attempted invasion and coup by Take Haniyasu Hiko in Yamashiro.  After the death of Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime, it is said that he resumed his task, successfully adding Koshi, the northern part of Honshu along the Japan Sea Coast, to the Yamato sphere of influence.

Heading eastward, from Yamato along the Eastern Sea Path—known to us as the Tokaido—was the second general, Oho-hiko’s son, Take Nunakawa Wake, the Young Brave of Nunakawa, also pronounced Nunagawa, depending on your source.  He took his forces eastward and then followed the coastline north, eventually meeting his father at an area that is known as Aizu, which is said to reference how the met—“Au”—at this place.

Aizu is, I assume, the place better known as Aizu-Wakamatsu, in modern Fukushima Prefecture.  It is much more famous for its role in later Japanese history: it was one of the last hold-outs for the Shogunal troops during the fall of the Tokugawa Bakufu, and the site of the tragic suicide of the youths of the Byakkotai.  Of course, this area is also the southern end of the Tohoku region of Japan, known in our early sources a Michi no Oku, roughly translated as the End of the Road, and often shortened to just “Mutsu”.  This is also just about the northern edge of the Yayoi rice-farming culture, which initially made inroads up to the north of Tohoku but then retreated back to the southern regions.  Somewhere north of this point were the people known to the later Yamato courts as the Emishi, and it would be a border area that would slowly expand northward with time, but not quite yet.  This is the northern extent of the Wa who would become part of the Yamato political system.

In addition to all this, you may recall that Nunakawa—as in the son, here, Take Nunakawa Wake—was a place name also referenced in the name of Iware Biko’s successor, Nunakawa Mimi, as well as in the name of Nunakawa Hime, who is said to have married Ohonamuji of Izumo and was the mother, at least according to legend and the Kujiki, of Take Minakata, one of the sons of Ohonamuji who stood up to the Heavenly Deities and lost the duel with Take Mikazuchi.

As far as I can tell, Nunakawa appears to be associated with the Princess River—Himekawa—and the area of Itoigawa, in Niigata.  This area had long been settled, though I don’t know how convenient the mountainous valleys were for the wet-paddy rice farming of the Yayoi culture, but it apparently has long been a center of jadeite manufacturing, with beginnings back in the Neolithic period and an industry that continued even into the Kofun era, producing the magatama and other such stone jewelry and prestige goods.  For reference, this is just north over the mountains from Nagano and Matsumoto, with the Himekawa continuing all the way to the Japan Sea coast.

If Take Nunakawa Wake really was from this area, it would go right along with the idea that he may, indeed, have been related to Oho-hiko.  Personally, I wonder if Ohohiko might have been a “Great Prince” in that area—could it possibly indicate a Chieftain or Chieftain of Chieftains in the Koshi region?  The Chronicles tie all these figures back to the royal lineage, but through figures that we’ve already said are tenuous at best.

So were these generals really members of the court, or were they leaders in independent polities, perhaps allied with Yamato, but not directly related?  I honestly couldn’t say at this point, but we can take a look again at what archaeological evidence we have and what that suggests about everything.

First, though, let’s talk about the third general, Tamba no Chi-Nushi.

It is written that Tamba no Chi-Nushi headed up past Yamashiro, and on to Tamba Province, which encompassed the central parts of modern Kyouto and Hyougo prefectures.  There is another figure who similarly traveled this route and who may have been the same individual under a different name:  Hiko Imasu, Mimaki Iribiko’s own half-brother, and someone whom many court families would claim in their lineages.  The Kojiki tells us that Hiko Imasu went to Tamba province to subdue Kuga Mimi no Mikasa.  If they are the same person, perhaps after he subdued Kuga Mimi, then Hiko Imasu set himself as the master of the land of Tamba—the Tamba no Chi-Nushi.

With the first three generals out of the way, we still have one more general to talk about here, and that is Isaseri Hiko, aka Kibi-tsu Hiko—the Prince of Kibi.  Once again, we can take a guess that Isaseri Hiko was either already a chieftain in Kibi or his name came after some kind of assault on the region. He is said to have headed West towards Kibi, on the Seto Inland Sea.  The Kojiki actually tells us that it was two people—Ohokibi tsu Hiko, or the Great Prince of Kibi, and Waka Hiko Take Kibi tsu Hiko—the Young Prince Brave Prince of Kibi.  Their conquest is actually given in greater detail in the Kojiki, but placed a few reigns earlier.

Now we’ve mentioned Kibi in the past, but it may be worthwhile to delve a little bit more into the geography and history, here—or at least what we know.  Kibi is the ancient province—one could say the ancient state—that controlled much of the northern shoreline of the Seto Inland Sea, encompassing much of what is today Okayama Prefecture and parts of eastern Hiroshima prefecture.  It was later broken up into the provinces of Bizen, Bitchuu, and Bingo—literally Front, Middle, and Back Kibi—as well as the province of Mimasaka, but this wouldn’t be until much later. 

To the north of Kibi, across the mountains, was Izumo, and the Kibi heartland seems to have been the plains between the modern cities of Soja and Okayama.  These expansive plains, nestled between hills on all sides, would have been the perfect spot for ancient Yayoi farmers and their agricultural techniques.  It actually makes for a nice bike ride, today, which is one of the best ways to see much of this area, including the giant tombs.  Beyond the agricultural capacity, however, it had another benefit, as much of the area between the Yoshii and Takahashi rivers would have been underwater—an extension of the Seto Inland Sea that hadn’t yet silted up.  Kojima would have been an actual island at that time, as is referenced in the Chronicles during the creation of the islands.  With safe, defensible harbors at an area where the channels narrow, with many small islands littering the seaways, it doesn’t take much imagination to see how Kibi may have controlled much of the trade through the Inland Sea.

Furthermore, Kibi has long had a connection to mainland traditions, and had an early form of metalworking technology that was shared with Northern Kyushu.

Kibi is often described as a Kingdom, or Ou-koku, at least on par with that of Yamato, in the Nara Basin.  Often, people will point to the large Kofun that dot the Kibi plain as evidence of their power and importance, though that is the story throughout the Early to Late Kofun periods.  I find it significant that Inland Sea pottery is found among the assemblage at the Makimuku site in Yamato, and the early pottery that appears to have decorated Hashihaka Kofun appears to have borrowed heavily from a Kibi tradition of jar stands, which predated the use of haniwa. Clearly there was some sort of connection.

Now, going back to the Kojiki, Ohokibi tsu Hiko and Waka Hiko Take Kibi tsu Hiko started out their trek west by placing ceremonial jars before the Hi river in ancient Harima province, much as was done by Oho Hiko and Hiko Kunibuku before embarking against Take Haniyasu Hiko in Yamashiro—in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it is actually the same account of burying jars, just placed in different stories in the different chronicles.  Regardless, they place the jars at the Hi river, which was likely the ancient boundary of Yamato territory, assuming that they, like we still do today, often used natural features as boundary markers.

From Harima province they moved on into the land of Kibi and subdued the land there, and little else is said in the Chronicles, but there is a local legend in the area.  You see, Kibitsu Shrine, in Okayama, enshrines the spirit of Kibi tsu Hiko, and it tells the legend of how Kibi tsu Hiko came in with his forces and subdued a demon named Ura—or some sources say Unra or Onra—who lived in a hilltop fortress, known as Ki no jo: the demon’s fortress.  According to this legend, Kibi tsu Hiko had three companions with him on this journey—Inukai Takeru, Sasamori Hiko, and Tometama Omi.  Working together they were able to subdue Ura and bring peace to the land.

There are those who believe this story has an historical foundation.  Ura, the so-called “demon”, is said to have been a prince from the land of Kudara—also known as Baekje—on the Korean peninsula.  In later centuries there were many immigrants from the mainland, and Ura may have been the leader or at least a manifestation of a local group of Baekje immigrants.  We do know that Kibi had a reputation for their ironworking abilities, which may have come from mainland smiths coming over in the early days, and this story could reflect some conflict between the local immigrant population and a local prince or noble—some have suggested that this was possibly tied to the founding story of the state of Kibi.

This story of the “demon’s castle” and how Kibitsuhiko subdued it was later connected to a Korean-style hilltop fortress that had been built in the 7th century as part of the defenses against a Korean invasion that the archipelago believed would come after Baekje, Japan’s ally, fell to a Silla-Tang alliance with the naval battle of Hakusukinoe.  In Baekje, the word “Ki” was frequently used for fortress or castle, and it is thought that in Japan they transformed that into another “Ki”, meaning Oni or demon.  Thus Ki no Jo or Ki no Shiro could mean either the “Castle Castle” or, with the characters in use today, the Demon’s castle.

The hilltop fortress—which I’m sure we’ll revisit later in our story—has had some of the walls reconstructed, and you can go see it today.  However, we can also see that this moves much of this story to a later period, and leaving us to wonder just who were the original chieftains—or even sovereigns—of Kibi?

Oh, and one more thing: this whole little sidebar, as anachronistic as it clearly is, connects with one other story that you may have heard about, as it is rather famous—the famous folk story of Momotaro.  Now, what does a children’s story of a young boy, born from a magical peach, have to do with one of the ancient generals pacifying the land of Kibi?  Well, as you may recall, Momotaro heads out with his companions—a dog, a monkey, and a pheasant—and they eventually fight and subdue the Oni, or demons.

Though the Momotaro story doesn’t seem to have been written down until the Edo period, local tradition in the area of Okayama around Kibitsu shrine claims that Momotaro was modeled after local stories and memories of Kibitsu Hiko, and that the three companions, which he gained through gifts of kibi-dango, were based off of Kibitsu Hiko’s own companions:  Inukai, Sasamori, and Tometama.  Together they defeated the “Oni”, “Ura”, of the Demon’s Castle, Ki no Jo.

Now I won’t lie, there is a lot of speculation in here, and the timelines for all of this don’t line up in the slightest from any kind of historical point of view, but it is definitely one of those traditions that clings fast in the modern area of Okayama, and who am I to harsh their peach-boy vibes?  More, I just find it interesting the way that a few simple lines the chronicles are expanded through local tradition and over time, and eventually connected to a beloved children’s story.

We do know that Kibi was large and important during the Kofun period, and there are plenty of times where it seems that Yamato and Kibi may have had tense and perhaps even adversarial relationship with one another.  Who knows, had things gone differently perhaps we would be dealing with the royal line of Kibi instead of the line of Yamato.  But that isn’t what happened, and so here we are. 

The Four Generals had completed their pacification of the land and sent back their reports, and the year following, many tribes showed up to pay homage to the ruler of Yamato.  It seems that everything was well and truly at peace.  The Nihon Shoki puts it in typically continental terms, summarizing all Mimaki Iri-biko had accomplished:  He had set up proper worship of the gods of Heaven and Earth, he had pacified the quote-unquote “savage” tribes—by force if necessary—and he had seen to it that there was no unemployment, that there was universal education through the example of the sovereign, and the court was visited even by ambassadors from across the sea.  All of that can be lifted almost word for word from continental sources.  But it also goes on to mention that he was able to institute the first tax on the archipelago—a “bow-tax” for men and a “finger-tax” for women.  This would seem to indicate taxes in the form of game and animal products from men and crafts or fabric from women.

And for all of this, Mimaki Iri-biko is given a rather surprising title:  The August Founder of Yamato.  One might think that such a title would be more fitting for the first sovereign, Iware Biko, after all, but then again, Iware Biko is only really credited with the conquest of the Nara Basin—it is just presumed that he then ruled the archipelago.  Mimaki Iri-biko, on the other hand, clearly pacified the land and instituted the things that most of us would recognize as government.  And so it is that our tenth sovereign is known as the August Founder.

And this is also the reason that many believe that Mimaki Iri-biko is actually our first possibly historical sovereign.  The generations before may have actually been chieftains in the Yamato basin—perhaps even contemporaries of Mimaki Iri-biko, or possibly competitors.  Iware-biko, aka Jimmu, and his story clearly has indications that link it to the reign of Temmu.  Personally, I wonder if Mimaki Iri-biko’s story wasn’t more closely tied with Temmu’s brother, Tenchi, who had introduced a great number of reforms and truly set up a new form of government in the archipelago.  Regardless many believe this is where we truly should start looking for hints of historicity.

Of course, much of it still is questionable.  Was all this conquest and pacification and governmental improvements really accomplished in the reign of a single sovereign?  Furthermore, despite evidence of conflict during the Yayoi period—certainly much more than there was in the Jomon—I don’t believe we have yet uncovered anything that suggests the scale of conflict shown here.

So why, then, is it that from the late 3rd century we suddenly see round keyhole tombs start popping up across the areas of the Inland Sea and north Kyushu, as we mentioned before?  Was that really a sign of unity with the Yamato polity—a physical manifestation of their acquiescence to Yamato cultural norms and hierarchies?  Or was it competition?  Was this a sign of chieftains saying “see, we can build our own grand tombs, just like yours”.

Furthermore, if we look at the areas that the first three generals were said to have subdued from an archeological perspective, it seems that, with the exception of mentioning Izumo proper, these are the areas that appear to have shared the latest in metal-working technology at the beginning of the Kofun era, but they were also the areas that were least likely to follow suit with Yamato in the first wave of rounded keyhole tomb mounds.  What’s up with that? If these were closely allied with Yamato, or even a part of Yamato, why are their tombs so different? 

One interpretation of this could be that, despite what it says here in the chronicles, these areas were not actually part of Yamato’s dominion, and so all the talk of subjugation is simply a fiction of the later court to help justify their preeminent position in the isles.  I can’t help but wonder, though, if there is another significance—were these, perhaps, the original members of the federation of states that placed rulers like Himiko on the throne in Yamato?  If so, perhaps these areas and their leaders did not feel the same cultural pressures to conform, since they were already in an alliance and not in direct competition with the Yamato court.  Basically, what if they just had nothing to prove?  They had their own traditions that were good enough for them, and they didn’t have to adopt new cultural traditions, like a new shape of tomb, in order to prove their allegiance to the Yamato polity.  Perhaps that could explain why we first see the Round Keyhole tombs seem to spread into the Seto Inland Sea areas and down to Kyushu.

Now, it is commonly assumed that size and shape of the mounded tombs was significant and must have indicated rank and position in society.  Therefore, a corollary would seem to indicate that those who were building such tombs must have been part of the Yamato polity’s control—and, conversely, that those without such tombs must have been outside their control.  I would offer again the suggestion that this could well have been exactly opposite, at least in the early days of the mounded tomb culture.  Those areas that had already been allied with Yamato may not have seen a need, immediately, to copy them, especially if they were just one amongst many different parts of a federation.  After the Wei embassies, though, through which it seems clear that Yamato was able to acquire at least a significant amount of wealth, if not also some status and political cache, I would not be surprised if that is when other polities—perhaps  those groups that had much older ties to the mainland—started to perk up and pay attention.  They then were trying to either get in good with a new power broker or were setting themselves up as a rival—possibly both at the same time—and the adoption of things like the round keyhole tombs was part of this shift.

Given all this, let me lay out for you a story that follows my current thinking.  I warn you this is a tenuous story, but it may help with what we are seeing.  It isn’t great, however—there is still too much we don’t know, but I feel like we are getting better glimpses as we continue.

So back around the turn of the first millennium, we have information that there were many small polities—called states, but we may better refer to them as chiefdoms—in the archipelago.  They had access to the mainland through the Korean peninsula, and some of these groups had even enough sway to send embassies to the Han court and receive diplomatic gifts and recognition.  They had news about the rest of the world, and access to prestige goods of bronze and iron tools.  They even had access to metalworking technology, at least up through the Seto Inland Sea and just east of the land of Kibi or Harima, though they still needed to get the raw materials from their mainland suppliers.  These chieftains had set up relatively stable connections with one another, and I imagine that there were some common traits among the people in that corridor.

Then, with the collapse of the Han and turmoil on the continent, the trade routes that these chiefdoms relied upon for their tools and prestige items—and possibly much more—were cut off.  The only source of prestige goods—or at least the metal to make them—would have been other chiefdoms.  As ties broke down and people sought to maintain an old way of life, fighting and conflict could have broken out.  This may have led to some consolidation, but even more I suspect much of it may have been between the older and more advanced chiefdoms.  After all, if this really was triggered by a breakdown in the trade with the mainland, then where were the goods people were seeking but in those same chiefdoms?

As those older chiefdoms jockeyed for dominance, the trade routes probably became more perilous.  Izumo, on the Japan Sea side of Honshu, offers a path that would have side-stepped much of the unrest, and with the other chiefdoms fighting and expending resources against one another, perhaps Izumo and the various polities in its orbit—out to Kochi, as well as other areas down on the Kii peninsula and out to the modern Kantou region.  New trade and new contacts would bring new technologies, including new methods of working metal.  Perhaps these communities built themselves up through trade via the Japan Sea Coast and over to the mainland, such that by the 3rd century, there is an alliance of various communities, working together much as the early Kyushu communities had done.  Eventually, one of these, Yamato, came to preeminence.  Nestled in the southeast corner of a large basin, one might not immediately assume that its location was ideal, but it had rivers and flat lands to build plenty of rice paddies, and through the river deltas, plains, and mountain passes there were likely trade routes that carried goods from the Japan Sea coast and it was at the end of the Seto Inland Sea routes.

Leveraging their connections and allies, they sent a mission off to the Wei court, and came back with tremendous wealth.  They would later repeat this feat, and they not only had secured precious goods and cargo, but a special status, which may have even been recognized, however grudgingly, by other polities on the island.

Based on the goods that we find in various tombs, such as the mirrors, and the patterns of distribution, there is a strong suggestion that the model of the Wei court was mimicked in the islands, with leaders amassing wealth and goods and then distributing them to their followers, effectively buying the loyalty of those beneath them.  This process would repeat itself over and over again.  It wasn’t just the shape and construction of the tombs that was being transmitted, but even similar grave goods, making up what some might know as the “Initial Kofun Package”.  And if some of those grave goods were primarily available through Yamato, that may have been one of the levers that thye were able to pull to bring people together.

Now, for those already part of the trade network and alliance, there may have been very little that was considered especially novel about Yamato’s burial practices, but for those outside, access to these prestige goods and more may have been enticing, providing some impetus to conform.  Alliances might have beenformed through gifts and marriage politics, and outside groups would have felt pressure to mimic Yamato’s culture.

This was still a loose arrangement, though.  While the Chronicles talk of a “state” and act as if this is the Yamato state, fully formed under the leadership of a divine royal lineage, it was maybe more of an alliance or federation.  Over time, those bonds would grow stronger, tradition would gain the force of law, and administrative techniques would evolve—or just be imported—to control a growing territory that eventually expanded all the way to tip of Korean Peninsula.

For now, though, it was just in its nascent stages, and we have a few more items to pull out of the records and we can see what they tell us.

So after the land was pacified and Mimaki Iribiko was ruling the court, with his new system of government in place—signified in part by the levying of taxes—a new edict went out that ordered the building of ships.  Apparently much of the trade was conducted via overland routes, and the Wei Chronicles seem fairly certain on the point that there was nothing that they would consider a true road, and so ships were built so that the people who lived on the coast could trade more efficiently, and better and more quickly transport things from one place to another.  Of course, why they weren’t doing this anyway is anybody’s guess.  Certainly in a land like Japan, where the main island of Honshu is generally long and relatively thin, the waters would make for excellent highways.  Plus, due to the mountainous interior, most communities were on the plains and river deltas near to the water in some way shape or form.  So this may have been their equivalent of building roads, allowing faster transport and easier access.  Roads would come eventually, but given the mountain paths, travel across the water was no doubt much more efficient.  Still, I have to wonder how many people got the order and just nodded—did the local communities really need a royal edict to encourage them?

So with everything at peace, it was time for Mimaki Iribiko to take care of another important piece of dynastic statecraft—choosing a successor.

If you are listening to this in November, 2020, succession planning has been in the news—and I’m not talking about US Election, either.  On November 8th, Emperor Naruhito invested his brother, Fumihito, Prince Akishino, as Crown Prince and heir to the throne:  Akishino-no-miya Fumihito Shinnou.  This sets him up to officially inherit the throne after his brother.

Now I don’t want to get into the whole modern debate over the current laws in Japan and their requirement for patrilineal succession, but I will note that it is always a great chance to see some of that beautiful court garb.  Mmm-mmm…. I love me some of that sweet sokutai action. 

But as we’ve already seen, things weren’t quite as cut and dried back in ancient times.  Declaring a Crown Prince was an important ritual to actually declare a successor, because there wasn’t a tradition that the first-born would just take the throne.  Certainly, if a sovereign died without declaring an heir, there was tradition and precedent on how to proceed—and not everyone abided by the decision of the previous sovereign when it came down to it—but having a declared Crown Prince on hand certainly made things easier.

The only problem was, how to choose?  You see, Mimaki Iribiko had two qualified princes who could be chosen to succeed him—not to mention all of his daughters, but then, remember who is putting this together, so we just get two of the sons.  First up was Toyoki Iribiko, son of Toho tsu Ayume Ma-kuhashi Hime and brother to Toyosuki Iribime, the princess who had taken over the worship of Amaterasu Ohokami in Kasanuhi.  Then there was Ikume Iribiko, son of Mima tsu Hime.

Mimaki Iribiko asked both of the princes to sleep and then tell him about their dreams when they woke up.  Toyoki Iribiko had a dream where he ascended to the top of Mt. Miwa, turned to the east, where the sun rises.  Looking out over the eastern lands, he took up a spear, and moved it about in eight flourishes.  Then, he exchanged the spear for a sword, and likewise swung it through the air eight times.

Ikume Iribiko also had a dream, and just like his brother he hiked up to the top of Mt. Miwa, and from there he stretched out a cord to the four quarters.  This was supposedly to drive away the sparrows, which fed upon the grain of the harvest.

Mimaki Iribiko listened to each of their dreams and gave them careful consideration.  Finally, he made his decision.  Because Toyoki Iribiko had turned east, he was sent out to the eastern provinces to administer the land in the area we know as the Kantou, to include the border lands with the northeastern lands—the eventual home of the Emishi.  Indeed the lords of Keno, and of the later provinces split from it, Kamitsu Keno no Kuni and Shimotsu Keno no Kuni—the upper and lower Keno provinces—claimed descent from Toyoki Iribiko.  BTW, if you don’t recognize these names you may know them by their later pronunciations:  Kouzuke and Shimotsuke.  For reference this is the area of modern Gunma and Tochigi prefectures.

Now, was there really a Toyoki Iribiko and was he sent out to administer the east?  It is hard to say for certain, but I doubt it is as straightforward as we get here.  This could be a figure from the genealogical records of the eastern nobles, attempting to ride the royal coattails and boost their esteemed lineage.  That said, it isn’t out of character for Japan—throughout it’s history similar tactics have been used, with close relatives often being sent off to be a kind of deputy overseer in the east or elsewhere in the archipelago, allowing for a more local presence of the central government.  Of course, as we’ve alluded to, I’m not entirely sure we have what we would think of as a fully functioning government, just yet.

Speaking of the record, let’s get back to it.

So with Toyoki Iribiko headed off to the east it was Ikume Iribiko who was declared the Crown Prince.  I find it notable that while Toyoki’s dream featured weapons of war, Ikume’s dream was about agriculture and crops—perhaps a link back to the agricultural foundations of society ever since the development of the Yayoi culture?

Now one of the last episodes from the reign of Mimaki Iribiko has to do with Yamato’s connection to yet another region that we’ve spent some time on—and this time it is to the region of Izumo, home of Ohokuni Nushi himself.

So the story goes, Take Hiteru, aka Ame no Hinatori, had taken the Divine Treasures and stored them in Izumo since ancient times.  We aren’t sure exactly what these “divine treasures” were—theoretically the heavenly treasures that were provided to Ninigi and Nigi Hayahi had been gathered up and stored locally, so one would think the ones in Izumo must be something actually connected with that land of gathering clouds.  Some have suggested that it could be connected with all of the bronze items found buried on a hillside, though it really is unclear.

Mimaki Iribiko decided that he’d like to take a gander at these heavenly treasures, and he dispatched Mononobe Take Morozumi no Muraji to go and “bring them back” to the court—obviously implying that they had been sent out from the court in the first place.

Now at this time, the man in charge of the treasures at the grand shrine, Izumo no Ohoyashiro, was a man named Izumo no Furune.  He was charged, it seems, with protecting the treasures and making sure nothing happened to them.  He must have had other duties, however, because by the time Take Morozumi arrived, Furune had departed on a trip to Tsukushi—aka Northern Kyushu—leaving his younger brother, Ihi’irine, to mind the store—or the storehouse, in this case.

The impression I get, though nothing states it quite so explicitly, is that this may have been another case of brothers co-ruling, perhaps each with a different focus on the spiritual v. the secular, but that is just a hunch.

Now it seems that nobody, not even the ruler in Yamato, was supposed to just be given the treasures—if you wanted to come and commune with the holy relics you would need to actually travel to Izumo yourself.  After all, travel was dangerous, and the last thing anyone wanted to for the treasures to get lost anywhere.

And so you can imagine the shock on Furune’s face when he returned from his sojourn only to find that Ihi’irine had simply submitted to the royal decree from Yamato, ordering his younger brother, Umashi-kara-hisa, and his nephew, Uka-tsukunu, to travel with the treasures and keep them safe.  He was furious, but he decided to hide his anger, at least at first.  He appeared to put the whole thing behind him—after all, what’s done is done, right?  And how could his brother have known that not even the sovereign in Yamato should get to call in their sacred treasures.  Instead, he invited Ihi’irine out for a swim.  Together they headed out for a little family fun.

And so they swam and relaxed in the waters, and when they were finished, Furune was the first one out.  He grabbed his clothes, but as he did so, he grabbed his younger brother’s sword, girding it around him in apparent error.  No doubt an honest mistake—the swords may have looked quite similar to one another.  And so Ihi’irine thought nothing of it as he started to get dressed.  And as he did so, suddenly Furune attacked.  Fumbling around, Ihi’irine grabbed for his elder brother’s sword to defend himself, but as he tried to draw it out, it stuck.  In the last few moments before Furune struck, Ihi’irine must have realized what had happened.  His brother hadn’t brought a real sword, but just a piece of wood, carved to look like a sword and a sheath, but there was no blade.  This wasn’t a fight.  It was murder.

News of Ihi’irine’s death spread fast.  It reached the ears of Umashikara Hisa and Ukatsu Kunu, who were accompanying the treasures, and when they reached Yamato, they told Mimaki Iribiko and his court what had happened.  In turn, Mimaki turned to one of his generals, Kibi tsu Hiko, who took Take Nukawa Wake and, one assumes, a force of some size, and they marched forth to Izumo.

What exactly happened next is obscured in the Chronicles which really only tells us that Izumo no Omi—the ruling family of Izumo, of which Furune and Ihi’irine were a part and probably the leaders—desisted in the worship of the Great God.  I don’t think Furune just decided to stop worshipping the main god of their area, so something must have gone down, and we certainly don’t hear anymore about Furune in the record, so I think we can safely assume that the generals went up with a small army and they did what small armies usually do, and they must have been successful.

Still, they couldn’t leave the Great Shrine unattended forever.  And some time after all of this went down, the infant son of Hika Tohe, a chieftain in Higami, in the land of Tanba, had a dream about mo grass and a river stone—which apparently represented the two gods of Izumo—you know, Ohokuni Nushi and, well, the other one.  I’m honestly not sure which one that might be—they could even be talking about two other gods entirely, such as Takami Musubi and Kami Musubi.  Either way, the court decided to start worshipping the Izumo gods again, and, one assumes, they reinstated the Izumo no Omi as far as worship of the Izumo gods was concerned.

So once again we are left with the question:  just what does this mean and what is going on here?  It seems fairly clear that there was some kind of expedition against Izumo.  A part of me wonders if this doesn’t have a parallel in the mythical stories where the gods of Heaven came down to pacify Izumo and to ask for Ohokuni Nushi to hand over the land, though once again the connection is tenuous, at best.

Most importantly it seems to show that the gods of Izumo did hold some status, especially if they were in possession of Heavenly Treasures—though it may have been less impressive than all that.  It also shows an interventionist Yamato, willing to send out the troops when necessary.  It also implies, at least to me, that Yamato’s hold on power was not absolute.   This was really a web of agreements, which could be broken if good relationships and standard order and tradition were not enough.  This goes along with many archaeologists’ assertions that there is not enough evidence that Yamato was actually ruling the archipelago, even if they were acting in a manner that might be considered primer inter pares—first among equals.

It also emphasizes the importance of ritual activities.  What if many of the prestige goods were not simply items of prestige, but literal items of worship.  Requesting permission to call them to you whenever you want seems like a bold move and a power play—and not something that one would be able to do if there weren’t at least some relationship already in play.  Which all seems to speak, once again, to this idea of an alliance or loose federation of some sort—possibly just an intricate network of treaties and marriage alliances.

The Chronicles end with discussion of something that we probably find puzzling, today:  the creation of ponds.  Specifically the ponds of Yosami and Sakawori, which were specifically attributed to Mimaki Iribiko.

Now why would a pond be so important as to warrant mention in the chronicles?  Well, perhaps for the same reason that Ikume Iribiko was chosen as the Crown Prince:  Because above all else, this was still a society built on agriculture and agricultural ideals.  Ponds would have provided reservoirs during heavy rains that could contain some of the water and prevent flooding.  In dry seasons, they could be used to help irrigate the fields.  And of course, there is always the added bonus of stocking the ponds with fish and having a ready supply on hand.  Whatever the reason, it is clear that it was important to the people of the time.

Finally, the Chronicles—or at least the Nihon Shoki—closes out in classic continental fashion, describing how Mimaki Iribiko ruled all the land, and even received submission from lands across the sea—and they name some of the states on the Korean peninsula.  Of course, it would seem much too early to really be putting much stock in what was happening with the peninsula.  It is possible that the young state of Baekje may have opened relations, but it is more likely that this is primarily some kind of standard paean about how great and wonderful Yamato was and how, didn’t we tell you? We’re the best!

Of course, that isn’t to say that there was nobody on the continent who was part of the Yamato alliance—after all, there is plenty of evidence of Wa speaking peoples still on the peninsula at this time—particularly in the southeast, where both the Wei Chronicles and archaeology seems to suggest there was the greatest amount of cross-strait contact.

But we’ll talk about that later.  Next episode we’ll see if Ikume Iribiko can fill his dad’s shoes, and we should get a chance to see the formation of the Ise Shrine—at least as the Chronicles tell it.

Until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site, kofi.com/sengokudaimyo, or find the link over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on topics from this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

This episode we finally have some seeming correlation between the Chronicles and some of our historical and archaeological data.  So let's take a look at the 10th sovereign, Mimaki Iribiko, and his aunt, the female shaman,Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime--is this perhaps the elusive Himiko herself?

In the third century there was considerable activity around the base of Mt. Miwa, where Ōmononushi no Kami was enshrined.

Join us as we try to weave this story together.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-28

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 28: The Birth of the Miwa Cult .

So this episode we are going to try to bring things back into a historical perspective and merge the accounts in the Chronicles with what we know about this time from the archaeological and continental records.  A key piece of this is the corrected dating for this next sovereign’s reign, which would put him in the Terminal Yayoi period, just before or during the reign of Queen Himiko, from roughly 238 to 250 or so.  Furthermore, much of the action focuses around the activities around Mt. Miwa, which we have discussed previously, but if this truly is the first account that is actually drawing from some historical perspective, perhaps there is something here for us to pay attention to.  But before we get into all of that, let’s just start with a reminder of where we are.

Now,in the early to mid-3rd century, great changes were occuring in the archipelago.  The hub-and-spoke city-states of the Yayoi chiefdoms were more interconnected than ever before.  Ships plied the waters along the coasts, farmers converted marshland and areas around the rivers into fields.  Traders wandered between the various polities and cultural zones across the mountains and the waterways, and no doubt pirates and bandits wandered the same pathways, following their prey.

Early states pulled together from the smaller towns and villages and formed communities that could leverage even greater resources for agriculture, trade, defense.  Alliances were made—possibly through simple agreements and the exchange of goods, but also through marriage between elites. 

Amidst the rice paddies and other fields, were towns and villages, largely made up of circular pit-buildings, with some elevated buildings—some granaries, but others perhaps for private or communal use.  In the large towns there were watchtowers, and large, rectangular buildings appeared that stood well off the ground—sometimes towering over the rest of the community.  Were these quiet, secretive places—the seat of arcane and enigmatic ritual viewed only by the elite few?  Or were they places of music and feasting and communal activity?  Or something else altogether?

Though it may have been different in various parts of the country, they honored their dead, but how they did so was changing.  For a long time, common men and women might get a burial in the communal cemetery, and elites may have been interred together in a mound, visible, distinct, and separate.  But a new tradition saw a category of elites that were no longer buried alongside others, but they were buried alone.  This new burial mound was a monument to the life of a single individual, built just for them.  One can only imagine what this meant about not only the labor that was organized for such a purpose, but what it meant in the conception of the state and the individuals who sat at the apex of such as society.

And of course, those elites sought goods that would set them apart.  They set up alliances and networks that would allow them access to the goods that would affirm their status—their regalia—symbolizing secular or possibly even spiritual authority.  Such authority may even have been bifurcated and shared amongst different men and women in a complex class system.  The golden flash of bronze or the polished stone surface of bracelets or magatama beads may have been all it took to let you know a person’s status in the still evolving hierarchy.  And then there was iron—required for tools and weapons alike.  By this point, iron was being procured almost exclusively through Pyonhan, one of the Samhan, or three “Han” cultural regions, on the southern Korean peninsula.  You may recall that Pyonhan, along with Mahan and Jinhan, formed the three Han, or Samhan, and it was thought that at least Pyonhan, if not the other two, may have spoken a Japonic language and may even have been counted as part of the “Wa” people still on the peninsula.  Pyonhan, in particular, was centered on the Nakdong river, which flowed into the ocean near modern Pusan, which seems ot have been the jumping off point to cross the straits via Tsushima and Iki on the way to Kyushu.  Unlike the Wa in the archipelago, however, Pyonhan was in direct contact with the Han Commanderies in Lelang, meaning they had greater access to technology but were also more directly under the thumb of the commandery, which was not incredibly supportive of growing new states at the edges of its borders.  They were perfectly fine exploiting the local labor to their imperial designs, thank you very much. 

So, the iron from Pyonhan and the larger continent, whether through official channels or otherwise, was imported directly as forged items or ingots that were then forged in settlements across the archipelago.  Originally this meant Northern Kyushu or Western Seto, up to the very eastern tip of Shikoku, where we see some of the earliest evidence of stratification and state formation, but by the time of the early-to-mid-3rd century, you have a new iron forging technology connecting the Japan Sea, Kinai, and eastern Honshu, while the older settlements in Kyushu and the Western Seto region seem to have continued in an older ironworking tradition,.  They were still reliant, however, on the continental bloomeries and blast furnaces for their raw materials.

With reliance on external sources of production, we can assume there was some contention over access to precious goods.  When trade and diplomacy failed, the people of the archipelago had another tool at their disposal: the force of arms.  Sure enough, we know that there were moments of violence, and if continental sources are to be believed the clash of weapons, the confusion of the battlefield, and the screams of the dying may not have been all that unfamiliar along the archipelago. 

One can imagine the storytellers, the kataribe, memorizing the stories of individuals—the heroes, leaders, and chieftains—and transmitting them over and over again.  If other cultures with similar traditions are any indication, there would have been intense pressure to memorize the stories correctly, passing them down to future generations.  However, over the centuries, language drifts, and cultural norms change.  Details get forgotten or changed.  Words may even change meaning, or become archaic and forgotten.  How many people today go searching for the garderobe when there is a truly pressing need?  And how much moreso when there are different dialects and no culture of writing to help stabilize and standardize from place to place?

Centuries later, as writing became more common, these stories would be captured and written down, creating a collection of anecdotal tales that later compilers would put together with the traditional genealogies, attempting to determine the chronology and which stories went with which ancient figure.

It is with this in mind that we turn to our next subject, unsure what is fact and what is fiction.  How much of this next sovereign’s  reign is based on an actual person and how much is simply a retelling of the founding myth of the Yamato state?  An explanation of the forgotten.  Those tidbits that were passed down, and which people knew had to have happened, but may not have remembered exactly the who and the how of it.  In the same vein, the stories of the previous sovereigns may have truly been focused on other chieftains and groups, contemporaneous with our main focus.

And so let us peer back through misty veil of the centuries and gaze at the shadows before us and see just what we have for us, today.

Our story this episode starts in Yamato with the birth of a boy.  Whether his father was the ninth sovereign in the Chronicles, Waka Yamato Neko HIko Ohohihi, overseeing the entire archipelago, is perhaps a question we might ask ourselves.  Certainly his name is not so easily connected to his supposed forebears.  After three generations who were styled after some fashion of “Yamato-neko Hiko”, we have one who is known as Mimaki Iribiko Iniye—Iniye, the “Iri” Prince Mimaki.  What exactly is meant by “Iri” in the “Iri-biko” I can only guess, but it is found not only in the name of his successor, Ikume Iri-biko Isachi, but in various other members of the succeeding generation, many of whom are known as either Iribiko or Irihime, prefixing the “Prince” or “Princess” title with this construction of “Iri-“, which uses the character for “entering”, though that is most likely not the full or even actual meaning, and seems suspiciously like we may have entered a new cycle or group of rulers in the Chronicles.

Mimaki Iri-biko, as he is commonly referred to, is said to have been born with a particular power of discernment between good and evil, and even as a youth he had an affinity for what the Nihon Shoki calls, with its gendered worldview, “masculine strategies”.  It goes on to say that he was of a generous mind, moderate in all things, and he revered both the amatsu kami and kunitsu kami—the deities of heaven and of earth.  And of course, the administration of the throne was always on his mind.

Mimaki Iri-biko’s lineage through his father we know, but his mother is said to have been Ika Shiko’me, the Ugly Woman of Ika, just as Ohonamuji was known as Ashihara Shiko’wo, the Ugly Man of the Reed Plains.  She was the daughter, or so they say, of Oho-hesoki, an ancestor of the Mononobe and one of the descendants of Nigi Hayahi.  Ika Shiko’me’s aunt, Utsu Shiko’me, the Ugly Woman of Utsu, had also been Queen to the sovereign before that, indicating that, if true, the royal line was closely tied through marriage and descent to the line of Nigi Hayahi and the Mononobe clan.

When Mimaki Iri-biko came to power, he was already married.  His wife, who would be queen, is known merely as Mimaki Hime or Mima tsu Hime.  Her name, here, tells us little, since it seems to be merely a reflection of her husband—though it does fit the pattern of Hiko-Hime pairs that one regularly encounters in these chronicles.  The Kojiki gives us the details that she was the daughter of Arakawa Tohe, the Chieftain, or Kuni no Miyatsuko, of the Ki, the ancient kuni that sat due south from Yamato on the peninsula that still bears its name, even today.  He also had several other consorts, but the Chronicles do not all agree on the names of their offspring.

It is said that Mimaki Iribiko ruled from the Mizugaki Palace in Shiki, believed to have been located at the foot of Mt. Miwa, near the site of the Shiki-Mi-Agata-Suwa Shrine, or the Shrine of the Seat of the August District of Shiki, in Sakurai.  A shrine dedicated to who else but our friend, Ohokuninushi, and whose history is uncertain but seems to have been considered an ancient shrine by at least the Heian period if not earlier.  A stone memorial to the Mizugaki Palace was erected there much more recently, in the Taisho era.  His successor would settle nearby, in what would be known as the Tamagaki Palace at Makimuku.

Mizugaki, by the way, is the name of the innermost fence of a shrine complex, and is typically surrounding the innermost area—the location of residence of the spirit, which, given what we’ve seen in terms of “palace” in reference to both  the gods and men, would seem certainly natural as a reference to the palace building of the sovereign, which may, itself, have been behind a fence or even a moat of some kind.  The next two fences out from that would be the inner and outer tamagaki, or jeweled fence—suspiciously similar to the name of the next sovereign’s palace, at least in the Kojiki: the Tamagaki Palace.

The Nara Basin remains an interesting place, archaeologically speaking—while we find various remains and traces, it has been inhabited for so long, with settlement over settlement, including the modern cities, that various layers where we would expect to find some traces have been removed as new buildings or, perhaps more commonly, new rice paddies, have been built over the years.  Oddly enough, however, those same rice paddies have also sealed in the various layers beneath them, often under a layer of hard, packed earth, and relatively constant building and construction has kept numerous archeologists well-employed for decades.  So even while many of the monumental tombs remain off-limits, that has not stopped a quite thorough examination of the area in which they reside.  Still, for many of the reasons just mentioned, you are unlikely to see large reconstructions of any of these ancient Yayoi or Kofun settlements, and we’ll need to satisfy ourselves with the site reports and various dioramas.

What those reports tell us, however, is interesting.  For instance, the area in the shadow of Mt. Miwa, the Makimuku district, has a good amount of late Yayoi and Early Kofun pottery.  But key is that some 15~30% of the pottery is nonlocal, meaning they came from elsewhere in the archipelago.  Primarily that appears to have come from the region of eastern Honshu, with a smaller amount from the Japan Sea Coast—the Izumo region—and an even smaller amount from the area of the Seto Inland sea.  Similarly, we see a clear commonality of ironworking technology between Izumo, the Kinai, and Eastern Honshu, focused on the Kinai region.  This could indicate a loose federation of friendly chiefdoms, at the very least, who interacted and traded with one another.

Now early in Mamaki Iri-biko’s reign, the Chronicles all seem to agree that the land was beset with a malady that may hit a bit too close to home in the current year, for a plague settled in the land.  Many people died—the Nihon Shoki says as many as half.  Of those who didn’t die, many wandered the countryside, and there was violence and rebellion.  To tell the truth it sounds pretty apocalyptic.

Even though it was a natural disaster, Mimaki Iri-biko took responsibility, but without an understanding of epidemiology, he could only turn to the gods and request punishment for whatever he had done wrong.  As he lay down upon the kamu-doko, or divine bed—possibly a place that the sovereign went to receive revelations from the kami—he began to dream.  In the dream, he saw a figure, who identified itself as Ohomono Nushi, or alternatively as Ohokunidama, and this figure took responsibility for the plague.

At least, that is what the Kojiki tells us.  The Nihon Shoki says that Mimaki Iri-biko turned to some good old fashioned plastromancy—which is to say, tortoise shell divination.  This seems to have been conducted by his aunt, who was apparently an accomplished shaman:  Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime.  They assembled the 80 deities to inquire as to what they could do to end the plague and the answer that she brought back: simply worship Ohomono Nushi (or Ohokunidama).

But why?  What reason could there have been? Well, the Nihon Shoki even provides a possible reason.  It turns out that Ohokunidama was originally worshipped in the palace together with Amaterasu Ohokami, but Mimaki Iri-biko seemed to be worried about what would happen if they stayed together.  Apparently it isn’t good to have two powerful deities co-located like that, so he had them separated.  He had his daughter, Toyosuki Iri-bime, take the goddess Amaterasu Ohokami out to the village of Kasanuhi, establishing the sacred enclosure of Shiki.  Here she would be worshipped until later moved again, this time to her permanent home in Ise.

The worship of Ohokunidama, on the other hand, was given to another daughter of Mimaki Iri-biko, named Nunaki Iri-bime, but she was apparently not cut out for the role.  Perhaps the rites were too strenuous for her.  Or Ohokunidama was just as judgmental as any of the other kami we’ve met so far.  All we really know is that Nunaki Iri-bime was bald and lean, and couldn’t perform the rites.

The implication here seems to me, at least, that Ohokunidama was not pleased with how he was being worshipped, and so had apparently sent the disease in retaliation.

So Mimaki Iri-biko set up worship of Ohomono Nushi in the palace, but that wasn’t enough.  No, instead, a handsome stranger came to him in a dream and told him “be not afraid”!  Or words to that affect.  He was to search throughout the land for a man named Ohotataneko, a descendant of Ohomono Nushi himself, and place that person in charge of his worship. 

Now, on top of that, the weird, creepy dream-stalker—apparently the same stranger, whom we can assume that it was Ohomono Nushi or his messenger—appeared to three women, who all came to the sovereign to tell him the same thing:  He needed to find Ohotataneko and have him worship Ohomono Nushi.  And, while he was at it, he needed to also get Ichishi no Nagaochi to come and be the master of worship for Yamato Ohokunidama—which really doesn’t make sense to me if Ohokunidama—the Great Spirit of the Country—was, as the Chronicles previously stated, the same as Ohomono Nushi.  Then again, it could have just been an aspect of Ohomono Nushi, who was really just an aspect of Ohokuni Nushi, because, well, kami.

Searching throughout the land, they did eventually find Ohotataneko—in one account he was found in Sue in the district of Chinu, but in the other it was Mino, in the ancient province of Kawachi, neither one too far from Shiki and the site of the Mizugaki palace.  And so they brought him and Nagaochi—whom they found somewhere in all of that—and set them in charge of the worship of the two deities, and just those two deities, mind you—until things were set right, divination said it was best to play it safe and just focus on them.  Mimaki Iri-biko’s uncle, Ika Shiko’wo, the brother of the Queen Dowager herself and a Minister in his own right, in charge, according to the Kyujiki, of “religious things”, assisted with the ceremonies.  He had “Heavenly Flat Vessels” made and distributed offerings—initially only to Ohomono Nushi and Yamato Ohokunidama.  Once that was completed satisfactorily, so that the pestilence would end, then and only then, did they make offerings to all of the heavenly and earthly deities, together.

Ohotataneko continued to be in charge of the worship of Ohomono Nushi at the sacred site of Mt. Miwa, while Nagaochi was to continue the worship of the spirit of the country, Ohokunitama, but we aren’t told where—possibly worshipping him, in his aspect as the soul of the country, at the royal palace itself.  We don’t tend to hear much from him, however, and it is quite clear that Ohotataneko and the cult of Mt. Miwa take pride of place.

So we see here a great pestilence and a lawless time—that could explain the descriptions of the archipelago given to us by the Wei Chronicles, which indicate that before Himiko there was some kind of disturbance, though those seem to have been going on for a much longer time, in the later half of the 2nd century.  So I see little reason not to think that this was a plague of some kind—though even then it seems to have run its course rather quickly.  More likely than not, the dates are not trustworthy, as there would have been nothing written down about this in the archipelago at the time, and so it simply remembers a tumultuous times and the resulting consolidation afterwards—in this case around the cult of Mt. Miwa.  And of course we do have some sizeable buildings around the base of Mt. Miwa, especially over in Makimuku, which we discussed earlier, and this is one of the reasons that this reign is assumed to be properly around the 2nd or 3rd century.

There is also mention that the court set up other religious institutions at this time.  They set up shrines to both the Heavenly and the Earthly deities, and I wonder if that didn’t represent merging two different religious traditions into one.  The Heavenly Precious Symbols that had been given to Nigi Hayahi were enshrined at the newly established shrine of Isonokami, the ancestral shrine of the Mononobe family in the district of Yamabe.  They also set up red-painted shields and spears and offered them to the god of Sumisaka, in Uda, while Black shields and spears were offered to the deity of Ohosaka, all based on another prophetic dream, though this one is less well explained.

Religious events at this time seem to have been quite the affair.  An example is given when a brewer offered to make sake for the god of Mt. Miwa—Ohomono Nushi.  The offering was made in a huge celebration, where it appears the sovereign and his court partied throughout the night—or at least so it was implied in their drunken songs, where they threw open the morning doors of the Hall of Miwa.  It must have been quite the kegger, to receive its own mention in the Chronicles.

But life at this time wasn’t entirely about getting drop-dead drunk with your favorite mountain kami.  There were more secular matters to attend to.  Whether it was due to the disturbances caused by the years of pestilence, or whether the archipelago just hadn’t been quite subdued, yet, Mimaki Iri-biko decided to send forth four generals to pacify any wild and unruly areas.  Oho Hiko—the Great Prince, and the sovereign’s own uncle, went North to the Koshi region, along the Japan Sea coast.  His son, Take Nukawa Wake was sent eastward along the Eastern Sea Path—what would one day become the famous Tokaido—to subdue the east.  Meanwhile, Isaseri Hiko, aka Kibi tsu Hiko—the Prince of Kibi—may have in fact taken his name from the fact that we went along the Western road, by the Seto Inland Sea, to subdue the land of Kibi and the other areas to the West.  Finally, Tamba no Chi-Nushi, whose name I can only assume refers to the fact that he was—or at least he would become—the Lord of the Land of Tamba, went northwest, to subdue the land of the same name.  Together, these four are known as the Shidou-Shougun, aka the Yotsu no Michi no Ikusa no Kimi, or the Generals of the Four Roads.

Now Oho-hiko, the Great Prince, seems to have been the first one out the gate—well, at least in the Nihon Shoki, but we’ll get to that. So Oho-hiko starts his trip towards Koshi, but doesn’t get very far when he meets a woman in a koshi-mo, a waist skirt, and she is singing some sort of song.  The song implied that someone was coming to kill the sovereign, Mimaki Iri-biko, which made Oho Hiko understandably curious—what was some woman in the countryside doing singing a song about the death of the ruler of Yamato?  Clearly something wasn’t right.  When he interrogated her about the song, she claimed that it was just a song, and nothing special, and then she wandered off.

Oho Hiko was a bit unnerved at all this and decided to turn around and head back to the palace.  He told them about the woman and the song.  One can imagine the court listening to the tale, and following with worried nods among the assembled members of the court.  It seems to have been the belief—at least in later times, when this story was transferred to a written record—that this kind of spontaneous song could arise as an omen.  Perhaps the kami were inspiring the song, or perhaps it was simply considered a natural reaction to events of great importance.  Either way, it garnered a fair amount of attention.  The court’s resident shaman, Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime listened to his story, and she eventually deciphered its meaning.  Take Haniyasu Hiko, son of the Kunikuru and Oho Hiko’s half-brother, uncle to the current sovereign, and nephew to Totohi Momoso Hime, apparently had designs on the throne.  He seems to have had a royal lineage, just as Mimaki Iri-biko had, but his brother, Mimaki Iri-biko’s father, had succeeded to the throne instead.  Now it looked as if he had enough.  After all, in the current reign, hadn’t there already been a plague and the deaths of who knows how many people, followed by rebellion and disorder?  On the continent, those would be pointed to as events indicating that the sovereign had lost the Mandate of Heaven, or the right to rule.  But even though they were in contact with the mainland, there is no clear indication that such theories were being practiced at this time.  No, more likely this was simply a case of opportunity knocking, and Take Haniyasu Hiko decided that he should be the one in charge, and not his nephew.

This may not have been a great spiritual leap.  Totohi Momoso Hime apparently had heard rumors that Haniyasu’s wife, Ata Bime, had secretly made her way into Yamato to steal earth from the sacred Mt. Kagu.  She had wrapped the earth in her hiré—a long, scarf-like piece of fabric, worn primarily by women—and then, whispering over it the words “This earth represents the Land of Yamato”, she turned it upside down, which as we’ve already seen several times, is a form of a curse.  Mt. Kagu, of course, had been the mountain that Iware Biko sent men to get earth from to make clay vessels for his rites before conquering the region, and even further back in the Chronicles, the Heavenly duplicate of Mt. Kagu, Ame no Kaguyama, played a key role in the preparations to lure Amaterasu Ohokami out of the Heavenly Rock Cave.  It was clearly important in the chronicles, and indeed it is one of the three mountains of Yamato, known as the Yamato Sanzan, which were within the city limits of Temmu’s capital Fujiwara-kyo, along with Mt. Unebi and Mt. Miminashi.

Knowing that Take Haniyasu Hiko, who had been residing in the ancient state of Yamashiro, wished him ill, Mimaki Iri-biko called back his four generals and their forces.  Sure enough, shortly after doing that, Take Haniyasu and his wife arrived with their forces.  Apparently they had split their forces, and were coming from different directions, intending to meet up and then march on the palace.  Isaseri Hiko was sent out to meet the forces coming from the direction of Ohosaka, led by Ata Bime, and to stop them before they could join up.  Now, it is unclear just how many soldiers made up an “army” in these early days.  Certainly we know that later battles would often be exaggerated, and 20 or 50 soldiers would become 200 or even 2000.  We do know that they were on foot—horses had not arrived in the archipelago, it seems—though there are some who claim they had.  Regardless, they do not appear to have been significant in their numbers, so we can assume that these soldiers marched across the land on foot.  Soldiers were likely responsible for their own arms and armaments, which may have varied from person to person.  Unfortunately we just don’t have a lot of information on these earliest soldiers, and whether they went to war clad in metal or wood, though perhaps most wore no real armor at all.   Whatever they may have looked like, the two armies eventually clashed, and Ata Bime was killed, and her force was wiped out.

Against her husband, Take Haniyasu Hiko, were sent Oho Hiko and another, Hiko Kunibuku, ancestor of the Wani no Omi.  They stopped briefly, near the start of their campaign, at the slope of Takasuki, in the Wani district, and there they planted jars into the earth and conducted a ritual of some sort.  Whether the jars were left empty or whether they were filled with some sort of offering, such as rice or sake, we are not told, but it seems to have been an important ritual to appease the gods and pray for a successful campaign.  It may also have had something to do with delineating boundaries and seeking safe passage across them.  Later the forces headed for Kibi and the Western Road would perform a similar ritual.

Having made their spiritual preparations for the battles to come, Oho Hiko and Hiko Kunibuku continued north, eventually arriving at the Wakara River, where they met Take Haniyasu and his forces.  Separated by the water, and no doubt cognizant on both sides that the first to attempt to cross would be subject to attack in a weakened position, the forces glared at one another across the waves, and issued challenges towards each other.  Finally, Hiko Kunibuku suggested that Take Haniyasu take the first shot with a ceremonial arrow.  These would have likely been hummingbulb arrows, or an early version of them, much as the arrow that Susanowo had shot into the field and told Ohonamuchi to go and retrieve.  The sound of the arrow in the air was said to call down the attention of the kami, much like ringing the bell at a shrine.  This tradition, whenever it started, would inspire generations of warriors to come, even though the samurai, as we know them, were still centuries off.

Take Haniyasu fired the first arrow, and it no doubt whistled gloriously across the water, but in the end, it missed.  And so it was Kunibuku’s turn.  His arrow found its mark, and immediately struck Take Haniyasu square in the chest, killing him.  Their raison d’etre for going to war having fallen in the first exchange, Haniyasu’s forces broke, and began to fall apart.  At this, Oho Hiko and Kunibuku pressed their advantage and charged across the river, attacking the fleeing soldiers.  They say that the enemy forces were so frightened they literally defecated in their own trousers, such that the ford there on the Wakara River became known as Kusobakama, which later became simply Kusuba.  The Yamato forces wouldn’t let up, and it is said that they cut down the enemy such that their bodies floated on the river like cormorants.  Finally, when there was no more fighting to be done, the forces returned triumphantly back to Yamato.

With the threat of Take Haniyasu out of the way, one suspects that there may have been great celebrations and feasting, but if so, it goes unmentioned in the chronicles.  Rather, they take a more somber tone, as it seems the celebrations may have been short-lived.  The sovereign’s great-aunt, the shaman who had helped discern the meaning of the song, and before that had interpreted the will of the kami on how to stop the great plague, Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime, died.

Now this story is found in the Nihon Shoki, and in it they tell of how Totohi Momoso Hime had, in fact, become the wife of Ohomono Nushi no Kami, the god of Mt. Miwa.  Ohotataneko may have been in charge of his worship, but it is clear that she enjoyed a special relationship with him.  The god of the mountain would come to her chambers in the night, always in darkness, and thus they would have their liaisons.  This kind of assignation would become a common romantic trope, with men visiting women at night in their chambers and slipping out before the sun rose. 

One night, Totohi Momoso Hime asked Ohomono Nushi if he couldn’t stay until it was light out, so that she could actually see his face—remember, there was no electricity, and there would have only been firelight to see by in the dark of the night.  I would also note that, at least in Heian times, there was special significance to a man staying quote-unquote too long at his lover’s house—the poetry of the time is filled with the concept of dew drenched sleeves, indicating, among other things, that the man has stayed—gasp!—too long and the dew has already condensed in the early morning air.  So here is Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime asking Ohomono Nushi to stay “too long” as well, so that she may get a clear look at him.

The kami of Mt. Miwa agrees, but warns her that she should not be alarmed when she sees him.  Rather, he would secret himself inside her toiletries case, and stay there until the morning.

Of course, this must have been somewhat puzzling, as such a case would have been far too small for any human to fit, but this is a kami we are talking about.  And so Totohi Momoso Hime went to sleep, and when she awoke the next morning, she found her toiletry case and opened it, just as she had been instructed.  As soon as she did so she beheld a beautiful little snake, or worochi, the length and thickness of a garment cord. 

Totohi Momoso Hime was shocked: Was this truly the god of Mt. Miwa, Ohomono Nushi, who had come to her each night?  And indeed it was, but Ohomono Nushi was embarrassed by her shocked reaction, he returned to his human form, and took his leave of her.

At once, Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime realized she had just made the biggest mistake of her life, and she knew she would never see him again.  She was so distraught that she flopped down onto a seat and grabbed a nearby chopstick, striking herself in her own genitals so hard that she died.

And so it was that there was much grieving throughout the realm.  She was so well thought of by both the people and the gods that they built for her an earthen mound in which she was to be buried.  Men worked on it by day, and the gods continued the work in the evening.  The stones came all the way from Ohosaka and were handed from one person to another, stretching from that mountain all the way across the Nara Basin to her tomb at the foot of Mt. Miwa.  This tomb, situated as it is at the foot of Mt. Miwa, does appear to have been built in the 3rd century, and it is known today as Hashihaka Kofun—so named for the way that Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime killed herself.

Now of course, this whole story brings up a lot of questions.  First and foremost:  is there a connection between this shaman, Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime, and the Queen, Himiko, who many believe is the actual occupant of that tomb?  Perhaps there was some memory of a female shaman, but if so, her story has been greatly changed, it would seem.  Certainly there isn’t much to directly marry up, one with the other.

This is the first time we really see a lot of work go into the burial mound.  In the other entries it is simply noted where they are buried, but the actual construction and burial practices are ignored, except in a few of the myths surrounding the stories of the heavenly and earthly kami.  The Kojiki also has a burial, but it is not for Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime, but rather for a prince who is simply known as Yamato Hiko, or Prince Yamato.  The Kojiki provides less about the actual building of the tomb, but more about another gruesome detail: the concept of the “hitogaki”, or “Human Wall.”  This is an idea that is found in the historical writings but which archaeological research has yet to fully corroborate, which states that in the early tomb burials there would often be servants or others who were sacrificed and entombed along with the ruler or other elite individual.  This is certainly a practice found on the continent, and as we’ve mentioned before, there are other accounts of human sacrifice found in the written record, but whether or not it was actually carried out is not fully clear.

We do know that round, cylindrical clay structures, known as Haniwa—literally clay rings—were placed on and around these mounded tombs, and later on the chronicles tell us that they were used in place of human sacrifice.  However, we find them fairly early on, and the story of their origin may be continental in nature, and could be related to the later haniwa, which were often topped with figures of humans, animals, and various objects from boats to shields to buildings.

Another theory suggests that these haniwa originally started out as something similar to the jars buried by Ohohiko and Kunibuku when they started out on their campaign, and may have been meant to mark a sacred border or boundary.  As far as I know, however, we have not found these haniwa deliberately placed like this outside of these monumental burials, so that theory has its own problems.  Regardless, it seems clear that these stories, at least, are from the Kofun Period, even if they may be mixed in with anachronistic details.  In fact, assuming we have our dating correct, it seems that haniwa may have still been in development:  Hashihaka Kofun actually has a type of cylindrical jar stand, as found on burials in the Kibi region, and which may have been the forerunner to the later Haniwa tradition.

Another feature of this story with the death of Totohi Momoso Hime is Ohomono Nushi’s appearance as a snake, or worochi.  You may note that this word for snake—worochi, rather than the more common modern word of “hebi”—is the same one found in the name of the giant beast slain by Susanowo, Yamata no Worochi.  There also is the description of his size and shape like that of a garment cord, which draws to mind the story of Ikutamayori Bime, the mother of Koto Shiro Nushi, and supposed ancestor of Ohotataneko.  You may recall that she was visited by Ohomono Nushi at night, inside a locked room, and when she left to be with him tere was the whole story about the red cord that they eventually follow from Chinu to Mt. Miwa.  There are many who propose that an early form of cultic worship in the archipelago saw snakes as the incarnation of the kami.  Certainly they are plentiful in the islands, and across the globe snakes have often been attributed supernatural powers.  Their ability to shed their skin led some cultures to think they knew the secrets to eternal life and constant rejuvenation.  And of course, it is a serpent who tempts Eve in the Judeo-Christian story or Genesis.  Finally there is the connection between snakes and wyrms or dragons—particularly in the Asian tradition: powerful, sinuous beings associated with water and rain—important for the harvest.

Truth be told, of course, there is no “smoking gun” on just what early worship looked like on the archipelago, and it likely varied from place to place—even today, different shrines in different regions can have quite divergent local practices and beliefs, outside of the core values and form of worship.  So this may have just been an expression of early beliefs and cultic practices of the Miwa cult, or it may have been part of something larger, we can’t be entirely sure.

After all, where is Himiko?  How does this jive with what we find in the Wei Chronicles or in the archaeological record.  There are too many inconsistencies for us to take this at face value, but it is a start.

There is a thought that Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime was Himiko.  Both are described as shamans—Himiko is said to have ruled through the “power of the spirits” and our princess here is certainly familiar with at least one.  Furthermore, the burial that is described would not have been for just anyone.  In this section of the chronicles there are maybe three women, total, for whom mounded tomb burials are mentioned, and of those, only Totohi Momoso Hime is not a Queen or Consort.

Personally, I think that the evidence is fairly strong that we may have found Queen Himiko, but there is nothing concrete to prove it.  But let me lay out a case, nonetheless.  Assuming we have a dual kingship model at this time, with a secular and spiritual ruler—something that could fit with the idea that Himiko ruled the land with the help of an unnamed “brother”—well, if that model is correct, then it is possible that Mimaki Iri-biko represents the other part of that ruling pair.  It could be that she was not his aunt at all, or that the Chinese chronicles misunderstood.  Certainly Makimuku has enough evidence to support that it was a major hub for various goods that were coming in from outside of the Nara Basin.  Furthermore, we should remember that the data the chronicles were relying on was already some 250 to 300 years old when it was written down the first time, and one of the major sources was a genealogical record.  I could see how, especially if patrilineal descent was considered important when the genealogies were written down, how Himiko—who seems to have not been married nor had any direct heirs—may have been written out of the genealogical history and only retained in an anecdotal fashion.

As to the missions to the Wei court, it seems clear that the Japanese did not write down or record any of that, and perhaps from their perspective it was not the most important and pressing concern.  The scribes did pull some of the text from the Wei Chronicles, but they used it in service of a much later sovereign, whose regnal dates in the Nihon Shoki more conveniently match the time period, even if her actions do not.  And there are plenty of times where we know that the people of the archipelago were much more interested in recording the activities in the archipelago itself rather than what was going on beyond its borders, and there are many times that we’ll need to look to an external source to see just what was going on.

We do know that there was a lot of activity in the southeastern Nara Basin, around the base of Mt. Miwa, and the myths, history, and court ritual that have survived all tell us that it was important for the early court.  Accounts such as that of Take Haniyasu Hiko may serve to show that there still wasn’t total, unquestioned hegemony, even within the Nara Basin itself.

Of course, as I’v said, we may never know.  As for the rulers before and after her mentioned in the Wei chronicles?  Nobody especially shows up that can be directly matched in a one-for-one fashion with any of them.

And so we’ll leave Queen Himiko here, for the most part.  We’ll assume we’ve moved on, until new evidence arises to retcon our understanding.   Next episode, we’ll continue with the story of the Four Generals and the ultimate pacification and the rest of Mimaki Iri-biko’s reign, and we’ll talk about the odd name he has, given his place as the 10th sovereign, at least according to the chronicles:  The August Founder of Yamato  We’ll also talk about what this so-called “state” looked like and delve a bit more into what we know about the political relationships.  Remember, we are only getting the stories that survived.  How many would-be hegemons and chieftains just never made it to the prime time and are therefore lost?  Keep that in mind as we continue.

But until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on topics from this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

This episode we will go through the first nine legendary sovereigns.  Having covered Iware Biko, aka Jimmu, in the last several episodes, the following eight sovereigns are likely completely fictional--possibly famous names in the stories of Yamato, they appear to have been placed here specifically to pad out the royal lineage and make it seem longer and more ancient than it was.  By the end of it all we should be approaching what we might at least recognize as something we can correlate with some actual dates, even if a lot of the details are still suspect.

As we quickly make our way through we will talk about some of the information we get from various names and talk about other things, such as the how they used to keep time.  

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-27

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 27: 9 Fictional Sovereigns, and 1 (Possibly) Real One!

Before we get started, a quick shout-out and thank you to Chad, Brian, and Daniel for donating to support the podcast.  If you would like to join them, you can donate over at ko-fi.com/sengokudaimyo.

Alright, everyone we are almost there—almost to a period where we can start verifying things against the historical record.  Since getting into the Chronicles we have been moving from the mythical into the legendary.  Soon we’ll at least be getting into the proto-historical period, but first we have a few entries of some of the legendary sovereigns to go over and we are literally going to just plow through them.  According to the Chronicles, this covers about 500 years of history, but as we already know, much of this information—let along the dating—is suspect.

So when last we talked, Iware Biko – the first Sovereign, aka Jimmu tenno - was governing the land from the court at Kashihara.  This court lasted for years, but it wasn’t to last forever.  After all, thanks to Ninigi and his judgmental views about women’s looks, the royal family—perhaps even all of humanity, depending on your reading of it—had only the time of a fleeting blossom here in the world. 

And so, eventually, Iware Biko passed away.  His wife and Queen, Hime Tatara Isuzu Hime, and his three sons—Tagishi Mimi, Yawi Mimi, and Nunagawa Mimi—immediately went into a period of seclusion and morning for their father.  Tagishi Mimi, the eldest of the three, had traveled with their father all the way from Himuka, in Kyushu, and had been with him throughout the conquest of Yamato.  During the Kashihara court he apparently had a hand in dealing with the administration of the government, as well.  Understandable, given who his father was.  As such, he had the most experience with the affairs of state, and so he continued in that role in the face of their father’s death.  No doubt, though, he must have been thinking about what would come next.  After all, he may be handling the affairs of state, now, and Tagishi Mimi was a son of Iware Biko, but not the Queen, Isuzu Hime.  His mother, Ahiratsu-hime, was simply noted as a wife or consort, but hadn’t been officially raised in status, and so her son, Tagishi Mimi, was apparently not eligible to succeed his father, and that may have rubbed him the wrong way.

The Chronicles describe it in stark terms:  They say that Tagishi Mimi had developed a “perverse disposition” and that he was “opposed to justice”.  Of course, his position at the court was powerful, but only until a new sovereign took the throne, and his half-brothers both had stronger claims, since they were sons through Iware Biko’s appointed queen.  It wouldn’t have helped any that there were no clear rules for succession early on.  There was clearly no hard and fast rule of primogeniture, so one’s birth order was not the most important factor in determining legitimacy.  Furthermore, there is no indication that Iware Biko issued any statement clearly designating one of his sons as heir, or Crown Prince.

It is perhaps for these very reasons that we are told that Tagishi Mimi was considering fratricide—he was plotting to murder his own brothers, which would have left him the sole heir to his father’s position.  It is a dark story, but one that is hardly unique in human history.

Plotting must have still been in its infancy at this time, though, because Iware Biko’s Queen, Isuzu Hime, uncovered his intentions.  It was apparent that if Tagishi Mimi found out that Isuzu Hime knew what he was plotting against her sons, he would come after her as well, so she decided to encode a warning for her sons into a song.  Sure enough, when her two sons heard the song, they instantly realized that Tagishi Mimi did indeed intend to seek their deaths, and so they resolved to stop him before he could carry out his plan.

First, they would need to prepare.  They reached out to various groups to help make the weapons they would need.  I’m not entirely sure why, mind you, unless Tagishi Mimi was some kind of werewolf or something.  I mean, I assume they could have pulled a bow and some arrows out of storage somewhere, as one suspects they had them for hunting, at least, if not their own conflicts with other people on the archipelago.  Where were all the weapons from dear old dad’s earlier conquests?  Still, this is helpful in the way that they describe at least three parts of the process, with the making of a bow, arrowheads, and the actual arrows all considered separate crafts.

The groups they contacted  for these jobs were familial associations, or “Be”—kinship groups dedicated to a particular product or otherwise supporting a particular location or activity.  We’ve touched on these groups briefly in past episodes - they may or may not have descended from a single remote ancestor, but they were classified as a single clan or uji.  In this case Tagishi Mimi’s brothers reached out to the Yumi-Be—the Bow Makers—the Kanuchi, or Smiths, of Yamato, and the Ya-Be, or Arrow makers.  And so Yumibe no Wakahiko was commissioned to make a special bow, while Ama tsu Maura of the Yamato no Kanuchi was requested to make several metal arrowheads.  Finally, the Ya-be were contacted and asked to make the actual arrows—the haft and fletchings, and no doubt attaching the arrowheads. 

Armed as they now were with their bespoke bow and arrows, the two brothers looked for their opportunity and soon found it.  They learned that their half-brother was taking a break, resting on a couch in a muro, or building of some kind, in Kataoka.  Working together, the younger brother, Nunagawa Mimi, who was still no spring chicken, would throw open the door, and Yawi Mimi would take the bow and arrows and kill their brother.

And everything seemed to be going to plan.  They crept up on the muro, and as it had been arranged ahead of time, Nunagawa Mimi quickly opened the door, providing his brother a clear shot.  And yet, instead of firing, Yawi Mimi hesitated.  Perhaps he had never been to war, or perhaps it was simply the thought of killing his own half-brother that made him balk.  Regardless, Yawi Mimi was overcome with anxiety, and his hands started to shake, so that he could barely hold the bow, let alone nock and loose an arrow.

That hesitation might have put an end to it, except for Nunagawa Mimi’s quick reflexes.  Noticing his brother’s distress, Nunagawa Mimi reached over and grabbed the weapons from him and immediately shot at their brother.  One arrow caught Tagishi Mimi in the back and the other caught him in the chest.  And that was the end of Tagishi Mimi.

With their half-brother dead, Yawi Mimi turned to his younger brother, Nunagawa Mimi, and quickly submitted.  He was ashamed that he had hesitated at a crucial moment, but clearly Nunagawa Mimi had not, and because of that they and their kingdom were saved.  Yawi Mimi concurred that it should be Nunagawa Mimi who ascended the throne and succeeded their father.

And that is what he did.  Nunagawa Mimi, known by the 7th century as Suizei Tennou, ascended the throne some three or four years after his father passed away.  At that time he also started a tradition that would continue for many generations to come—he moved the palace from Kashihara to a place called Katsuraki, where he is believed to have built the Takaoka palace.  This is something that would mark most of the reigns in the Chronicles—each new sovereign would ascend to the throne and almost immediately—sometimes before their father’s tomb was even completed—they would move the court to a new location.

So although this is still considered a mythical account, this idea of changing the palace and moving the entire court was something that was clearly documented well into the historical period.  It is often assumed that the death of the previous sovereign somehow polluted the old buildings, and so a new palace would be erected in a new location, without any of the taint of death or the old regime.

Of course, there may be other reasons for the move as well—political as well as ritual.  The court could be moved to get away from a particular lord or family who had grown particularly powerful in a given region.

It does seem like quite a lot of work to build a new palace each time a new sovereign is installed, but then there is a bit of a question as to what exactly this entailed.  Early on, for example, the palace may have been little more than a single building, and given these people’s ability to erect large, mounded tombs, they surely had the manpower.  You may also recall that the “Palace” of Ohonamuchi, up in Izumo, was one building on nine pillars.  It is possible that a “Palace” was simply a larger building, but still nothing like the Forbidden City or Versailles.  

This tradition continued until they started building permanent capitals—and even then it took some time before even the permanent capitals were truly permanent.  In fact, most of the Sovereigns are often known in the Fudoki and similar literature not by their names, nor by their posthumous names, but by the name of their palace.  So Iware Biko might be known as the Kashihara Sovereign, and thus Nunagawa Mimi might be known as the Takakura Sovereign, etc.

Speaking of which, let us return to his story.

Now of course, Nunagawa Mimi had other business to attend to besides just moving buildings.  For one thing, he raised his mother, Iware Biko’s Queen, up to the position of Queen Dowager, and he made his own wife Queen in the following year.  There are several different names and lineages given as to who this queen might been, but the orthodox view seems to be that this was Isuzu Yori Bime, who was also a daughter of Koto Shiro Nushi, just as the previous queen had been, making her, in fact, Nunagawa Mimi’s own aunt.  Of course, this was nothing new for the royal family—you may recall that Ugaya Fukiaezu , son of Hiko Hohodemi, also ended up married to his own mother’s sister.  In fact, based on at least the lives of the next 8 sovereigns or so, it would seem that it was not uncommon to keep things “in the family”, at least in theory.

Nunagawa Mimi and his Queen had a son, Shiki tsu Hiko Tama-demi, born around the same time that the older brother, Yawi Mimi, passed away.  A couple decades later, this son was made Crown Prince—even though he seems to have been the only remaining legitimate son to inherit.

As for the actual policies of Nunagawa Mimi’s court, there is even less information for Nunagawa Mimi than there was for his father, Iware Biko.  We are told that he possessed the “vigor of manhood”, even as a child, and that as an adult his form was gigantic.  We are also told he excelled in warlike accomplishments, but other than the incident with his half-brother, we have no clear information on any specific campaigns, battles, or conquests—not even some fanciful tale woven into the narrative.

And yet, this is still more than we get for the next several sovereigns in the Chronicles.  Honestly the next seven entries are an almost formulaic construction, at least in the Nihon Shoki—you could probably get an AI to write them for you.  Each entry goes something like this:

First, they mention the sovereign and their parentage, usually with an extra detail thrown in on the maternal side of the line.  They mention when they were made Crown Prince, and then go into the details of their reign.  They ascend the throne, they move the palace to a new location, they name the previous Queen as Queen Dowager, they raise up a Queen of their own and then it mention their children.  One of their sons is named Crown Prince, and then they die.  Typically they also mention where the misasagi, or royal tomb, of the previous sovereign was built, and they might add details about the descendants of those princes who did not become rulers, themselves.  That’s about it.  No great works of state.  No huge cultural changes. 

The Kojiki and the Kyujiki follow a similar pattern, with some minor differences.  The Kojiki is much less concerned with specific dates, though it does touch on when things happened in relation to one another and there is one major event, which we’ll get to, that the Kojiki mentions during the reign of the sovereign known as Kourei.  The Kyujiki, unsurprisingly, includes details about the ministers at court, since the ministers were largely descended—or so they claim—from Umashimaji.  Beyond that, the Kyujiki and the Kojiki are also highly concerned with the areas of genealogy, sometimes going into considerable depth on the various “begats”—who begat whom, etc.  Which isn’t to say that the Nihon Shoki ignores it, mind you, but the other two chronicles seem much more focused on those details.

For our part, I am going to try to get through this pretty quickly.  It is going to be a lot of names, and information, but it’s included more so that we can see some patterns and similarities, such as in the names of these supposed sovereigns.  In addition, almost every Queen in the Nihon Shoki for these records has several alternative accounts as to her name and parentage, and I’ll try to touch on some of that but not all of it. I don’t want to overwhelm you.  After all, the text of the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki are easily available online in Japanese and English—I recommend the Japanese Historical Text Initiative, myself, but you can likely find it elsewhere as well. 

There may indeed be some scholarly value to be gleaned from going through all of these various names and trying to draw a deep web of name elements, family mentions, and apparent relationships that could generate an interesting network diagram of who’s who in these narratives, but that is a little more than I intend for this podcast.  There are a few things I do want to look at, though—some of the more obvious things that pop out to me as we go through these records, but it still won’t be with quite the depth that a more scholarly treatment might give it, and it is mostly my own impressions as I read through the sources.

So we’ll just touch briefly on each of the sovereigns in order.  I’m not going to bother with their regnal dates, because those are undoubtedly fictitious, but I still think it is useful to note who they are in the chronicles, where their palace was located, their Queen—at least according to the Nihon Shoki—and the supposed location of their tomb, or misasagi.  Most of these locations—both the tombs and the palace sites—are within a 2~4 hour walk from one another, and that gives us an area that apparently the Chroniclers, at least, thought was important to the founding of the state—though whether that was because of actual historical facts or because they were justifying the current court’s location, you can decide for yourself.  For each one I’ll give you their quote-unquote “real” name—which itself may be more of an ancient title than a straightforward name, as we might have one, and my personal reading of it.  I’m leaving off a lot of the honorifics—while culturally important, I’m not sure that they are necessary for comprehension and for the most part these names are long enough as it is.  Some of these, such as “Sumera no Mikoto”, aka “Tennou”, are definitively not part of the early Japanese title system and therefore truly don’t apply until the 7th century or so.  I’ll also give you the posthumous names, which were also something that was instituted in a much later time, but is also how most of these sovereigns are known and referenced today, in the same way that Iware Biko is more commonly referred to as Jimmu.  Besides “Suizei” is just so much simpler than “Kami Nunagawa Mimi”, so I definitely see the appeal.

Also, I should note that there are not only slight differences between the names of people between the different Chronicles, but there are also differences in the way that they have been represented by different translators, so I’m going to primarily refer to the names as they are in Aston’s translation of the Nihon Shoki, to hopefully provide some level of consistency, except of course for those characters who don’t appear in the Nihon Shoki.

So first, after Iware Biko, the posthumously named “Jimmu Tenno”, is Kami Nunagawa Mimi, which I interpret as the Divine Lord of Nunagawa, aka Suizei Tenno.  As I mentioned earlier, his court was at the Takaoka palace in Katsuraki, which would put it due west of Kashihara.  His queen was Isuzu Yori Bime, his own aunt and daughter of Koto Shiro Nushi, though some records also have Kawa Mata Bime or Itori Hime—whether these are truly different people or just different names for the same person I couldn’t reasonably say as there isn’t enough information.  His tomb is said to be on Tsukida Hill, in Kataoka.

Next up is sovereign #3, Shiki tsu Hikio Tamademi, that is to say Tamademi, the Prince of Shiki, aka Annei Tennou.  His palace is said to have been between the previous two and a bit north—it was the Ukiana palace of Katashiho.  His queen was Nunaso Hime, also known as Nunasoko Naka tsu Hime, a granddaughter of Koto Shiro Nushi, this time.  Others say she was Kawa tsu Hime, daughter of the local chieftain of Shiki, or Itoi Hime, daughter of Ohoama no Sukune.  Another record suggests Akuto Hime, daughter of local Chieftain Haye, older brother to Kawa Mata Bime, which would make them, in the Kojiki at least, first cousins.  He is credited with several children beyond the Crown Prince, some of whom show up in later records as concubines of future sovereigns.  He is said to be buried in Mihodo no wi, south of Mt. Unebi.

The fourth sovereign was Ohoyamato Hiko Sukitomo—the Prince of Great Yamato, Sukitomo—aka Itoku Tenno.  His palace was either Magariwo or Sakaioka in Karu, south of Kashihara.  His Queen was Amatoyo tsu Hime, daughter of Okiso Hime (or Okiso Mimi), while other sources note daughters of the local chieftains of Shiki. He was buried in Manago or Masago valley, south of Mt. Unebi.

The fifth sovereign was Mima tsu Hiko Kayeshine—Kayeshine, the Prince of Mima, aka Koushou Tennou.  His palace was Ikegokoro of Wakigami, though the Kojiki has it as the Wakigami palace of Katsuraki.  As with the others, it appears to be an area in the at southwest corner of the Nara basin.  His queen was Yoso Tarashi Hime, who was related to the Owari no Muraji.  Other sources have Nunaki tsu Hime, daughter of a local chieftain of Shiki or Ohowi Hime, daughter of Toyoaki Satawo of Yamato province.  Kayeshine has two interesting tidbits in his entry.  The first is that his coronation was the first time in the Chronicle that the eldest son actually ascends the throne—all the other sovereigns either had older brothers or were an only child.  Clearly birth order was only so important in determining who could inherit the throne.  Then there is the odd note about his burial.  You see, for some reason, the Nihon Shoki places his burial some 37 years after his death, which is ludicrous.

I mean, yes, there is some evidence that official burials didn’t happen immediately, and we have evidence of burials that seem to have been placed months or years after the person died, but nothing approaching 37 years.  What would they have done with the body during that time?  Just leave it in the “temporary mourning hut”?  There were capital cities that didn’t last even 16 years, let alone 37. 

And this isn’t even just some innocent typo.  Given its placement in the narrative it would seem that the scribes actually did think that he was buried many years after he had passed away.  It is possible that this is a consequence of the strange chronology that we have going on here—the same way that these reigns seem to be awfully long.  I would propose that it could be something else.  We have seen evidence of secondary burials, and maybe this reflects that tradition.  Or perhaps the story originally reflected some kind of abdication, and he actually died much later, after his son took the throne.  Or the Kyujiki is correct and he was buried just a year after his death and the Nihon Shoki just got it wrong.

And I realize I’m arguing here about a fictional account, but there still is some idea that this may have come from some important story or legend on the archipelago that was being used to fill the space in the royal lineage.  Still, I think these are interesting, myself.

So anyway, where were we?  Ah, yes:  Suizei, Annei, Itoku, and Koushou.

Following Koushou, aka Kayeshine, is Yamato Tarashi Hiko Kuni Oshibito, aka Kouan Tenno.  Now, to be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure how to parse this name.  “Yamato” is pretty much a common name element moving forward, and “Tarashi” appears to have been an early title or rank that we find in the names of both men and women, such as in the name of the Queen Mother, Yoso Tarashi Hime, so Yamato Tarashi Hiko would appear to reference a royal prince of Yamato.  But the Kuni Oshibito?  This seems to refer to a person of the country.  His brother, by the way, is listed as Ama Tarashi Hiko Kuni Oshibito, with the only difference being “Ama” (like all of the Heavenly Deities) and “Yamato”, referring to the country. 

By the way, interesting side note: at this point “Yamato” is often glossed with the character for “Wa” or “Wo”, and sometimes it is prefixed by the character Oho, or Big, so you get “Daiwa” or “Ohoyamato”.  It was common for states in East Asia to use the term “Great” in front of their name:  like the Da-Qin, the Da-Han, or the Da-Tang, so that appears to be just another example of following continental patterns.

It would also explain why Daiwa, today—with the character “peace” substituted for the derogatory “Wo” character”—is most commonly glossed as “Yamato”, referring to the Japanese state.  It all goes back to early on and how they Japanese adopted the Sinitic writing for their own purposes.

Anyway, sorry for the diversion, but as I said, I’m not entirely sure what the name refers to.  Nonetheless, we are still told that he set up his palace of Akitsushima in Muro, which would seem to be even further to the southwest.  Oshibito apparently took to wife the daughter of his older brother, which is to say his own niece, Oshi Hime—though once again, other sources claim it was Naga Hime, another daughter of the local chieftain of Shiki or Isaka Hime, daughter of Isaka Hiko, the local chieftain of Tohochi.  He was eventually buried in a tomb on Tamade Hill.

Kouan was followed by Kourei, aka Ohoyamato-neko Hiko Futoni, who dwelt in the palace of Ihodo in Kuroda, in the land of Yamato—that is, the Nara Basin.  Here we see a new construction—Yamato (or Ohoyamato) Neko.  And no, this doesn’t mean that they were a line of cats on the throne.  Rather, this construction appears in several sovereigns’ names, and even shows up in an edict at one point, so Aston has suggested that it may have been the early title of the Yamato sovereigns.  So I guess this might be best translated as Royal Prince of Yamato, Futoni.  For his Queen he chose Hoso Bime, aka Kuhashi Hime, daughter of Ohome, the local chieftain of either Shiki or Tohochi.  Other records suggest Chichihaya Yamaka Hime of Kasuga or else Mashita Bime, another daughter of the local chieftain of Tohochi.

But now things start getting interesting, because Futoni not only raised up a Queen, but we are told that he had several other wives, designated simply as as consorts.  The implication seems to be that the children of these other wives would not hold the same legitimacy as the children of the Queen, just as we saw with Tagishi Mimi.  Nonetheless, we see a number of consorts in this reign, at least two of whom—Haye Irone and Haye Iroto—appear to be the daughters of the Third sovereign, Tamademi. 

Okay, so we’ve already seen that they are trying to keep this family tree on the straight and narrow, if you get my meaning, but according to the dates in the Nihon Shoki, they both must have been at least 200 years old by this point.

The children of these bi-centenarians will be of particular interest later, however.  The first is Yamato Totohi Momoso Hime.   She will be featured later in the story of Mt. Miwa.  In fact, though, we’ve already talked about her, some, as she is supposedly the one buried in Hashihaka Kofun, which is also believed by many to actually be the resting place of Queen Himiko.  This has sparked the suggestion that Yamato Totohi Momoso HIme and Queen Himiko are, in fact, the same person.  And, as we’ll get to soon enough, we are getting up to about the right time frame—though of course the Chronicles only claim that Totohi Momoso Hime was a princess, not a sovereign.

Another figure from this period is her brother, Hiko Isaseri, aka Kibi tsu Hiko, or the prince of Kibi.  We’ll talk more about him in a later reign, but you might know him by another name—a fanciful name that often occurs in a famous children’s story:  Momo Taro.  Okay, okay, he may not have emerged miraculously from a peach, but it is thought that a story about his military exploits laid the groundwork for what would become the popular fable.

There are four other siblings in the bunch, not including the future sovereign, so we won’t go into all of them. Instead, we’ll just leave off with Futoni’s tomb in Mumazaka (or possibly Umasaka) at Kataoka.

The eighth sovereign is Ohoyamato-neko Kunikuru, or the Royal Prince of Yamato Kunikuru, aka Kougen Tenno.  His court was at the Sakaibara palace back in Karu again.  His queen was said to be Uchi Shiko Me, sister of Uchi Shiko Wo, the ancestor of the Hozumi no Omi, and, according to the Kyujiki, one of the descendants of Umashimaji.  Like his father, he had several consorts, and various children by them.  One of them was actually the niece of his Queen, Ika Shiko-me, daughter of Utsu Shiko Wo.  And though we don’t get into a full list, apparently many families traced their roots back to this particular sovereign.  When he died it is said he was buried in a tomb on the island in Tsurugi pond.

Finally, for this episode, at least, we have the ninth sovereign:  Waka Yamato-neko Hiko Ohohihi, The Young Royal Prince of Yamato, Ohohihi, aka Kaika Tenno.  His court met at the Isakaha palace in Kasuga, and in keeping with the idea that genetics are best kept in the family, he apparently raised up Ika Shiko-me, his cousin/stepmother, as his Queen, and then took several consorts, including Mima tsu Hime, Oke tsu Hime, and Washi Hime.  Besides the crown prince, he, too, sired several children, including Hiko Imasu.  Hiko Imasu would eventually be one of the Four Generals, the Shidou Shogun, along with Ohokibitsu HIko.  It is said that Ohohihi was eventually buried at the Sakamoto tomb at Isakaha in Kasuga, near the supposed sight of his palace building.

And that takes us through the first nine sovereigns.  Of course, I keep saying it, but I’ll say it one more time:  These are all believed to be fictional.  Certainly the dates are fictional, and we have no corroborating evidence regarding any of these individuals beyond the other 8th century chronicles written near the same time, but certainly with shared source material.

So what does all this mean?  And why do we bother with it?  If it is all just made up, why not ditch it and move on to the good stuff?

Well, first of all, though I believe these entries to be fictional in terms of the royal lineage, that doesn’t mean that everything about them was just made up.  Certainly there are some details that would seem to have required at least some massaging to make them fit, but I suspect that these represent some attempt at veracity.  It has been suggested that some of these may have been important chieftains who were then fit into the royal line of Yamato, perhaps because of their importance to individuals in the court or their exploits.  Certainly, at a glance, Nunagawa Mimi, Shiki tsu Hiko, and Mima tsu Hiko all sound to me like princes of specific areas, since they don’t carry the Yamato Hiko name, let alone the Yamato Neko elements.

It strikes me that that some of these stories could also represent some of the co-rulers, assuming we trust the dual kingship model.  Could the conflict between Tagishi Mimi and Nunagawa Mimi represent some kind of conflict between co-rulers, whether or Yamato or elsewhere on the archipelago?  Or is it just simply your standard sibling rivalry and jockeying for power and position. 

Another consideration: it could be that some of the Queens mentioned were more than just wives and mothers.  Certainly we see the importance of marriage diplomacy to tie in other lineages with the line of the royal house, but I can’t help but wonder if, at least in some cases, it wasn’t the woman who was originally the more important of the two, but that is unfortunately a hard point to prove.

And of course, we must remember that while we have examples of Sinitic writing from early on in the archipelago, there doesn’t seem to be evidence for any kind of local written culture until some time in the 7th century.  There are occasional inscriptions and characters here and there, but it would appear that most of these stories would have been passed down through an oral tradition among professionals like the Katari-be. 

Because of this, I largely discount the locations of the palaces and the early tomb mounds, myself.  It really feels like the fact that they’re all located in the Southwest corner of the Nara Basin is more related to the location of the court at the start of the 8th century rather than anything else.

There are a few things that stand out though, in the collection of everything, besides just the locations of the palaces and the tombs.  For instance, it is remarkable how many of the Queens—and even one sovereign—are tied in the Chronicles to the local lords of Shiki or of Tohochi.  You may recall that we encountered the land of Shiki during Iware Biko’s conquest of Yamato.  In fact, it was Shiki the Elder and Shiki the Younger whose forces were originally covering the village of Iware, and it was the younger chieftain of Shiki who had supported Iware Biko against his own brother, much as had happened in Ukashi, earlier.  In the Nihon Shoki, these are all written with the same characters for “Shiki”, which would seem to indicate something important about that area—which is understandable since the district of Shiki occupied much of the Nara basin, including those areas identified through archaeological remains as the primary location for the founding of the Yamato state. 

Tohochi I have less on to this point, though we will encounter it later in the chronicles.  It would appear to be a part of Shiki—perhaps carved off at a later date, though I’m not seeing it as an ancient district in the same way.  There was certainly a family that traced their lineage back to the local chieftains of Tohochi, though.

And we should touch on one more thing, something I’ve talked about but is going to be important, soon enough, and that is the dates.  Now it should be clear that dates such as “660 BCE” do not appear anywhere in the Chronicles.  Of course they weren’t dating their Chronicles based on some Christian practice.  Rather, dates were tied to the reigns of the sovereign, so we get things like “In the first year of his reign” or “In the 26th year of his reign”.  This is similar to the system used on the continent, particularly among the Sinitic kingdoms, though I want to caution that it is hardly unique to that region, or even Asia.  Many people used these kinds of regnal dates to record historical events, which is useful for localizing the event to a particular era, but less helpful when you want to report it out against the broad canvas of history.  That’s why various charts have been drawn up to match up the regnal dates to the Western calendar.  This will get even more fun as we get into Nengou, where a ruler would decide to declare a new “era”, and start the counting all over again.  It also means that the last year of one reign is almost always the first year in another, which we recently encountered when the 31st year of Heisei became the first year of Reiwa with the recent  ascension of the new emperor in Japan.  Technically, Heisei 31 is a year with only four months (January through April), and Reiwa 1 is a year with only 8 months.  At least they planned the official change for midnight on May 1st, which is something of a blessing.

Now on top of all of this, there is another system used in dating that is not tied directly to these regnal dates.  This is the stems-and-branches, commonly known as the Chinese zodiac, though really it is more in depth than that.  You know when you go into some Chinese restaurants and they have the placemat with the twelve animals and each animal is associated with a year?  The Rat, Ox, Tiger, Hare, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Sheep, Monkey, Cock, Dog, or Boar?  Well, it is that system, except with an added twist, which is the five elements—known as the Gogyou or, in Mandarin, Wu-xing.   These are Fire, Water, Wood, Metal, and Earth.  They are arranged with the symbols from the zodiac for a total of 60 different combinations.

Every year is then associated with an element and an animal of the zodiac—or more a Heavenly Stem or an Earthly Branch.  There are technically 10 Heavenly Stems—each element being broken up into an “Elder” and “Younger” element—and then 12 Earthly Branches.  There is a lot more that could be said if we wanted to dive deep into Yin-Yang theory and various other ideas, but for now, it is enough to know about the cycle of sixty and that this could be applied to any timely cycle.  So, for instance, the day was broken up into 12, with each “Hour” being made up of roughly two hours on a modern clock.  Then the days would continue in cycles of 60, constituting roughly 2 months.  And then, finally, the years themselves would be marked in this way, making up 60 year cycles.

I do feel obligated to note that it is a little unclear as to just when the animals were associated with this cycle, and the characters used for these Stems and Branches do not actually reference the animals or elements they are said to represent, so that may be a later overlay or part of a mnemonic device to help remember them.  Nonetheless, I’ll refer to them that way so that it will hopefully be easier to follow, but students of Japanese history may want to look into this subject more deeply, as it pops up in all sorts of contexts, not just dates.

And the importance of all of this is that it gives us a second dating system.  Occasionally a stem-and-branch year is called out, like when Nunagawa Mimi and his brother Yawi Mimi learned about their half-brother’s intentions, that was a “Tsuchinoto-U” year of the cycle.  “Tsuchi no to” refers to a “Younger Brother of Earth” and “U” refers to the 4th Earthly Branch, commonly known as the Hare.  So this means it was a year of the Earth Hare.  Later we learn that the year that Nunagawa Mimi ascended, the first year of his reign, was a Kanoye-Tatsu year in the cycle, meaning that it was a year of the Fire Dragon, in modern parlance.

So anyway, overlaying this 60 year cycle on top of the reign dates helps us put things in order and works like something of a checksum to make sure that the dating is still accurate. 

Except for one thing.  This whole branch and stem system is clearly continental in origin, and as far as we can tell, no such system existed by the time of Himiko, and probably not until much later.  We may occasionally find references to it, often on items that came from the mainland, but there is no evidence that this was actually in use at the time.  In fact, some have theorized that the original yearly cycle in the archipelago was not based on a lunisolar construct at all.  That is to say, a year wasn’t based on a single cycle around the sun.  Rather, it has been suggested that in the early stories, the “years” were actually harvest cycles.  This is, after all, the cycle that would have been most important to the Yayoi agriculturalists, and you would have had two of them per year.  Suddenly, a reign of 80 years is now forty, and reign of 120 is only 60, which seems much more reasonable.

That said, years in the Japanese court by the time the Chronicles were written were clearly based on a solar year, give or take a few days to match up with the lunar cycles.  And the Heavenly Stem and Earthly Branch system that they applied had one other important feature that I should probably mention, and that has to do with auspicious and inauspicious years. 

This is something that we find even today.  In Shinto belief, certain years are better and certain are worse, and this largely comes from a person’s age—when they were born and where they are in the cycle.  But there were then cycles on top of that, and there was a general belief, at least by the 8th century, that certain years would naturally be years of great change and reform.  Just like the direction Iware Biko attacked from was important to his victory over Nagasune Biko and the conquest of Yamato, the year and timing of such events was important as well. 

So it became important to the chroniclers to understand and ensure that important historical events not only matched up with known dates and times, but that they matched up with the appropriate calendrical cycles, some of which went even beyond the simple 60 year cycle.  This is likely why Iware Biko’s conquest and enthronement were placed in the historical record in order to match up with an auspicious time for a great change – which would then be relatable, again, to great change in the 7th century.

Still, even if we know that these dates are generally fictional, they can still be useful in verifying accounts in the later records, and this is one part of the equation that some scholars, such as Boleslaw Szczesniak in the early 50s, used to try to correct the dating in the Chronicles—or at least the Nihon Shoki.  For instance, he judged that the events of the reign of the sovereign known as Oujin related to events described on a Stele from Koguryeo on the northern Korean peninsula, erected in 414 – and that the stele dates were almost precisely 120 years off—or two 60 year cycles – from the dates given in the Nihon Shoki.  By pulling Ojin’s reign forward by 120 years, it necessarily brings most of the rest of the accounts forward as well.  This alone would pull our records up from where they currently end, around 98 BCE, to something more akin to 22 CE.  If we assume similar corrections and changes—for example, many of the sovereigns have insanely long lifespans in the Chronicles that we should clearly shorten, then by the end of our 9th sovereign’s reign we are possibly into the latter half of the 2nd or early 3rd centuries, which is much more probable and matches up a lot better with what we see in the archeological record.

Which catches up with our next sovereign.  The 10th sovereign and, quite possibly, one whose story may finally have to do with events in an historical time frame.  Unfortunately, this episode is running long already, so we’ll get into his reign next episode, where we’ll talk about the enshrinement of Ohomononushi on Mt. Miwa, and about the Generals of the Four Roads, including Ohokibi tsu Hiko. 

Until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on topics from this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

This episode we go into some of the people and things around the court of Iware Biko, aka Jimmu Tennō.  We'll talk about his queen, Hime Tatara Isuzu Hime, as well as some of the members of his court, including Umashimaji--that son of the other Heavenly Descendant, Nigi Hayahi.

We'll also talk a little bit about what the kofun tell us about what early kingship may have actually looked like at this time.  Of course, then there is Jimmu's own kofun--or at least the kofun identified as Jimmu's.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-26

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 26:  The Court at Kashiwara .

So here we are: when we last left off, according to the Chronicles, Iware Biko, also known as Sano or Sanu, among other names, and later known as Jimmu Tennou, had marched from Kyushu onto the Nara Basin, where he and his army had defeated those who opposed him, and he had set up his palace at Kashiwara, at the foot of Mt. Unebi. Tradition places this at the site of Kashiwara Jingu—Kashiwara Shrine—at the southeastern foot of the mountain.  Meanwhile, the tomb attributed to Iware Biko sits due north—the Unebi Goryo—and we’ll talk a bit more about that later in this episode.

First off, this is going to be somewhat of a disconnected episode.  I want to cover some of the characters and situations around Iware Biko and take a look at the supposed court of this first sovereign.  This includes some stories that we didn’t really get into earlier, including the fantastical birth of his queen.  We will also cover a few other topics, including a look at what the early kofun tell us about the actual form of kingship during what we might consider the historical formation of Yamato—something for us to consider as we read through the rest of these Chronicles.  We’ll top it off with a discussion of the tomb that is claimed as Iware Biko’s final resting place.

To get started, though, let’s talk about Iware Biko’s latest significant other:  Himetatara Isuzu Hime.  The woman who would be his wife—despite any previous assignations back in Himuka—and  who would give birth to the next generation of sovereigns.  But  our story doesn’t start right after Iware Biko’s ascension to the throne—it actually goes back a little further, to her birth and is a little confused between the sources.  The first sovereign didn’t just find a wife—and then Queen—from any old background.  Who better for the sovereign’s first queen than the daughter of a god?  That’s right, Hime Tatara Isuzu Hime was no ordinary woman, but she was the son of a deity—one which we have already seen, though, which one is still at issue.

In the Nihon Shoki, as well as the Kujiki, the story features Kotoshiro Nushi, who was the son of Ohonamuchi.  He was the one who jumped off the boat after telling his father that they should submit to the will of Heaven, disappearing into an enclosure on the sea.  Well, the story has it that he transformed into a sea monster—specifically a kuma-wani, or Bear Sea Monster, though what this could be referring to is anyone’s guess.  John Bentley suggests that it simply meant a very large shark, but I like the idea of some kind of shark-bear hybrid, myself.

Anyway, apparently Himetatara Isuzu Hime’s mother, the daughter of Mishima no Mizokuhi had something of a bestial streak, because she and the shark-bear that was Kotoshiro Nushi somehow got it on, if you know what I mean, and produced two children, a boy and a girl.  The boy was Ame Hikata Kushi Hikata, and he served in the court of Iware Biko in the Kashiwara Palace, while Himetatara Isuzu Hime ended up married to the sovereign—not bad for the wife of a giant ocean bear, you know?

On the other hand, there is another story in the Kojiki.  In this one, the daughter of Mishima no Mizokuhi is referred to as Seya Tatara Hime.  She had been noticed by the god Ohomononushi of Miwa, and like Zeus gazing down on, well, just about anything, he became infatuated.  And so he did what anyone would do.  He took the form of a handsome young man, strolled down the mountain, and introduced himself.

Oh, wait, sorry.  Wrong story.  Right, instead of that, he transformed himself into a red painted arrow, waited until she was out in the fields relieving herself, and struck her in the genitals.  Because what exactly *is* consent, anyways?

Seya Tatara Hime had no idea what was going on.  She jumped up, looked around, and must have seen nobody, except for the offending arrow.  So she grabbed it and ran back home.  Once safely back in her own domicile, she placed the arrow near her bed, and it was at *that* point that Ohomononushi decided to take the form of a lovely young man.

The Chronicles only point out that the two than lay together—specifically that Ohomononushi took the maiden to wife—and that from that union was born a child.  She was named Hoto Tatara Isusuki Hime no Mikoto, which apparently referred to the whole incident in the fields and the arrow and… yeah.  Even the Chroniclers thought this was a bit much, which is why her name was changed to Hime Tatara Isukeyori Hime, or even just Iseukeyori Hime.

Obviously, these are both fantastical myths, but let’s take a look at what they tell us, nonetheless.

First, let’s take a look at the name:  Hime Tatara Isuzu Hime, or Hime Tatara Isukeyori Hime.  Isuzu and Isukeyori both have a similar root, and we could attribute their differences to the way they were handed down.  Isuzu uses the kanji for “50 bells”, but I don’t know if that had anything to do with the meaning.  Typically the Nihon Shoki is considered to be more trustworthy on this, and I personally wonder if the Kojiki isn’t mixing up some details with a later story—but we’ll get to that in time.

So both use the format Hime Tatara Isu-something Hime.  In both cases, it does appear that both the first and last “Hime” have the same meaning of “woman of the sun” or, more commonly translated as “princess”.  This seems to be not dissimilar from the construction we find with others, like Hiko Hohodemi.  Typically in Japanese names we expect the title to come later.  Such as Jimmu Tenno, Amaterasu Ohokami, Nagasune Biko, etc.  However, there does seem to be this common format earlier.  I haven’t seen an explanation on it, but it may have something to do with the mythical nature of these early stories.

As for the the “Tatara”, I’m not entirely sure where this comes from, but it is interesting that it shows up in both ….

Beyond that, though, there are the connections with Kotoshiro Nushi and his father, Ohomono Nushi.  So it provides the line of Iware Biko a connection to the Miwa cult—Ohomono Nushi being the deity of Mt. Miwa, and Kotoshiro Nushi being one of the eight deities charged with protecting the Yamato court. 

Beyond that, elements of the story may speak to the image of the shamaness in the ancient days:  Along with other stories we’ll encounter in the narrative, the idea that a female shaman would be “married” to the deity she worships seems not too far-fetched.  This interpretation would seem to suggest that the shaman would “consult” with the deity in privacy, but still, I’m unclear on just what this would mean.  Nonetheless, the idea that there was a special relationship between a shaman and their deity hardly seems unique to Japan, and there seem to be numerous stories surrounding Miwa of the deity basically seducing women and sleeping with them.

Of course, as for that Shark-bear things with Kotoshiro Nushi, I’m not sure what to say.  Other than sounding like the latest SyFy movie idea, I don’t know if we have anything else that explains it.  I mean, Japan *is* an island nation, and so stories with a connection to the sea are hardly surprising, and if we compare the story of Kotoshiro Nushi jumping off the boat into an enclosure on the water with one of Iware Biko’s brothers stepping off into the sea when they were stopped by the heavy seas, there are some parallels as in both cases they seem to have become sea monsters, or wani, of some kind, so perhaps there is some kind of basic story element there, but in this case there isn’t as direct a connection between the two events.

Whatever other purposes there may be in her story, the main role for Isuzu Hime appears to be to produce the next line of descendants of the Heavenly Grandchild, providing them even more connections to various divine lineages through her descent from the deity of Mt. Miwa—which also connects back through Susanowo and that whole Izumo Cycle—and also providing a local connection to the Yamato region, since Iware Biko was, after all, an outsider to the region.  This will become relevant to the next part of our story, since we now have two lineages—one through Iware Biko and Isuzu Hime and the other through Ahira tsu Hime —the wife he had taken back in Himuka.

Isuzu Hime’s children number either two or three depending on the chronicle.  They are:

•              Kamu Nunakawa Mimi no Mikoto

•              Hiko Yai Mimi or Hiko Yai no Mikoto

•              And then we also find Kamu (or Kami) Yai Mimi no Mikoto

Given that the later two are both “Yai”—or perhaps more properly “Yawi”—I suspect that the Kojiki, which is the only one where it explicitly mentions three children, may have just confused different names for the same individual and parsed them as separate.

I find one name in particular interesting here and that is the name of our future successor to the Yamato throne—Kamu Nunakawa Mimi no Mikoto.  As you may recall, one of the princesses that Ohonamuchi had taken to wife was named Nunakawa Hime, and she was supposedly up in Koshi, somewhere along the Japan sea coast.  In fact, there are quite a few things related to a Nunakawa Hime and Nunakawa in general up in the area of Itoigawa, apparently.  So if Nunakawa was relating to a place, and we assume that Mimi is also some kind of title, then this would seem to reference a Nunakawa Mimi as son of Iware Biko, and that certainly strikes me as odd.  Perhaps as we continue we’ll see some reasoning or explanation—I have some thoughts but I think I’ll wait on those for now—wait at least until we start to move on to the next sovereign and their court.  For now, though, let’s look at another important member of this court:  our old friend, Umashimaji.

Just to recap, Umashimaji is supposed to be the son of Nigi Hayahi, that Divine Descendant who came down from the Heavenly Plain before Ninigi, lived out his life in the Yamato plain, and died before Iware Biko and his brothers decided to march east from Kyushu.  Umashimaji was supposedly already sitting on the throne, supported by his uncle, Nagasune Biko, who seems to have been acting as his proxy, at least in war, since it is Nagasune Biko that we see leading the armies, negotiating with Iware Biko, etc.  In fact, Umashimaji only really shows up late in the game, at least in most of the narratives, and his right to the throne isn’t even truly touched on—yes, he is descended from the lineages of both Amaterasu Ohokami and Takami Musubi, but where that is mentioned he fairly quickly gives up any claim to the throne by submitting to his cousin-twice-removed, Iware Biko.

Now one would think, that given the purpose of the Chronicles, this would be a good place for Umashimaji to exit the stage.  Otherwise, one could foresee some uncomfortable questions being brought to light.  And predictably that is what we find in the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki, which are arguably the official court narratives of events.  Umashimaji is not important to the royal line, so he’s dropped for more interesting topics.  It is only in the Kujiki where we get a rather detailed account of Umashimaji’s role in the court.  In fact, he doesn’t just play a role, but according to the Kujiki you would think he was the most important courtier in the new Kashiwara Palace.  Of course, remember our source’s bias—while the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki were commissioned by the court, the author of the Kujiki seems to have had another goal.  They were clearly paying lip service to the official narrative, but it seems as though they also had the actual goal of raising up the Mononobe—and possibly the Ohowari—families.  So it was in their best interest to tell the story of their ancestor, Umashimaji, and build up his importance in the early court as much as they could short of replacing the royal ancestor with their own.

In consequence, the author of the Kujiki actually does more to fill out our understanding of the reign of the first sovereign.  Where the other chronicles mainly tell us what Iware Biko did—he set up his palace at Kashiwara, elevated Isuzu Hime to be his consort, and set up the main rituals that would be used by the court at least until the 7th and 8th centuries—in the Kujiki we get a more detailed glimpse of much of this.

To start with, we learn that Umashimaji presented his heavenly precious symbols to Iware Biko and erected the “shield of the gods”, who were then worshipped.  With this we see Umashimaji giving over, in no uncertain terms, any claim to the throne.  It also appears that they took the sword that had been sent down, Futsu Nushi, and went around spearing the ground here and there in Imaki, south of Kashiwara.  I suspect this had something to do with subduing the land and possibly preparing the area for Iware Biko’s palace, but I am unsure what else it might realistically signify.  Next it seems they are worshipping the Great Deity in the palace and enshrining and worshiping the Heavenly precious symbols to help pacify the spirit of the sovereign—the Great King.  We’ve already touched somewhat on soul pacification, and it seems that this ceremony was considered particularly important for the sovereign.

And then we get a detail about Umashimaji being the first courtier to be given the exalted title of “Sukune”.  This comes about, as do so many things in these early chronicles, with a dash of false etymology, as the claim is made that the title was developed because Umashimaji was allowed to sleep (“Ne”) in the inner palace.  Bentley notes that it seems more likely that this title came from the Korean peninsula, as there is a Middle Korean and Mongolian root word that means “Few”, which may have been its original intended meaning—basically denoting the few people in the upper echelons of the court.  Whatever it’s true derivation, it is clear that the authors of the Kujiki are signifying that Umashimaji was an important person in the early court, and that access to the inner palace was an honor only granted to a few.  This mirrors Chinese continental practice, where there were often various areas of the palace, and the further “in” one went the greater one’s rank needed to be.  In the later Heian court there would literally be a difference between those who could be up on the veranda of the palace buildings versus those who had to remain on the ground, outside.  Rank thus granted greater access to the sovereign and, by extension, greater influence and access to rewards for oneself and their family.

Of course, given the nature of this narrative it is hard to say when such customs truly came about.  While the Chinese scribes note that there was a clear division between Himiko and the public at large, it is unclear just how fine-grained such access was—assuming that the information was transmitted back to the continent accurately in the first place.

The Kujiki  doesn’t focus solely on Umashimaji, of course, and it does mention ancestors of some of the other notables at court as well.  They discuss setting a Mirror that was presented and bestowed by the people of the Imbe, let by Ame no Tomi, a son of Takami Musubi.  This mirror was installed in the Seiden, or State Chamber, of the palace, which is where ceremonies were held.  According to tradition, this mirror that was bestowed by the Imbe was the same one that was moved to Ise during the reign of Suinin.  The Imbe were, as I’ve mentioned in the past, were ritualists, originally focused, it would seem, on divination and maintaining knowledge of various taboos, etc.

Their rivals at court, the Nakatomi, were also mentioned.  In this case it is Ame no Taneko, son of Ame no Koyane and one of the ancestors of the Nakatomi family.  Taneko is said to have recited the “Ancient Things from the Age of the Gods” and the “Prayers to the Heavenly Deities”.  This certainly appears to reference a tradition of reciting some kind of oral history—perhaps in the same vein as the tradition that was eventually captured by O no Yasumaru as the Kojiki.  In addition, the prayers to the Heavenly Deities would seem to indicate the norito, the prayers that are still recited in the modern Shinto faith.

The importance of the familial nature of these groups and their roles cannot be overstated.  It would have been expected that oral tradition regarding the precise words and rituals would have been handed down within each family, and these would have been closely guarded.  This would have meant that conducting the rituals properly would require members of these families, guaranteeing their positions in the court.  It was because of the belief in the efficacy and necessity of these rituals for the smooth governance of the state as well as the families’ monopoly on their specialized knowledge that the families would stay in power.  In fact, this argument over who conducts which rituals would continue into the Heian period, and would be at the heart of one of our other early sources, the Kogo Shui.

Beyond the rituals of the Imbe and Nakatomi, there were also the rituals of the Mononobe.  Entrusted to guard the sovereigns and their palace, there were actually two groups—the “inner” and “outer” Mononobe.  As part of the early consolidation of rituals, Umashimaji is said to have led the Inner Mononobe on a solemn ceremony to erect the shield and spear.  Whether this was some metaphor for how they were setting up around the palace or part of their normal duties, I am not entirely sure, but it sounds about right given their position.

And the Mononobe weren’t the only ones conducting rituals of a more martial nature.  Michi no Omi is said to have led the Kumebe—others might just call it the Army—through the interior of the palace with their weapons, opening and closing them to protect the palace gate.

So let me take a moment here to address something—why are we spending all this time talking about ritual?  What does that have to do with our story?  And does it really matter what rituals were happening if this was all mythical before-times, anyway?

Well, it is important to realize the functions of government—at least by the time that this was being written down and quite likely well before then—were as much about ritual as they were about administration.  In today’s modern world, filled with numerous modern bureaucracies, we are familiar with the idea that government is about making and executing the laws of the land, and overseeing the administration of the resources under their purview.  Certainly there are some rituals, such as the swearing in of new state officials, but by and large these are built around a legal framework that legitimizes the officers in their positions and grants them authority to otherwise do their work.

For much of Japan’s history, however, the rituals appeasing the kami—or the later Buddhist rituals of state—were considered just as important, if not more so, for the smooth running of the government.  Just as Iware Biko decided to blame the direction he was attacking for his failure to succeed against Nagasune Biko at their clash near Kusaka, a disaster for the country—be it rebellion, plague, famine, or any number of disasters, natural or manmade—could just as easily be blamed on the failure of the state to conduct the proper rituals, rather than any sort of administrative failure.

That doesn’t mean that there weren’t also the other aspects of administration and executive power in the court, but much of the politics, intrigue, and movement within the courts can often be described around these various ritual events, which were often tied to particular times of the year, particular families and participants, etc., and rooted in appeals to antiquity.

I have little doubt that the rituals mentioned in this section of the Kujiki would have sounded familiar to the work’s intended audience, and may even have been more directly connected with rituals being practiced at the time, or at least in recent enough memory to be recognizable to the men and women of the court.  Unfortunately, today, it takes a deeper understanding than we will want to get into now to try to trace all of these and figure out when everything happened—and besides, we will hear more about the various groups and rituals again in the chronicles, have no fear.  So consider this a foundation on which to build as we continue our journey.

Now there are a few rituals noted with specific dates.  The New Year ritual—which probably would have been closer to late January or February in the old Japanese lunar calendar—is not explicitly described, but the participants are.  The entry states that the Princes and courtiers led the Omi, Muraji, Tomo no Miyatsuko,  and Kuni no Miyatsuko into the palace for the New Year’s festival.  The important thing, here, is that these are all ranks in the old court, and they are given in relative order.  After the sovereign were the princes—members of the royal household.  In Iware Biko’s time, one assumes that these were his direct descendants, though I suppose there could have been princes through his various brothers.  Later in the Nihon Shoki we are told that at least his son, Prince Tagishi Mimi, was helping to run the government, though the specific language used in the Chronicle does raise questions of his legitimacy.  Whether there were other “princes” at this point is unclear—Japanese isn’t always clear between the singular and plural, after all.

Later this princely title would apply just about any male figure descended from a royal lineage, even if they were no longer directly in the line of succession.  That system would eventually become unwieldy, but for now, that was a problem for a future court.

Next it mentions the courtiers, who I assume refer to the specific individuals, who wielded power.  This may have referred to men like Umashimaji no Sukune, but I’m not truly sure.  The next two, however, the Omi and the Muraji, are kabane—ranks provided not necessarily to individuals but to entire families, like the Imbe and the Nakatomi.  The Kabane system really deserves its own treatment, and I’ll dive into it at some later date.  For now just realize that rank was based on your family and not strictly through the works of the individual.  This is an important distinction from the Chinese court, where rank was supposed to be based on one’s merit, as determined by various government tests.  This would be a constant source of tension and conflict between the native traditions of Yamato and the continental concepts of government that they would attempt to institute over the years.

After the Omi and the Muraji were the Tomo no Miyatsuko and the Kuni no Miyatsuko.  The Tomo no Miyatsuko referred to those were in charge of government administration and the Kuni no Miyatsuko were in charge of the provinces or “kuni”—often translated as provincial governors or chieftains. 

These are terms we’ll see again and again in the Chronicles, and so it is good to have a general idea of what they were in reference to, even though in many cases they are anachronistic to the times.  For instance, I highly doubt that this system was fully formed to this extent during the reign of Himiko in the mid-3rd century.  In fact, it is highly doubtful that Yamato actually held as much control or sway as the Chronicles would have us believe until much later—something we see even in the language used in the Wei Chronicles, as well as other telltale signs.

But back to Umashimaji and the rituals.

So it is recorded that on the 15th day of the 11th month of the first year of Iware Biko’s reign that Umashimaji first performed services for the precious Heavenly symbols, presenting them, interestingly enough, on behalf of the Queen, Hime Tatatara Isuzu Hime.  He also pacified the spirits of the deities, which may be in reference to the “Festival of Appeasement of the Spirit”. 

Then, in the second month of the following year, Iware Biko granted the sword that had pacified the land, Futsu Nushi no Mitama, to Umashimaji for all of his support and loyalty.  This sword was presumably stored at Isonokami Shrine, the chief shrine of the ujigami of Umashimaji’s descendants, the Mononobe, for whom this sword is said to have been a particular cultic item, with various names by which it was known.

And with such trust, Umashimaji and others, including Hime Tatara Isuzu Hime’s brother, Ame no Hikata Kushikata, the ancestor of the Ohomiwa family, whom one could guess was closely tied to the cult of Mt. Miwa—well together they performed services and were made officials over the administration of the government.

Eventually Umashimaji would get married and have two sons.  One of them, Kisaki, would rise to his father’s title of Sukune during the reign of the next sovereign, and the Kujiki then chronicles a lineage that goes all the way to the time of Temmu.

So that’s the story of Umashimaji and the early court at Kashiwara.  Again, fictional, but giving us some insight into how the Chroniclers envisioned courts to be, which at least gives us some point of reference by which to interpret what else we are seeing in the stories.

But of course, we don’t want to only use the Chroniclers’ take on things.  After all, we already know that they seem to have completely left out or downplayed the story of Himiko—not to suggest that Himiko herself was the founder of the Yamato state, either, though her position right at the cusp of the Yayoi and Kofun periods certainly suggest that she existed during a time of significant cultural change on the archipelago. Regardless, her absence in the Chronicles, which clearly had access to the Wei Chronicles for reference, remains a subject of scholarly discussion even today.

Rather than taking a look at simply what was said about the court in the Chronicles—which was being interpreted through the lens of government as it existed in the time it was being compiled—let’s take a look at the archaeological evidence for what early kingship may have looked like.  We have talked somewhat about about the Yayoi period and the rise of the elites, and we’ve mentioned the elite tombs and eventually the large kofun—specifically the keyhole shaped kofun that seem to be so peculiar to the Yamato state.

But even in that keyhole shape, there were variations.  In fact, in the Nara basin there actually appear to be at least two separate lines of mounded kofun, each with specific details, but overlapping each other chronologically.  Basically, there were two different styles of building these keyhole kofun that appear to have been going on at the same time, in the same area—what we believe to be the sovereigns of Yamato.

In 2013, UrbanScope, an e-journal published by Osaka City University, included a paper by Kishimoto Naofumi, then Associate Professor at the Department of Japanese History.  In it, Kishimoto makes the argument that there was actually a system of dual kingship.  This is not an entirely new theory as we’ve mentioned before—there are plenty of theories that describe a gendered division of labor between male and female rulers.  These generally propose that women held positions that were largely focused on the sacred, while their male counterpart would focus on the secular administration of the state.  This theory helps to conveniently legitimize the position of Himiko as a sacred ruler while at the same time suggesting that it was her brother who held actual, secular power.  This would then allow historians to match what they see about Himiko with the line of strictly male rulers—with the occasional female regent—found in Chronicles.  It would also explain why, when Iware Biko needed a chief ritualist for his own rituals, the title given was feminine, Izu Hime, even though the role was filled by a presumably masculine individual.

And then there are the number of women who have liaisons with various kami, particularly the kami of Mt. Miwa, Ohomono Nushi, and it is easy to see in that a tradition of female shamans—perhaps even female shaman rulers that were later reduced due to a patriarchal view of the line of succession.  Of course, many of those stories are far from what one would call historical.

Off the top of my head I see several problems with this gendered approach to a dual kingship model.  First off, if Himiko had not held actual power, would the Chinese chronicles have suggested that she did?  After all, it is clear that embassies went both ways, and one presumes that the Chinese interacting with the early Wa were able to tell who they were actually dealing with.  In fact, if anything, one would assume that their patriarchal world view would have inclined them towards assuming that a man was in charge unless they had evidence to the contrary.  Of course, it could have been that it was seen as yet another dig at the Wa, or perhaps it was building upon their already exotic nature for them to be ruled over by a woman.

But then when you see before and after Himiko there are men who apparently inhabit her position—or one very similar to it.  It wouldn’t make sense for the Chinese court to constantly be flipping back and forth between a male secular King and a female shaman King the way they do unless you assume they really didn’t know what was going on.

And then I would note, even in the mythical account of Iware Biko, the number of “Elder/Younger” chieftains that are generally assumed to be brothers, which is to say that they were both male.  So if the Chroniclers had some idea that there was any kind of male/female split in the power structure it certainly isn’t clear from the stories.  It is, of course, always possible that these stories came from a later, more patriarchal, period, when the idea of a gendered ruling pair was no longer as prevalent, but two male co-rulers was considered more likely.

Regardless, Kishimoto points out that there is nothing in the archaeology to clearly suggest a split along gendered lines, but there is certainly evidence to suggest difference in function.  For instance, in terms of grave goods, there are those burials where there may be ritual items like stone bracelets, but there were relatively few or no weapons or armor, while a separate burial in the same tomb may have numerous weapons and armor.  Early on, we may have assumed that bracelets meant a female was buried there and weapons mean that the occupant must be a man.  However, this is a dangerous assumption to make, as it presupposes modern concepts of gendered societal roles on the people of the past.  One need only look to Europe and the various Viking age burials to see how these assumptions can lead us down the wrong path.

If you haven’t heard about this, I’ll go over it quickly.  Essentially, in many early Viking age burials, it was assumed that if weapons and shields and similar things were found, then the occupant of a grave must be male, while if the grave goods were related to the home, then the occupant must be female.  This was the case even when skeletal remains may have suggested otherwise.  This assumption continued, despite references in the old sagas to Shield Maidens—female warriors who fought alongside the men.  That was generally considered to be a fantastical element of the sagas, and many kept to their gendered assumptions.  More recently, though, DNA testing has shown that those assumptions are not necessarily correct, and there are some graves that are being reconsidered.  It may simply have been that the items were more about a person’s place in society, but not necessarily their gender.

Similarly we do not have anything that explicitly states that burials with weapons and armor belong to men and that those without belong to women.  That could be the case, but there is not enough evidence to substantiate the assumption that there is a gendered difference, but there does appear to be a functional one—with one sovereign maintaining a ritual authority and another maintaining secular and military authorities.  It could be that it is a male sovereign with ritual authority, and it is equally possible that there could have been women with military authority—certainly some of the stories seem to indicate that women could certainly wield such power and lead their troops into battle, and even Amaterasu Ohokami dons armor and weapons when she believes that her brother, Susanowo, is coming to take the Plain of Heaven.

Now these dual lines appear to show up almost immediately with the start of the kofun period, around the time of or immediately after the death of Himiko.  Assuming that Hashihaka Kofun is, indeed, the  tomb of Queen Himiko, then Kishimoto suggests that Nishitonozuka would have belonged to Toyo, and then Andon’yama may be the tomb of the sovereign known posthumously as Sujin Tenno.  If that is the case, it would suggest that there is a main line of sacred kings, and at the same time there are concurrent tombs found that would appear to be associated with a more politico-military function.  These may have been the tombs of their co-sovereigns.

This general pattern exists in several tomb groups from about the mid-3rd century up until about the 5th century.  There may have been times where one line or the other was pre-eminent in the politics of the day, but overall some sort of shared power structure seems to have continued to exist until the line of sacral kings appears to have fully eclipsed—and possibly even overthrew, their secular co-rulers.

Of course, there is still a lot of conjecture in here that we need to get through.  Kishimoto identifies certain kofun with particular rulers, from Sunin onward, applying a correction to the dating given in the chronicles, matching it up with later Chinese chronicles, and using various clues to help date the kofun themselves—though that is not always easy depending on what features remain and how much investigation that the government—in particular the Imperial Household Agency—is willing to allow.

But what does all this mean for Iware Biko?  We’ve said that he is fictional, but Chronicles do identify a tomb for him:  The Unebi Goryo.

So a bit about the Unebi Goryo—the supposed tomb or mausoleum of Iware Biko, aka Jimmu Tenno.  A Goryo, or Misasagi, is considered to be an imperial mausoleum, designated as such by the Imperial Household Agency of Japan, and it refers to any structure believed to be the tomb of one of the sovereigns or their consorts over the years.  While many are kofun they can be any sort of tomb, mausoleum, or other burial, as far as I can tell.  As for Jimmu’s Goryou, it was, for a time, “lost”—which may seem odd.  After all, how do you “lose” a giant earthen mound?  Well, frankly, it isn’t as difficult as one might think.  There are many tombs that over time lost their distinctive features, were overgrown with trees and other growth, and people just assumed that they were hills.  Some were known to be manmade, with common names like “Tsukuriyama” indicating that it was a hill that had been purposely built, but many tombs across Japan completely lost any connection with who is actually in them, if they were remembered as tombs at all.

And so whatever tomb was determined to be Jimmu’s in the 7th century, it seems that be some time in Japan’s medieval period the precise determination was lost.  At one time the tomb slightly northeast of the current Unebi Goryou was determined to be the tomb of Jimmu, but later they decided that the sources more clearly pointed to its current location.

The Chronicles tell us that Jimmu’s tomb is on “Kashino’o”, north of Mt. Unebi.  Supposedly Prince Ohoama—aka Temmu—had a vision during his rebellion, the Jinshin War, where Kotoshironushi and Takamimusubi came down to tell him to dedicate horses and weapons to the tomb of Jimmu to ensure that he could raise troops, and it is thought that later he had a temple built for the tomb, called Okuboji.  In the Heian period another temple, Kokugenji, was built in the area related to Jimmu’s tomb, but by Japan’s medieval period the whereabouts were apparently unknown.  Temples were destroyed or moved, the tomb became overgrown, and no doubt the fighting of the Warring States period didn’t help much.

In the early Edo period there was renewed interest in history, including finding the tombs of Jimmu and other important sovereigns.  The Shogunate initiated a public works effort to identify and the tomb of Jimmu and enhance it, basically as a public relations campaign to strengthen their own position.  Again, in the late 17th century, the Shogunate also instigated a project to investigate the tombs of the various sovereigns and carry out necessary repairs, including the tomb of Jimmu.

In 1863, only five years before the end of the Tokugawa period, it was determined that the government had been mistaken.  The tomb that they had identified in the early Edo period as the tomb of Jimmu was actually the tomb of his successor, Suizei.  It was, they said, too far from the mountain, and on a flat plain, while the tomb of Jimmu was supposed to be on a hill.  Since there are plenty of tombs—let alone tombs on hills—in the area, they had their pick of which they thought it could be.  Several seemed to fit the bill, but they settled on the current site, also known as Shijou-Misanzai, and the shogunate spent 15,000 Ryo—which seems to be at least $600,00 0.00 in modern US currency—possibly much more—on fixing it up.  They also restored many of the other tombs as well.

Later, in the following Meiji Period, this tomb became an even greater site of veneration, with visits by the sovereign to the grave of his great ancestor.  They set up Kashiwara Shrine at the site of what they believed to be his ancient palace, and so continued to build up—literally—this mythical figure.  It was somewhere in the Edo or Meiji period that it seems the tomb took much of its present shape.  Originally it was probably just a plain round tomb, but it seems that at some point they tried to “repair” it back to a keyhole tomb shape.

Who is actually buried there at Unebi Goryo, we may never know.  The site belongs to the Imperial Household and they have been extremely reluctant to allow anyone to examine the contents of those tombs designated as belonging to the ancient sovereigns.  Was this really the tomb of someone named Iware Biko, and were they really connected to the early rulers of Yamato?  We may never know.

As for the palace that he is said to have occupied?  Well, today the claim is that it was at the site of Kashiwara Jingu, but if there is any archaeological trace of a palace in this location, I have yet to see anything about it.  Certainly it is within the confines of what would eventually become Fujiwara-kyo, the first Chinese style capital, initiated by the later sovereign, Temmu, and perhaps it was entirely obscured.  However, I suspect that the location is based on the Chronicles’ account, and little else.  The shrine itself was erected in the late 19th century, and while it enshrines both Jimmu and his consort, Hime Tatara Isuzu Hime, it can hardly said to be an ancient shrine.

And with that, I think we’ll leave it there for the time being.  Sorry  if this has been a bit all over the place, but there were several points I wanted to make sure we touch on before going forward. 

Next episode we’re going to take a look at the continuation of the royal line according to the Chronicles, from Jimmu up until Suinin.  This may seem like a lot, but you know, most of these sovereigns are considered to be fictional.  Either that or perhaps they were famous chieftains, but not actual sovereigns.  Their placement in the lineage may have been for no other reason than to provide a greater demonstration of antiquity, but who knows for sure.  I’ll try to give each one his due, but some of these entries are actually quite short, so we may throw some of them together in a batch, particularly if we don’t have any reason to believe they were actually historical figures.  I really want us to get to Sunin, where we have at least a hint of some historical truth, but there is still some good stuff in here, so we’ll mine if for what we can in the meantime.ō

And so, until next episode, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on topics from this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

In many ways Japan traces its "founding" as a nation to the story of Iware Biko--aka the Sovereign Jimmu--and the establishment of his court in the central land of Yamato in the Nara Basin.  This is the story of how Iware Biko is said to have marched from Southern Kyushu east to the eventual central land, where the first true capitals of Japan would be located.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-25

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 25:  The Heavenly Grandson on the March.

Before I get into it, I want to address something that has been coming up in the text, and that is a pronunciation issue.  We have already discussed that the “H” sound we often hear in modern Japanese wasn’t a part of the old Japanese phonology.  It was “P” or “B”, depending on whether or not it was voiced or unvoiced.  However, over time that “P” sound became more like an “H” sound in many instances. So we have “Pimiko” becoming “Himiko”, “Pime” becoming “Hime”, and “Piko” becoming “Hiko”.  In some cases it goes even a step further, so that “Ipa” becomes “Iha” becomes “Iwa” and “Kapa” becomes “Kaha” and eventually “Kawa”.  So for everyone who has wondered why the particle “Wa” is spelled with the character for “Ha”, I think you have your answer.

In previous episodes, I referred to Jimmu Tenno as IHare Biko, as I was using John Bentley’s transliteration, but the more I think about it, I’m going to try to stick with the more common pronunciation, where I can find it.  In this case, that appears to be Iware Biko, so we’ll go with that and I’ll put more about this in the blog post at Sengokudaimyo.com/podcast.  Just realize that “Hiko” and “Biko” are just different pronunciations of the same title.

This episode we are going to get into the story of how Ninigi’s great-grandson left Kyushu and marched north to take his place in Yamato, which was considered the center of the archipelago.  In many ways, we can consider this the actual founding myth of Yamato and the royal lineage.

Now according to Nihon Shoki, this is the point where we transition from myth, the Age of the Gods, to so-called history.  Up to this point in the narrative we’ve had no dates, just stories and the genealogies that give us a basic framework.  But now the Chronicle starts to transition, providing actual dates.  Of course, we can see on the face of them that these dates are completely fictitious.  After all, the first date we are given is 667 BCE.  This would put us in the Early Yayoi Period.

As you may recall, the Yayoi period was originally thought to have started around 300 BCE or so, though more recently we’ve pushed that back to about 800 or 900 BCE, but that is just the beginnings of rice cultivation in the archipelago.  In the 7th century BCE, the Korean peninsula had just entered its middle Mumun bronze age period, and China was in the Summer and Autumn period of the Eastern Zhou.  This is still some 300 years from the Korean peninsula’s iron age.

On the archipelago at this point, there were various settlements, but nothing resembling a consolidated state like these stories would suggest.  And of course, the kofun that we see identified as their burial places are much too late.  There is even question as to when writing even started in Japan, meaning that all of this would have been transferred through the ages as oral history, which can be remarkable but is unlikely to provide clear, accurate dates.

That said, one could argue that there are kernels of truth to the stories.  Yayoi culture did start in Kyushu and work its way up to the rest of the peninsula, and perhaps there was some memory of this.  Some of the Kyushu theory proponents might suggest that this proves that Yamatai was in Kyushu, and all of the rest of these stories take place after that, detailing the move from the Yamatai to Yamato.  Perhaps these were stories from various states or other polities—or perhaps even stories from the Korean peninsula—which were then grafted onto the story of the royal household of Yamato. Whatever the actual truth, I’m going to continue to treat this as myth, at least for now, but it is myth that helps build up to our actual history.

So let’s dig in, shall we?

When last we left the Kyushu lineage, Ugaya Fukiaezu had married his aunt, Tamayori Hime, and they had at least four sons.  This included Itsuse, Inahi, Mikerino or Mikenu, and Sano, who was later called Kamu Yamato Iware Biko no Mikoto—or just Iware Biko, aka Prince Ihare.  Of course, they’ve already gone and spoiled the ending—guess which one of these four we’ll be focused on?  If you guessed Iware Biko—ding! Ding! Ding!—you are correct!

Now even though he was the youngest son, Iware Biko was made the heir to the throne, or Crown Prince, at 15 years of age.  He married Ahira tsu Hime of Ata—Ahira also being the name of the mountain where his father was supposedly buried.  Ahira Hime was the younger sister of Ata no Wobashi no Kimi, who would appear from his title to be a local lord of some kind.  The two of them had two sons—Tagishi Mimi and Kisu Mimi.

Together they lived in a palace at Takachiho, but it wasn’t enough for Iware Biko, and as he reached 45 years of age, he had an idea.  After all, hadn’t his ancestor been given all of this island chain to rule?  And here they were, stuck in the southernmost end of it.  Surely there was a better place from which to rule the entire land?

Indeed, Iware Biko had heard about just such a place.  It was in the center of the land, surrounded by mountains on all side.  Not only that, but stories told of a previous Heavenly descendant who had descended there in a Heavenly Rock Boat, so it must have something going for it.

And so he gathered up an armada and he headed out.  They would have sailed from Himuka, in Southern Kyushu, up along the eastern coastline, and through the Hayasuhi Gate, also known as the Bungo Channel, between Kyushu and Shikoku.  The name of this channel is the “Rapid Sucking Gate”, and it is thought that this is because of its rapid tides.  It was here that the armada is approached by a fisherman – not just any fisherman, but, in fact, an earthly deity named Utsu Hiko, the Rare Prince.  Just as Sarutahiko had been waiting for Ninigi, so was Utsu Hiko waiting for Iware Biko, and he agreed to be Iware Biko’s guide .  The Divine Descendant had a pole made of shihi, or chestnut, wood, and he had it given to Utsu Hiko, providing him a new name, Shihine Tsu Hiko—the Prince of Shihine, or Shihi Root.

With their guide, they continued their journey, arriving at their first stop:  Tsukushi.

Alright, so I can already hear some confused looks out there, because you may remember that I said Tsukushi refers to Kyushu, and Himuka is in Kyushu.  So didn’t they just go from Kyushu to Kyushu?

Well, yes, technically.  However, Tsukushi was also the name, specifically, for northern Kyushu, and you can still find the word hidden in the names of the old provinces of Chikuzen and Chikugo, literally “Front” and “Back” Tsukushi, but it also seems to have encompassed the area later known as Toyo Province, and eventually divided up in Buzen and Bungo, for which the Bungo Channel is so named. 

Northern Kyushu was certainly more connected with Yamato in the Kofun period, and was part of any major trade route between Yamato and the mainland, so it should be little wonder that the name of the northern region became shorthand for the entire island, since that’s no doubt how most people thought of Kyushu at the time.  This also makes even more sense if Southern Kyushu was seen as culturally distinct and outside of the Yamato polity for much of their history.

Ihare and his fleet arrived in Usa, in Tsukushi—in modern Oita prefecture—where they were met by the Chieftains of Usa:  Usa tsu Hiko and Usa tsu Hime.  As with Utsu Hiko, word had apparently preceded the armada, and they had set up an entire temporary structure for Iware Biko and threw him a banquet.  And apparently if we’ve learned anything, it isn’t a real banquet until somebody gets married.  Of course, Iware Biko was already married, and in this case he ended up playing matchmaker with Usa tsu Hime and Ame no Tane no Mikoto, one of the ancestors of the Nakatomi clan.

Now, I should probably point out that just because Usa tsu Hiko and Usa tsu Hime are paired male-female titles, it doesn’t mean that they were necessarily married.  They were likely related, but even that isn’t definitively known.  But then again, this whole section is still highly suspect so I wouldn’t put too much stock in it, anyway.

After feasting and resting, the Kojiki tells us they stayed in Tsukushi for another year, specifically shacking up at the Okada Palace.  However, the other sources suggest they passed through Oka harbor, but continued on up the archipelago until they came to the land of Aki, staying at the Ye Palace—I assume named for the Ye river, aka the Gounokawa, which we talked about in regards to Susanowo and which winds its way up through the mountains, emptying out into the Japan Sea at the port of Goutsu.  Again, the Kojiki describes this adventure in a somewhat leisurely timeframe, with a 7 year hiatus in Aki before they proceed, while the Nihon Shoki and the Kujiki suggest a mere three months—from the 12th to the 3rd month, effectively wintering in Aki before moving on to their next stop, building a temporary palace at Takashima in Kibi—the modern prefecture of Okayama.

Here, Iware Biko held up and prepared his army to fight, spending three years as they readied their provisions—though the Kojiki, once again draws this out even further, for a total of 8 years.  Of course, while the Kojiki throws out these kinds of things, its writers don’t even bother to try to put an actual year to the events happening.

It’s unclear just what their preparations looked like that took them that long, given that they already had their armada and were on the march. 

Still, once they had prepared, they were back underway, sailing east out of Kibi for the land of Yamato.  It is here that that Kojiki inserts the story about meeting their guide, but it is differnet.  It calls him Udo Hiko, and it adds he was riding around on a turtle.  Furthermore, just as in the previous story, Iware Biko hands him a pole, called here “Sawo”, and so his name in the Kojiki is Sawone-tsu Hiko.

This Sawone tsu Hiko or Shihine Tsu Hiko—They are said to be the ancestors of the Yamato no Atahe or the Yamato no Miyatsuko—which would seem to make them chieftains of Yamato, which is to say the actual province within the larger Yamato state.

However it happened, it was from there that Iware Biko and his entourage continued to Naniwa, modern Osaka, and continued up river until they came to the port of Shiradate in Kusaka. From there they tried to take the road to Tatsuta, which modern maps would appear to correspond to the Ikaruga area where Nigi Hayahi supposedly came down from Heaven.  However, the road was narrow, and the army was forced to march single file.  That would have put them in an extremely vulnerable position, spread out over a great distance and if they met with any resistance they wouldn’t be able to bring their full force to bear.  So Iware Biko ordered the army to pull back and try another route.  This time they went up the side of Mt. Ikoma.

As they reached the top of Kusaka Hill, however, they met with the forces of Nagasune Biko,Chieftain of Tomi, who claimed to be fighting on behalf of his nephew, Umashimaji, son of Nigi Hayahi.

I find this fascinating for a few reasons, chief among them is that this is the first time that anyone has actually resisted the Heavenly Task.  Up to this point in the narrative, everyone had more or less just rolled over for the Heavenly Grandson and his progeny.  Now, not only are there other people inconveniently living in the land where Iware Biko had chosen as the best place to rule from, but they weren’t just going to hand it over.

There is a thought that this whole conflict was designed to mirror the conflict in the 7th century, between the Tenji and Temmu dynasties.  That, too, was an armed conflict between different lines of the same  lineage, and so perhaps this was written so as to legitimize Temmu’s own rebellion and, effectively, usurpation of power.  I know we keep bringing this up and I promise that we’ll get to it, eventually.  It is definitely one of the things that really intriques me and really forms the political basis for much of what happens in the Nara period.

Of course, it also doesn’t hurt that Iware Biko’s story also emphasizes the natural supremacy of the royal line, with the ancestors of other noble lineages submitting themselves to the rulership of the line of the Heavenly Grandson. 

So here, at the hill of Kusaka, the forces of Iware Biko were arrayed against the forces of Nagasune Biko.  Since this is already a fictional account, we can’t exactly draw conclusions based on when it was actually happening.  However, we know that the western forces could make no headway against their opponents.

Eventually, Iware Biko’s own brother, Itsuse, was struck in the elbow with an enemy arrow, and Iware Biko’s forces withdrew.  They set up a temporary fortification using their shields to create a wall, but the enemy did not pursue.

Iware Biko thought long and hard about his loss.  After all, it couldn’t have anything to do with his brilliant strategy of “charge up the nearest hill”.  No, instead, Iware Biko determined that the flaw of this plan was not that he had tried to attack a well defended position, climbing up and over the mountains to do so, or some similar tactical error.  No, the issue was that they were marching west to east and therefore they were attacking into the sun, and thus they were effectively attacking against Amaterasu.   As long as the enemy had Amaterasu on their side, it would do no good to attack.

It is telling that this isn’t just a matter of attacking into the sun.  If that were the case, one assumes that Iware Biko could have just waited until the afternoon, but it would appear that this specifically had to do with attacking towards the East, where the sun rises.  Of course, by the time the Chronicles were being put together, eastwas also the direction of Ise—though of course, Ise Shrine wouldn’t be founded for some time yet, even in the timeline of the Chronicles.  One could explain this away as Mt. Miwa, where the Chronicles claim Amaterasu was originally enshrined, along with Miwa no Kami, Ohomononushi.   That said, the name that the Japanese would eventually settle on for their own country, Nihon, seems to include a connotation that the Origin of the Sun was in the East, where the sun rises.

This also puts me in mind of the idea of directional taboos, known as kata-imi.  The idea that certain directions were unlucky some or all of the time, and therefore to succeed one would need to approach from a different direction, which might necessitate a longer course that allows a person—or an army—to avoid the prohibited direction.

Normally, as part of the yin-yang science that was imported from China, these directional taboos often had to do with things like timing—what day it was, and various other calendrical and astrological calculations.    In this case, though, it is clear that it is personal—the ties between Iware Biko and Amaterasu.  It isn’t something that can just be done on another day.  And this is why Iware Biko loaded his troops back on their ships and sailed south.  The goal appears to have been to sail down around the Kii Peninsula and to approach Yamato from the south.

As they left modern Osaka Bay and entered the Kii Channel, they put in, it is said, at Yamaki, which would seem to be near modern Wakayama city.  Iware Biko’s brother, Itsuse, was continuing to worsen.  Though they don’t go into great detail, one can imagine that even an arrow to the elbow, though not immediately fatal, would have had a high likelihood for infection back in those ancient times.  Itsuse seems to have realized that the curtain was drawing closed on his act in this play, but he wasn’t going to go quietly.  It is said he struck a manly pose, and one can imagine him spouting some inspiring words to the troops, like a character in one of Shakespeare’s plays.  Spirit and grit and divine lineage will only take you so far, though, and he eventually passed away.  This was at the Field of Blood—Chinu—and the port was called Wo-no-Minato—or the Manly Port—for his efforts.  The chronicles tell us that they buried him at Kamayama, and then moved on from there.

By the way there are some versions of the story that have Itsuse, as the older brother, leading the campaign east, with Iware Biko picking up the banner after his brother dies fighting Nagasune Biko. 

Now, whether or not they stopped for a full burial, kofun and all, is not stated, but given the amount of time it takes to raise a tomb mound, you would think they would have continued on.  Today, there is a Kamayama Shrine dedicated to Itsuse since at least the time of the Engi Shiki, and they say he was buried somewhere in that area.  There is also a 6th or 7th century Kamayama Kofun in the north of Wakayama, but they use a different spelling for Kamayama than do the chronicles, and I did not immediately see a link between it and Itsuse.  Of course since this whole episode is a myth, any tomb identified would be specious, anyways.

Moving on from Kamayana, Iware Biko’s troops went to Nagusa, where they attacked and killed Nagusa no Tobe—the Nagusa Chieftain. Bentley notes that this specific title, “Tohe” or “Tobe”, appears to be specifically a feminine title.  A similar title, Tome, is found in the Harima Fudoki, and it shows up several more times in this section. 

The Nihon Shoki suggests that they crossed moor of Sano towards Kumano, but then had some slow going on the ocean.  In fact, it was going so slowly, that Iware Biko’s two remaining brothers—who, with Iware Biko and Itsuse were also descended from the Sea God—seem to have been offended, and railed against the sea, which blew them back with violent winds.  Finally, one of his brothers drew his sword and plunged into the sea, while the other one was so indignant that he stepped off the boat and walked across the waves to the Eternal Land.  This left only Iware Biko and his son, Tagishi Mimi, but the seas must have calmed down, because they eventually reached their destination.

Now I don’t know about you, but this seems a bit of an extreme reaction to bad weather.  It does put me in mind of the custom of the abstainers, or Jisai—those who would fast and abstain from various activities, such as bathing, etc., in order to bring good luck to a journey.  If successful, they would be well rewarded, but if misfortune found them, the abstainer would be blamed, and could even be put to death.  It also brings up images of human sacrifices to gods of the waters—could that be what was going on?  Could this represent the brothers sacrificing themselves to calm the winds and the waves?  It would certainly seem more noble than them just nope’ing out because they were frustrated.

And so with the wind and waves pacified, the armada continued.  They arrived at the Port of Arazaka, aka Nishiki Bay, where they once again subdued the locals, defeating Nishiki no Tobe, and proceeding on the village of Kumano.

While they were there, the troops saw a bear, or “kuma”, moving in and out of the forest around Kumano, until it finally disappeared from view.  Shortly after this, Iware Biko and his troops felt faint and lost consciousness.  Some have suggested that the bear was some kind of shaman, and the other Chronicles blame a poisonous vapor, vomited up by evil deities.  Either way, Iware Biko and his troops were fast asleep, like Dorothy and her friends in a field of poppies.

All might have been lost, except that there was a man who lived in Kumano who was known as Takakuraji—possibly because of his many tall storehouses.  In some of the stories this Takakuraji is none other than Ama no Kagoyama, the son of Nigi Hayahi and Ame no Michi Himi, and thus a great grandson of Amaterasu, which could explain the next part.  You see, Takakuraji had a dream, and in the dream Amaterasu had summoned Takemikazuchi.  You may recall that we met Takemikazuchi when he went down to pacify Izumo.  Well, Amaterasu wanted him to go back down and finish chastising the land, since clearly it was still in disorder.  After all, weren’t there people standing in the way of the Heavenly Task?  Takemikazuchi took one look at the situation, and suggested that all it needed was his sword, Futsu no Mitama—aka Sajifutsu no Kami, or else Mikafutsu no Kami.  And so he sent his sword down into one of Takakuraji’s storehouses and told him to take the sword to Iware Biko  so that he could use it to complete his heavenly task.

Takakuraji awoke form his dream and went into his storehouse.  Sure enough, just as he had seen in the dream, there was the sword, Futsu no Mitama.  Takakuraji took this sword and found Iware Biko and his men still asleep.  As soon as Takakuraji presented the sword, however, Iware Biko awoke from his slumber, and he immediately commenced striking down all of the unruly deities of the Kumano mountains.  With the unruly deities thus subdued, his men awoke.

With his army once again awake and ready to move, Iware Biko and his army attempted to move inland through the mountains, but it doesn’t take much imagination to understand what happened next—they found themselves hopelessly lost, and they were making no headway forward.  And so Amaterasu, or possibly Takami Musubi, depending on the chronicle, sent down a giant crow—the Yatagarasu.  This crow would lead Iware Biko and his troops through the mountains and eventually to the central land of Yamato.

There isn’t much more description of the crow, but tradition often associates it with the Yang-wu, the Chinese sun crow.  It has three feet and is usually depicted as living in the sun.  What better creature to lead a descendant of the Sun Goddess through the mountains then a sun crow?

Iware Biko sent Hi no Omi—whose name literally translates to “Minister of the Sun”—to follow the Yatagarasu with the grand army through the mountains.  Hi no Omi was one of the ancestors of the Ohotomo—the house of the royal guards—so it makes some sense that they would be shown taking the lead.

This march would have taken several days—possibly a week or more—until they came to the headwaters of what would be known as the Yoshino river.  They came across several men, many of whom are described as “men with tails”—though what kind of tails it isn’t explained.  I should caution that while this may sound like an ancient Furry subculture, the tails were likely metaphorical and meant to indicate wild men, living in the mountains and not under the sway of any particular state.  No doubt there were still plenty of independent communities tucked away in the mountains and valleys, even during Himiko’s time.  Evidence suggests that the members of the central polity considered them to be wild and bestial.

In a later part of the account, men with tails would also be styled with another name:  Tsuchigumo.  Literally “earth spiders”, this epithet is thought to have referred to the belief that these outsiders lived in caves, or possibly pit buildings, which had been popular since Jomon times but were in the process of being replaced.  Still, this answer seems less than satisfactory given that pit-style houses continuedto be used by at least the common people up into the Nara period.

Finally, they found their way—or perhaps more appropriately “pierced”—there way to Uda.  For helping to find a path through the mountains—though, to tell the truth, it seems that Yatagarasu, that giant sun crow, deserved most of the credit—Hi no Omi was given another name:  Michi no Omi—the minister of the road or path.

This area is known as Uda no Ukashi, and it was governed by two brothers.  As they approached, the Yatagarasu was sent ahead as a messenger, to summon the chieftains of the area to submit to Iware Biko and his forces.  The elder brother fired a hummingbulb arrow at the sun crow, forcing him to turn back.   Where the arrow, the kaburaya, came to rest is said to be known as Kaburazaki.  After that, the elder brother raised troops and went out to meet Iware Biko in battle, but as soon as he caught a glimpse of Iware Biko’s army, he knew it would be impossible, and so he devised a new strategy.

It must have been around this point that the Younger brother and co-chieftain of Ukashi made his way to Iware Biko and submitted himself and his men.  He then told Iware Biko that his brother had ill intentions towards him. 

As it turns out, the Elder Ukashi had decided to set a trap.  He built a temporary palace, much as had been built in Tsukushi, just as Iware Biko and his troops were leaving.  This was no honor, however.  As soon as Ihare Hiko entered the hall, the trap would be sprung.  Learning of all of this, Iware Biko traveled into the village of Ukashi as thought to meet with the Elder Brother.  Sure enough, there was a temporary structure that Iware Biko was invited to enter and rest, no doubt with promises of a banquet soon to come.  Instead of entering, however, Iware Biko and his troops forced the Elder Brother into the building himself.  Sure enough, the trap was sprung and the Elder Brother’s deceit was revealed, and he was crushed.

Iware Biko had the Elder Brother removed from the trap and promptly executed.  His head was cut off and Iware Biko’s aremy hacked him to bits.  His blood seeped into the fields, and that place was called Uda no Chihara.

And then, no doubt not wishing to join his brother in this gruesome fate, the Younger brother laid out an actual feast, with meat and alcohol, for Iware Biko and his troops.  He also entertained Iware Biko and his troops with song, reciting one—possibly two—songs.  One was about catching a large animal, or possibly a  great whale—no doubt referencing the trap that the Elder brother had laid, and then another one is not so clear, but seems to speaks of the polygamous practices of the time, something that would seem to fit with the Japan since at least the 3rd century.

The next part varies a bit in the different Chronicles, but the Nihon Shoki seems to be the most detailed, so we’ll go with that.  It seems that Iware Biko climbed to the peak of Mt. Takakura in Uda and looked out over the land.  From there he made out numerous enemies on Kunimi Hill, an army of women on Mezaka and an army of men at Wozaka, and charcoal was burning over at the village of Sumizaka.  The army of Shiki the Elder covered the village of Ihare.  According to the Chronicles, there was no way for Ihare and his army to easily march in and take the land.

Iware Biko prayed for guidance and went to sleep.  Sure enough, in a dream, Amaterasu told Iware Biko that he should take earth from within the sacred area of Mt. Kagu, in Asuka, and make platters and jars to sacrifice to the kami of Heaven and Earth—Amatsu Kami, Kunitsu Kami—and then speak an imprecation, or curse upon his enemies.  Iware Biko awoke and decided to do just that.  There was one problem, however—Mt. Kagu was in the Nara Basin, and as we have already established, there were enemy forces guarding the entrances.  And so Iware Biko came up with a ruse.

He had Shihinetsu Hiko put on ragged old garments and disguise himself as an old man, while Ukashi the Younger would do likewise and disguise himself as an old woman—Shihinetsu Hiko’s wife.  Together they would use stealth to get through the hostile forces and to the mountains.

Sure enough, as they walked along the road, praying that this plan would somehow work, the enemy soldiers took one look at the couple dismissed them as harmless, and laughed as they went along their way.  And so they were able to sneak up to the mountain and grab the earth they would need for the sacred clay vessels.

With the sacred vessels prepared, Iware Biko made some divinatory statements—Ukehi—calling for victory.  He made a sweet malt extract without water and made the fish drunk.  He then had a 500 branched Masakaki tree harvested from the upper waters and began to worship the gods.  It is claimed that this was the origin of setting up sacred jars in the royal courtyard as part of the court’s ritual observances.  Similarly, Iware Biko next decided to celebrate a public festival to the High God of Heaven, Takami Musubi no Mikoto.  He appointed Michi no Omi as Izu Hime, the Sacred Princess.  Later comentators note that this position was usually a woman—as indicated by the title of “Hime”—and found at Ise, Kamo, and Kasuga.  Therefore they suggest that in this case Michi no Omi was serving in a woman’s role, since they needed a chief officiant.  However, there is no real indication of Michi no Omi’s gender, other than some patriarchal associations with the term “Minister”, so who knows.

More importantly is the fact that this ceremony was set up for Takami Musubi no Mikoto, and not for Amaterasu no Ohokami.  In fact, it seems to be the origin of one of the most important festivals in the royal court, as recorded in the Engi Shiki, where Takami Musubi was the one worshipped.  It isn’t until much later that Amaterasu would be worshipped outside of her shrine in Ise.

With all of the rituals complete, the army finally sallied forth and slew their enemies at Mt. Kunimi.  Iware Biko then composed a song—something he would do several other times.  In fact, I have to wonder if these songs don’t form the primary basis for the stories that the various chroniclers appear to have put together.

Despite their victory at Kunimi, there were still many enemy forces in the Yamato area.  So Iware Biko had his troops build a large muro—generally thought to be a large pit building—in Osaka, in Yamato.  By the way, that isn’t Ohosaka, that “Big Slope” known for their great food and comedic stylings.  This is “Osaka”, which as I’m sure you can hear, is completely different.  Just a short O, Osaka, not the long O of Ohosaka.  All clear?  Good.

Anyway, they put together this building and invited numerous enemies—the Kojiki again refers to them as Men with Tails or Earth Spiders—and offers to treat them to a feast.  As they all gathered in the large building, he stationed his men along the outside edges of the building.  He then sang a song in front of the assembled crowds, but in the song was a code, and as soon as his men heard it they drew their swords and murdered the assembled throngs.

Even then, there were still many enemies in the Nara basin, so next Iware Biko took his army against the dual princes of Shiki.

As before, they sent the Yatagarasu to request the presence of Shiki the Elder, but he refused.  He aimed his bow at the Sun Crow and it flew off.  Then it went to Shiki the Younger, who responded by making an offering to the crow on oak leaf plates, and then agreed to go see Iware Biko.  Once there, he told Iware Biko of the troops his brother had been able to raise.

Iware Biko sent Shiki the Younger, along with two other Chieftains, Kuraji the Elder and Kuraji the Younger, to try to convince Shiki the Elder to put down his arms and submit, but Shiki the elder refused and stood fast against the invading forces.

Therefore, Iware Biko came up with a plan.  He sent forward some of his weaker troops to occupy the Shiki forces, and then moved his more robust troops over to Sumizaka and around.  In this way they were able to flank Shiki’s forces and put them to route, killing Shiki the Elder.

With the Shiki forces dealt with, Iware Biko had only one obstacle left.  Like the final boss battle, he still had to defeat Nagasune Biko.  Nagasune Biko, brother-in-law to the other Heavenly Grandson, Nigi Hayahi, and uncle to Umashimaji, whom he claimed to serve.  Naga Sunehiko, who had previously defeated Iware Biko’s forces at Kusaka Hill and who had killed Iware Biko’s brother, Itsuse.

Nagasune Biko claimed to be serving the son of the Divine Descendant, and then he proclaimed: “There should not be two children of the Heavenly Deity.  I do not know if there is another ruler.”  And using this excuse, he persisted in his resistance and blocked the way for Iware Biko and his forces

Again and again the two forces clashed, but neither side was able to make any headway against the other.  Then, one day, the sky went dark and hail began to rain down from the heavens a brightly shining kite flew down and it dazzled Nagasune Biko’s forces.

This must have brought about a brief cease-fire, because Iware Biko and Nagasune Biko had a chance to talk.  Iware Biko asked Nagasune Biko to prove the case of Nigi Hayahi’s lineage by showing the heavenly regalia.  At this, Nagasune Biko happily brought forward a heavenly feathered arrow and a foot quiver, displaying them proudly.  But then, Iware Biko showed Nagasune Biko his own arrow and quiver, proving that he, too, was of a divine lineage.

Nagasune Biko refused to accept this, however, and he went back to his troops to restart their campaign of resistance.

What happened next varies a little bit.  In some of the stories, Nigi Hayahi came down, and realizing that Nagasune Biko would not accept Iware Biko’s authority, he had Nagasune Biko put to death, and then surrendered the army to Iware Biko.  In the Kojiki, Iware Biko simply smites Nagasune Biko.  And in the Kujiki it is Nigi Hayahi’s son, Umashimaji, the ancestor of the Mononobe, who refuses to go along with his uncle.  He has Nagasune Biko and others executed and then went with those soldiers loyal to him to submit to Iware Biko, presenting him with one of the ten heavenly symbols that had been given to Nigi Hayahi.  After that, he took charge of the Ame no Mononobe and cut down the rest of the opposition.  The Nihon Shoki refers to all of the those who resisted as Tsuchigumo.

Finally, the land was at peace, and Iware Biko and his men could rest.  They retired to the Kashiwara area, specifically in the area of Mt. Unebi, where Iware Biko commanded his officials to build a palace and he began to set up his court.  Though he had married Ahira Hime back in Himuka, in Southern Kyushu, he took another wife in Kashiwara: Hime Tatara Isukeyori Hime, also known as Hime Tatara Isuzu Hime, who would eventually become his royal consort.  With the land subdued, and his palace completed, Iware Biko was raised up, and took his place as the first official sovereign of Yamato.  That was in 660 BCE, according to the Nihon Shoki.  He reigned until his death, in 585 BCE, aged an incredulous 127 years old.  Even if some of the oldest humans ever have lived in Japan, given the times and Iware Biko’s hard run life, forgive me if I don’t take this age at face value.  His mausoleum is said to be at the foot of Mt. Unebi, at or near the location of his palace.

The Coronation of Iware Biko, aka Jinmu, factual or not, has long been important to the story of Japan.  His formal coronation is recorded as 660 BCE,  the second month, the 11th day, and it is from this date that the traditional line of Yamato sovereigns is counted, as is the founding of Yamato, known today as Japan.  Even in the modern age, just as the 4th of July, 1776 is used to mark the founding of the United States of America, the 11th of February, 660 BCE is taken as the founding date of Japan, even though the year is clearly a fabrication.  February 11th is Kenkoku Kinen no Hi—National Foundation Day.   It was originally instituted by the Meiji Government, in the 1870s, as the government was still working to promote the Imperial majesty after more than 250 years under the rule of the Tokugawa shoguns, and continues to be practiced today, though with a more national character.

In addition the importance of the year 660 BCE was rather a key component in ensuring that the history of Japan, at the time the chronicles were written, was of sufficient antiquity to conform with Chinese concepts of historical cycles, and it meant that the time was ripe in the late 7th century for another great change.  At one end of the cycle stood Iware Biko, later known as Jinmu, whose posthumous name translates to something like Divine or Godly War.  In completion of the Heavenly Task, he assembled his forces and marched on Yamato, eventually installing himself as the royal sovereign.  On the other side of this historical cycle was Ohoama, aka Tenmu, a sovereign with the posthumous name meaning “Heavenly War”, and who likewise raised forces to come and attack the capital.

In addition, the location for Jinmu’s palace—and the kofun associated with him—was at the foot of Mt. Unebi, which was one of three mountains, including Mt. Kagu and Mt. Miminashi, which made up the Yamato Sanzan.  These three mountains surrounded the Fujiwara Palace, which was started by Temmu towards the end of his reign, and which served as the first permanent Chinese style capital, until it was moved in 710.  Though this move happened before any of our Chronicles were completed, it is reasonable to assume that the stories had already largely taken form during the reign of Temmu and his immediate successors. 

Further along those lines are the commonalities between Jimmu and Temmu’s means of coming to power.  Just as Yamato already had a sovereign through a previous Heavenly line, Tenmu’s nephew sat on the throne during his usurpation.  Both were still legitimate, however—or at least the stories portray them as such.   And both had the help of Amaterasu Ohokami—though admittedly those details seem to be more prominent in the later Nihon Shoki than they are in the Kojiki, where Takami Musubi still takes center stage.  We can see how the story came to be and thus how it may have been seen by its contemporaries.

That is not to say that the Chroniclers came up with all of this themselves.  I suspect that there were a combination of stories, many of them revolving around the origins of various placenames, or possibly from other oral traditions from around the area.  For all I know, there may have been stories about a Prince Ihare, and the various encounters may have come from other stories.  I suspect that the Chroniclers were not making up everything from scratch, but rather fitting what they had to the Truth as they knew it.

Even if we can’t accept these stories as true, there are still plenty of interesting tidbits.  For instance, the various Tobe, which may refer to female chieftains, and then the numerous instances in the text of Elder and Younger chieftains, which seem to point to a common practice of dual leadership.  The assumption is often that these are pairs of brothers, but whether that was regularly the case I couldn’t say, though it seems unlikely.  Of course, as usual gender is often not stated but assumed under a patriarchal model unless explicitly stated otherwise.

We also see a tendency in these stories to designate those who resist the Royal lineage as being not just outsiders, but as other than human.  They are called earth spiders—tsuchigumo—and described as having tails.  This term also appears in other chronicles, such as the Hitachi Fudoki. Hitachi province was far to the east, in modern Ibaraki prefecture, and one of the stories tells about two groups, native to the area, known as the Tsuchikumo and the Yatsukahagi.  It is said that they would dig caves throughout the hills, and this is where they lived.  According to the elders of the area, they would come out at night or after the new settlers had left, and they would help themselves to whatever they needed.  Therefore the local government set up a trap.  While the Tsuchikumo were out in the fields, the Yamato people set a wall of thorn bushes inside the entrance to their cave, and the officer in charge, Kurosaka, then gave the signal for men on horseback to ride in and chase the Tsuchikumo back.  The plan worked remarkably well, and all of the Tsuchikumo were driven into the thorny wall and killed.

This seems to show how the people of Yamato viewed those they called Tsuchikumo—as non-human outsiders who could not be civilized and therefore deserved little more than extermination, possibly subjugation.  Just like with the Hayato, we don’t know just how different these people were from the people of Yamato—were they just other members of the Wa ethnicity that had chosen a different way of life?  Were they the descendants of the old Jomon people, who hadn’t fully adopted the Yayoi agricultural lifestyle?  Or was this just the standard human tendency to dehumanize those who are against us, or just in our way?  We can make some inferences, perhaps, but that’s all they really are.

So there you have it.  The story of Iware Biko, who is widely heralded as the first sovereign of Yamato.  Even though he is supposed to have reigned for many decades after his ascension, it is unquestionably his path to the throne, that is of paramount importance in the chronicles.  Once he comes to the throne, there are a few other stories, which we may get into next episode, but those were really more about others—ancestors to various noble houses—or else it was a pathway to the next sovereign, and the continued lineage of the royal house.

Next episode I expect we’ll dig into some of that and move on with the legendary royal lineage.  We have a few more names to get through before we see anything that might touch on historical fact, and even that is tenuous at best.

So until next episode, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on topics from this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

Welcome to our 24th episode, and our 1 year anniversary!

This episode we get to talk to a much overlooked figure:  Nigi Hayahi no Mikoto--elder brother to Hiko Ho no Ninigi no Mikoto, grandson of Takami Musubi no Mikoto and Amaterasu Omikami, and the first Divine Descendant to come down and rule in Yamato.

So why don't we know more about this figure?  And what does it say that there were apparently two Heavenly Grandsons?  We'll go over this story and try to unwrap a little bit of the mystery, as best we can these many centuries past.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-24

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 24:  The OTHER Heavenly Grandson.

Alright, so we are still in the Age of the Gods, or at least that’s what these chapters are called in the Nihon Shoki: that era of myth where the Chroniclers didn’t even try to put some kind of fanciful dates on it, just leaving it in the realm of fanciful legend.  While some of these stories may have a kernel of truth or reflect movements and conflicts between various people, the stories are really so jumbled as to make it extremely difficult to figure out what happened when and even if they are in the correct order—let alone whether or not they are supposed to be linked together in the first place.  Rather, they appear to have been joined through a combination of best guesses by various chroniclers using the known “Truth” of the divine descent of the Royal Family, combined with a healthy dose of Chinese myth to use as its Frog DNA, Jurassic Park-style, to fill in missing pieces or help determine how things should fit.

Recently in this story, we’ve been following the lineage of the Heavenly Grandson, Ninigi no Mikoto, and, let’s face it, Ninigi and his immediate successor are hardly the paragons of virtue one would expect.  They seem to traipse about the land with a confident arrogance that comes with their divine status, and people are falling over themselves to hand over their land, magical jewels, and daughters. In return, they disrespect their wives, and curse their own brothers.  But they are the Heavenly deities, there ain’t no privilege like Heavenly privilege.  Even direct descendants of Izanagi himself, the Mountain and Sea deities, are falling over themselves to give them their daughters as wives and marry into the esteemed lineage.  After all, this was the line of Amaterasu and Takami Musubi, who wouldn’t want a piece of that action?  And of course, Ninigi and his line had been granted the earthly realm by his divine grandparents, so of course it was only natural that people should submit to his authority.  I mean, it isn’t like anyone else had been designated as the Divine Descendant, right?

Right?

Right…. About that.

Well, to  begin with, you might remember that Hiko Hononinigi was not technically the first person chosen for the task of ruling the land.  Initially that job was given to his father, Oshihomimi, but he took one look at the place, declared it a fixer-upper, and decided to nope out, passing the job over to his son.

Except…

This is where the Kojiki, Nihonshoki, and Kujiki all differ on exactly what happens next.  I didn’t go into it back then because this story really is something different.  The Kojiki and Nihon Shoki do get around to telling parts of the story eventually, but its really buried in other sections.  The Kujiki’s version has details that really don’t appear anywhere else.  And let me emphasize this—there are unique items in the Kujiki’s story that none of the other Chronicles have.  We don’t’ know where the information came from, but even detractors admit that they were pulling from ancient records that were equivalent to the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki’s source material. Therefore, perhaps this give us a clue as to some of the things that the Chroniclers may have deliberately left out of the official histories.  Perhaps from records that just weren’t approved, or maybe the scribes thought it would be too confusing—which is saying something, given all the variant stories that the Nihon Shoki does choose to include.

So, as I said, this story doesn’t really unfold in its entirety anywhere else, and it goes something like this: 

As we had talked about previously, Oshihomimi was dragging his feet getting ready, like a kid that doesn’t want to do his chores.  Heck, as he was supposed to be getting ready to go down he decided to take a break to get married and have a child.  And really, can you blame him for not wanting to leave the literal Plain of Heaven?!?  And so, as we’ve seen elsewhere, we are told that Oshiho Mimi took to wife Yorozu Hata Toyo Aki Tsushi Hime, aka Taku Hata Chichi Hime, older sister to Omoikane, making her daughter to Takami Musubi and, in some accounts, Kami Musubi as well. 

Omohikane, you may remember, came up with the plan for getting Amaterasu out of the Rock Cave, and made many helpful—and not so helpful—suggestions for subduing the earthly realm in the first place.

So far, so good—this is going much like the stories in the other Chronicles.  Except that in this version Oshihomimi and Takuhata Chichi Hime had not one, but two sons.  You see, in this story Ninigi was actually the second son, and he had an older brother named  Amaterasu Kuniterasu Hiko, Ame no Hoakaru kushi-tama Nigishi Hayahi—or just Nigi Hayahi, for short.  Man, there really is something in this family for long names.  Next will be his son, Jugemu jugemu… nah, we’ll just stop there—and if you don’t get the reference, look up Katsura Sunshine on YouTube and prepare for some nice Rakugo, or Japanese sit-down comedy.

Anyway, after this long distraction, Oshihomimi recommends that instead of having him going down, they should actually send this eldest son, Nigi Hayahi, who is apparently a full-grown adult at this point, because clearly Takama no Hara operates on a Night Valeian sense of time.  In fact, he wasn’t just full-grown, but he had married his first wife, Ame no Michi Hime, and he had a son of his own, Ama no Kago Yama, whom we will hear more of later. 

Since Nigi Hayahi was not just a descendant of Amaterasu but *also* a descendant of Takami Musubi, then, just like Ninigi, his younger brother, he was also known as the Royal Grandson, aka the Grandson of Heaven, and it was he, not Ninigi, who is originally provided the Royal decree and he is kitted out with the most lavish of gear and entourage, like the reincarnation of a character in a real Monty Haul campaign in D&D.  To start with he was given the 10 Heavenly Precious Symbols and Treasures, which are:  The Mirror of the Ocean, the Mirror of the Shore, the Sword of Great Length, the Jewel of Life, the Jewel of Resurrection, the Jewel of the Foot, the Jewel of Return, the Cloth of the Serpent, and the Cloth of Various Things.  He is also given the 10 words to heal small aches and pains or, you know, bring the dead back to life.  Also known as the Furu Words, they are “Hito Futa Miyo, Itsumu Na Na Ya Koko No To Wo.”  So congratulations, you now know the words to bring back the dead which are coincidentally the same as the old Japanese numbers.  Yup, this is really just the numbers one through 10, perhaps more commonly repeated as “Hitotsu, Futatsu, Mitsu, Yotsu, Itsutsu, Mutsu, Nanatsu, Yatsu, Kokonotsu, To’o”.  That’s supposed to be accompanied by some kind of dancing, but the instructions aren’t exactly clear.  So maybe I just helped ease the pain in your little toe or maybe I just triggered the zombie apocalypse, though given that it is 2020, I guess that would just be par for the course.

Now, I can’t help but notice that these gifts are all slightly different than what Ninigi brought down, and it is much more than just a mirror, sword, and jewels.  In fact, the number 10 appears to be the order of the day—and who knows.  Maybe when they sent down Ninigi no Mikoto, later, they only had three things left to send with him.

“Uhh.. let me take a look in back here… ummm… I’m sure we didn’t give your brother everything. We do have this mirror and jewels that your grandmother liked, and this sword that your great-uncle got from something’s tail—I’m pretty sure all the blood has been cleaned off of that.  Yeah, there you go, kid!  Some heavenly symbols for you.  Now go get’em, tiger!”

So anyway, loaded down with all of his heavenly loot, Nigi Hayahi descended from heaven with his entourage.  And what an entourage it was.  Now, to be fair, the Nihon Shoki does give quite a few different variations of Ninigi’s entourage as he descended, but let’s take a look at who came down in this first wave.

Well, to start with there is a list of 31 (possibly meant to be 32) people who came down to serve Nigi Hayahi, including his son, Kago Yama and various deities we’ve heard of before, such as Ame no Uzume, Ame no Futotama, Ame no Koyane, and even Sukuna Bikona, who had apparently come back from the Eternal Land for this, or something.  In reality, it is basically a huge listing of over 30 ancestral deities for different families, providing them some tenuous link to the royal lineage, much as we find in the other chronicles.

Then on top of the 30-plus escorts, there are five royal vassals—the “Tomo no Hito”, who were all ancestors of various be:  kinship groups made up of worker communities dedicated to some kind of goal or production.  In this case it is ancestors of two branches of the Mononobe—whom, interestingly, Nigi Hayahi is said to be ultimate ancestor of—as well as the Kasanuibe, the Inabe, and the Tochibe.

There are then five escorts, who appear to have possibly been designated as servants to the king, and possibly mortals, not celestial deities.

Then there are 25 men of the “Ame no Mononobe”—the Heavenly Mononobe family—who came armed with weapons.  This is not surprising as the Mononobe were the family group in the court generally charged with defense and military matters.

Finally, are all the crew for the Heavenly Rock Boat, by which they would descend.

Some of these same individuals would later follow Ninigi down—implying, I guess, that they had gone back up.  Clearly, as I’ve said, this is drawn from various records that used the ancestral kami as a means to demonstrate various families’ closeness to the royal lineage, and so if they aren’t in the one story they must be in the other.

So, with a cast of thousands—or at least approaching one hundred—Nigi Hayahi finally made his way down. Taking the Heavenly Rock Boat he landed with his retinue at the Ikaruga Peak in Kawachi Province, on the west side of the Nara Basin, just east of modern day Osaka.  And really, doesn’t this just make sense?  No side trip to Kyushu on this one.  From there he moved to Mt. Shiraniwa in Yamato, where he met and married his second wife Mikashikiya Hime.  It seems that Ame no Michi Hime decided to follow the example of her father-in-law, Oshihomimi, and stayed up in Takama no Hara.

Now it turns out that Mikashikya Hime wasn’t just some random woman that Nigi Hayahi picked up along the side of the road.  She was actually the sister to a local chieftain, later identified as Nagasune Hiko of Tomi.  One could even make the argument that she may have been a chieftain herself—perhaps part of a brother and sister pair, like how Himiko’s brother supported her government. 

We don’t get much of their life from there, but we do know that after some time Nigi Hayahi and Mikashikiya Hime had a child, but before the child was born, Nigi Hayahi passed away, and so he did not make it back to Takama no Hara. 

Man, if only there was someone with the 10 words that could bring back the dead, you know?

So, after a while of not hearing anything, Takami Musubi was getting worried.  Nigi Hayahi hadn’t reported back in some time and he sent Hayakaze, or Swift Wind—no relation to She-Ra’s equine companion, I’m pretty sure, though I do kind of like that imagery—Anyway, Swift Wind was sent down to check on things and order Nigi Hayahi to return and make a report.  Unfortunately, Swift Wind found that Nigi Hayahi had passed away, or, as these Chronicles like to say, “concealed himself”. 

Well, Takami Musubi was overcome with grief, and ordered his grandson brought back up to Takama no Hara where he was mourned for 7 days and 7 nights with copious amounts of weeping and wailing. 

But Remember, Nigi Hayahi was a Divine Descendant, so he wasn’t about to let something like death stop him, and sure enough he came back to earth in the dreams of his wife, Mikashikiya Hime, and he told her to give the Heavenly symbols to their child, who was named Umashimaji.  These heavenly symbols were not, as one might expect, the same items as what Nigi Hayahi came down with, but instead he told her to give him the feathered bow and arrows and then three other items:   The robe, the belt, and the bracelet.

Finally, he asked to be buried in the village of Shiraniwa in Tomi—her brother-in-law’s territory.

With Nigi Hayahi’s death, we are told that Nagasune Hiko helped his nephew, Umashimaji, take the throne, and he was thus ruling in that area, which we know of today as Yamato.

So let’s take a brief moment to pause here and examine this.  What exactly is going on?  Is this really found only in the Kujiki?  Why?

Well, this isn’t only found in the Kujiki, exactly—the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki do mention Nigi Hayahi, but only in relationship to the conquest of Yamato by Ninigi’s own offspring, Ihare Hiko.  Now, a bit of a spoiler alert, but pretty soon we’ll start to talk about this Prince Ihare, also known today as Jimmu Tenno, who is credited as the first Japanese sovereign in the line running down to the modern Imperial Household.  When he decided to come east he found that the central land, Yamato, was already populated, and that they claimed to have their own heavenly regalia.  Leading to a mass of confusion and subsequent beat-downs.

Now, Nigi Hayahi does make a brief appearance in the Kojiki, showing up after Ihare-Hiko kills off his main opposition, Nagasune-Hiko—the one and the same as the late Nigi Hayahi’s brother-in-law, though in the Kojiki timeline, the marriage between Nigi Hayahi and Mikashikiya Hime doesn’t happen until after Nagasune’s death.  Nigi Hayahi comes down to bestow several heavenly gifts upon Ihare, and then proceeds to take Nagasune’s sister as his wife and give birth to the ancestor of the Mononobe, Umashimaji.

In the Nihon Shoki, the story is likewise referenced in Ihare’s conquest, and Nagasune’s resistance to the Heavenly Child is justified through his loyalty to Nigi Hayahi, who had come down to Yamato in the Heavenly Rock Boat and married his sister.  He even shows Ihare evidence that his brother-in-law was, in fact, designated as the Heavenly Grandson in the form of Heavenly feathered arrows, possibly those that Nigi Hayahi had his wife give to their son.  However, surprise, surprise Ihare then demonstrates his own Heavenly lineage in a similar fashion.  Theoretically, this should have been enough to have Nagasune capitulate, but he had already set his resistance in motion.  In the end, Nigi Hayahi comes down and kills his brother-in-law and submits to Ihare as the rightful sovereign.

So what’s going on here?  Are there really two Heavenly Grandchildren?  This certainly isn’t something that you hear too much of outside of this story.  John Bentley suggests that Nigi Hayahi actually does represent an earlier deity—possibly even an earlier royal lineage in the Yamato area.  If he really is the father of Umashimaji, the ancestor of the Mononobe Clan, this may be another one of those stories that is perhaps a little problematic for the royal dynasty, but could not be kept out without pissing off some of the more powerful members of the court.  Remember, the Mononobe were connected to the military, and there are few ways to tank your reign faster than alienating your own army.

Furthermore, there is a good case that the Kujiki—or at least the form that we have of it in the Sendai Kuji Hongi—was prepared specifically for the Mononobe family, or at least based heavily on their records.  The Mononobe family appear to have been powerful ritualists at court, as well as largely responsible, as I just mentioned, for military affairs, at least early on.  Their clan shrine, Isonokami, was said to be quite important back in the day, as we’ll see in the stories.  By the time that the Chronicles were being written down, of course, they were still powerful, but perhaps not quite as powerful as they had once been.  We’ll talk about this more in future episodes, I’m sure.

Now, the specific details are interesting in that despite numerous similarities between the descent of Ninigi and the descent of Nigi Hayahi, there are still quite a few differences—this is not just a matter of changing the names to protect the guilty.  For one thing, there is no haggling with Ise, and Nigi Hayahi comes straight down to the Yamato area to settle.  There are no stories of conquest, and the whole thing is a bit anti-climatic.  Nigi Hayahi seems to make his way with marriage politics, marrying into the local elite structure, rather than just expecting everyone to hand over the land.  Also in the first telling of the story, the Kujiki makes an abrupt turn in the narrative here, returning back to the story of Amaterasu attempting to send Oshihomimi back down once again.  You could almost remove this entire section and the story would seem to be little different from what we find in the Nihon Shoki and Kojiki, although, later in the Kujiki they devote an entire book to the stories of Nigi Hayahi’s descendants following both the line of his earthly wife as well as a second, earlier line from a wife in Heaven, where he apparently had time to marry and sire a child before leaving.  Why he didn’t take his wife with him, who can say?  Of course, later both Ame no Kagoyama and his mother would join Ame no Uzume and others following Niningi no Mikoto on his way down.

Bentley suggests that Nigi Hayahi, the older of the two Heavenly Grandchildren, is specifically invested with the shamanistic and spiritual authority.  He is given the 10 items, as well as the 10 words, and he sets down directly in the Nara Basin with no conflict, even though he brings an entourage capable of defending him if necessary.  Meanwhile, as we’ll see later, Ninigi descends to Kyushu, and there he and his descendants live until *his* grandchild, Ihare Hiko, makes his way up to Yamato, subduing anyone who opposes his rule, demonstrating his military power.  Eventually he comes and takes the land of Yamato, which Nigi Hayahi’s son ends up giving him by taking out his own uncle, Nagasune Hiko.

And there in lies the crux of the matter, Bentley suggests.  You see, much of this mirrors the story of Sovereign Naka no Ohoe, aka Tenji, his son Ohotomo, known as Koubun, and Naka no Ohoe’s bother, Ohoama—also known as Temmu, whose dynasty was putting all of this together.  As we’ve touched on before, Ohoama came to the throne through a civil war that overthrew his nephew.  This was called the Jinshin War, or Jinshin no Ran, named for the zodiac sign of the year in which it occurred: 672. 

Similarly, the lineage of Nigi Hayahi ceding power to the line of Ninigi may have provided some precedent, perhaps helping to legitimize Ohoama’s claims to the throne.  That doesn’t entirely explain why it shows up in the Kujiki but is glossed over in the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki, though,

But more on that in future episodes.  For now, let’s examine a few other elements found in this story.

To begin with, let’s look at the geographic locations. Whereas the locations of the Ninigi myth are almost entirely found in southern Kyushu, with the exception of Saruta Hiko in Ise no Kuni, the entire area where Nigi Hayahi’s story is taking place in is in the Yamato region—no archipelago-spanning theatrics required to get from one place to another.  While it is certainly possible that the various features mentioned were actually so-named after the places in the story, it is still clear that the idea in the 8th and 9th centuries was that this story had taken place there, and that Nigi Hayahi had come directly to the Yamato region.

First off he arrives at the peak of Ikaruga in Kawachi province—Kawachi being known as a long-time homeland and stronghold of the Mononobe clan, who claim descent from Nigi Hayahi, though there are actually quite a few uji that were associated with that area and with Nigi Hayahi, as well.  Certainly the town of Ikaruga has some claim to antiquity, as it is home to, among other things, the Buddhist temple of Horyuji, which was founded in 607, and whose Kondou, or main hall, is famous as the world’s oldest wooden building.  And of course, there are numerous kofun in the area.

Following the northern hills—or low mountains, depending on your definition—for a little more than 10 kilometers to the north—a good 3 hour walk or so—you reach the next location mentioned, which is Mt. Shiraniwa, in modern Ikoma city.

The area of Tomi is also a bit of a question.  The traditional burial place of Nigi Hayahi seems to be in the same Shiraniwa region, with a grave traditionally attributed to him on the top of the mountain at the end of that range.  This is all situated in the northwest of the Nara basin, which would make sense.  However, there are several areas called Tomi, Torimi, or Tobi all throughout the ancient area of Yamato, from the town of Torimi, a little south of the Shiraniwa area, to Mt. Tomi in Sakurai, just south of Mt. Miwa.  These all use the same kanji as used in the Nihon Shoki.  It is possible that Tomi refers to the entire area that we think of as the Nara basin and the early heart of Yamato.  However, I should also point out that some scholars suggest that Tomi may have been a derivation from a Korean placename, and as such may have been used after the fact in the Yamato basin.

Regardless of exactly where they were, to the people of the 8th century these would seem to have been familiar places to them, providing a clear indication that Nigi Hayahi descended to the Yamato region and his son, Umashimaji, was ruling there.  Of course, all of this is apparently fiction and does not clearly accord with what we know from the Chinese accounts nor the archaeology, except perhaps in broad strokes.  Without anything concrete to anchor the story to, we have to assume that this entire thing is fiction, but still intriguing for what it tells us about the 6th, 7th, and 8th centuries.

Of course, as myths, we still wonder what their origin might be.  Going back to the idea of the mountain peak, we already discussed, with Ninigi’s descent, that the idea of descending to a mountain peak was hardly original to the Japanese stories, and similar origin myths are recorded on the Korean peninsula, and in Southeast Asia.  In fact, though it doesn’t seem to have been written down until its appearance in the Samguk Yusa in the 13th century, the story of legendary Dangun of Korean mytho-history has a few hauntingly similar themes.  For example, his grandfather was called the “Lord of Heaven” and his father descended to Baekdu Mountain, formerly known as Mt. Taebaek, with his various ministers.  He was also given three heavenly symbols to take with him.  He himself was styled the “Heavenly Grandson”—sound familiar? 

By the way, this mountain, also called Chang Bai Shan in Mandarin, sits on the modern border between China and North Korea, and features prominently in North Korean propaganda about their own ruling dynasty, as the second Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il, was “officially” born on the same mountain, which demonstrates how even today the symbolism of such things continues to permeate and affect even modern culture.

There is another myth in the Samguk Yusa, less directly related, having to do with Mt. Kuji, and referred to in the myths of Kara, or Gaya.  The Gaya confederacy formed in the area where archaeological evidence shows some of the strongest connections with the archipelago, forming out of the Pyonhan area and lasting until the 6th century, and its leading state appears to have been located at the mouth of the Nakdong river, near modern Busan, which appears to have been the jumping off point for the archipelago during Himiko’s time.  In this story, there was a golden case with a red coverlid that descended to the mountain, with six golden eggs, which turned into six boys.  The eldest, Suro, was invested as the first king of Gaya.  While not exactly the same, we still see in this story the descent of the eventual ruler down to a mountain, this time with five others—which puts me in mind of how Ninigi descended with the ancestors of the five great houses. Also, the case containing the eggs had a red coverlid, possibly similar to the way that Ninigi came down shrouded in a royal coverlet.  Possibly a coincidence, but who knows.

Of course, it probably shouldn’t be too surprising that there would be similarities, given the number of people that immigrated from the peninsula to the Japanese archipelago, particularly in the 5th and 6th centuries, which may have been when many of the myths took the general form in which we know them, today.

It is possible that various lineages throughout the archipelago had similar origin stories—perhaps adapting the same story over and over again for different lineages.  Obayashi Taryo, a Japanese ethnologist, who wrote extensively on matters of myth, legend, and story across Japan and East Asia, suggests something of an Ur-myth, wherein the hero descends from heaven, often to a mountain peak, with symbols of a hunter—bow and arrows—and some heavenly authority.  They have a child, and then they pass away, often returning back to Heaven in the process, and their descendants are then the actual earthly progenitors of some lineage or dynasty. Now Just insert the kami of your choice, here.  We do know that descent from a Heavenly kami was hardly unique to the royal family, as we are constantly being introduced to various ancestral deities.

Russell Kirkland has even suggested that the royal lineage of Yamato may have, shall we say, borrowed, the structure  of their own story from the Mononobe, adding in other elements important to them, but perhaps also explaining why Nigi Hayahi wasn’t completely written out of the story altogether.

Besides this idea of some divine ancestor arriving on a mountain top, there is also the issue of regalia. We’ve noted the prevalence of regalia items previously as well, and it strikes me that it may have been common custom across different lands, such that the rulers of any given area would be expected to have one or more sacred objects that somehow were seen as legitimizing their reign.  We’ve talked about it before, but here we have a very clear example of items given to legitimize Nigi Hayahi’s reign, and they are not the same as those given to Ninigi no Mikoto.  And then the items that Nigi Hayahi asks to pass on to his own son are again different, possibly indicating that section came from a different story.  The items that Umashimaji receives includes a bow and heavenly feathered arrow, which puts me in mind of the items that were given to Ame no Wakahiko when he was told to come down and subdue the land.  That story also shares a similarity in how Ame no Wakahiko’s body is eventually carried back up to Heaven on the Swift or Divine Wind, as was Nigi Hayahi’s.

Of course, we know that mirrors, swords, and jewels all appear as grave goods from the Yayoi period on, which would appear to indicate some level of prestige associated with them, and it would be easy to understand that certain items might be used as an indicator of status, eventually transitioning into objects of legitimization for ruling elite, and becoming ritual objects of the state.  It strikes me that this may not have only referred to items that conveyed royal authority, but it may also have applied to items of chiefly regalia as well.  Of course, “chief” and “king” were probably not all that different, early on, except, perhaps, in the scope of their territory.

A few other things in this story, some of which I glossed over, but that continue to point to, well, something going on.  First is his name.  I mean, obviously we can see the similarities been Nigi and Ninigi, one would think. But more than that, one of the names or titles that he is given is basically Ho no Akari, which was also the name given to one of Hiko Hohodemi’s brothers—at least in some of the stories.  Ho no Akari is basically “the Brightness of the Fire” and matches with other Fire/Sun themed names that we’ve seen.

Also, there is the timing of everything.  Of course, Nigi Hayahi supposedly descends before his younger brother, Ninigi, but then there are three generations, at least, before someone decides to leave Kyushu.  And yet, theoretically over in the Yamato basin they are still only one generation from Nigi Hayahi: Umashimaji.  And of course Nagasune Hiko is there through it all.  Clearly there are some temporal shenanigans going on here, even accounting for the Methsulean lifespans of the characters in these stories—just more evidence of why none of this is considered “history” or even “protohistory” but perhaps more appropriately as “mythohistory”—and even that may be giving it too much credit.

This all seems to point to the idea that many of the concepts weren’t fully set in stone by the court until much later.  Indeed, we can see, for instance, that inheritance was not necessarily through the oldest son, and there is evidence that it need not even be within the immediate family.  There are many scholars who propose that the royal lineage of Yamato is anything but a single unbroken line, but rulership may have rotated amongst a handful of important lineages.  To me, this would fit in with the idea of Himiko being chosen to rule, and not necessarily ruler simply through her immediate parents.  Likewise after Himiko there appears to be another, male ruler, with whom people are not pleased, and only after him is a relative of Himiko then put on the throne.  Many scholars assume that the early rulership of Yamato was actually something that was passed back and forth between several chiefly lineages, and the entire idea of a single, unbroken lineage is a fabrication of the 6th century and later.

So where is all of this coming from?  I mean, we have some references in the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki, but here I’m much more explicitly pulling from the Kujiki.  Or, more accurately, the Sendai Kuji Hongi, as translated by John Bentley.  So what is this source and why do we care?

I honestly can’t remember if I mentioned much about the Kujiki, before, and if I did it was more than a few episodes ago.  Anyway, I would suspect that most people, even if they were familiar with the Nihon Shoki, the Kojiki, and even the Fudoki, may never have heard of the Kujiki at all, or they may have believed that it once existed, but was now completely lost.  So what is it, then?

Well, according to the Kujiki itself, it was actually written before either the Nihon Shoki or the Kojiki—there is actually some claim that it was originally authored by the legendary Prince Shotoku Taishi himself in the 7th century.  In fact, for ages it was lauded as such and thought to be the oldest extant history in Japan—the text rescued from the fires of the burning Soga mansion, and thus equal, if not superior, to the Nihon Shoki or Kojiki.  It certainly seems to have a more complete history, for those things it covers, than either of the other two Chronicles.  But if that is the case, why have so few heard of it?  Why is it that the Kojiki and the Nihon Shoki get all the press?

Well for that you can thank the Edo period scholars—in particular Imai Arinobu, who was in the employ of Tokugawa Mitsukuni.  Mitsukuni was cousin to the Shogun and a member of the Mito Tokugawa, one of the three cadet households of the Shogunal family, called upon to provide heirs if the main shogunal line happened to run dry.  Mitsukuni may only have been a shogunal cousin, but he did become the daimyo of the Mito domain, and through his resources he gathered scholars in 1657 and commissioned the Dai Nihonshi, or Great History of Japan.  This effort would create a whole school of Japanese historical and religious studies known as Mitogaku, and, well, we could spend several episodes talking about its influence.  Suffice it to say he and his scholars held up pro-Imperial views of the nation that would eventually exert significant influence on the Sonno Joi movement, which spurred many to action in the Bakumatsu period, culminating in the end of the shogunal government and rise of the Meiji Period.

Oh, and if any jidaigeki fans out there feel they recognize Mitsukuni’s name, that may be because he is the protagonist in the popular series, “Mito Komon”, which ran from 1969 right up until 2011, presenting a fictionalized account of Mitsukuni traveling incognito around the country, bringing justice to the downtrodden.

Circling back to the Kujiki, however, it was Mitsukuni—the real Mitsukuni—and Arinobu who declared that the Kujiki was inauthentic—an imitation, at best, and possibly an outright forgery.  Since then, numerous scholars have agreed with their findings.  Rather than an authentic, 7th century history, it was argued that it must have been created during the Heian period at the earliest, copying and rearranging the previous texts.  Indeed, many of its stories share copious details with both the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki, as well as another document, the Kogo Shui, developed largely to justify the grievances of the Imbe who felt their power and influence as ritualists was waning.  In many cases these aren’t merely similarities, but passages that can be correlated one-for-one in either document, with only the most minor and insignificant of changes.

However, there are some passages that are not found in any of its supposed predecessors, and while some may assume these are entirely fraudulent, others, such as the later Edo period scholar, Motoori Norinaga, believed that they should be accepted as segments lifted from ancient texts that are no longer extant.  William George Aston appears to have approached the text somewhat cautiously during his own translation of the Nihon Shoki, and references it occasionally, but not in great depth.

Recently, however, John Bentley has not only provided a translation of this work, but has made his own investigations into its authenticity, and by his account it does appear to be an 8th century work, possibly from an unpublished manuscript, that draws heavily on many of the same sources as the Kojiki and the Nihon Shoki, but includes passages from other sources as well and arranges everything in a much more novel way.

Comparing the different chronicles, you can see how they differ from one another.  If you look at the organization of the Kojiki, it is more or less a single narrative, as one would expect from someone copying down a single oral account, but it is also generally considered the least accurate. Meanwhile the Nihon Shoki’s main narrative is considered the most orthodox, but various myths are rife with contradictions from variant stories, which may have been added in after the fact.  It is organized into the two chapters of the Age of the Gods, followed by individual chapters for each of the sovereigns, until the reign of Temmu, all in a conveniently timestamped manner, with dates—fictitious or otherwise—for all of the chapters of the supposedly historic period, starting at the ludicrous date of 667 BCE.  The Sendai Kuji Hongi, on the other hand appears to be somewhere in between both of these, at least to me, and is the least straightforward in terms of its chronology.  It is actually composed of 10 books, and while each book retains some notion of internal consistency, much of the material is covered in multiple books.  So, for example, the information on Nigi Hayahi is present in the following books:

•              Book Three: The Original Record of the Heavenly Deity, which gives a description of his descent and all of the associated throng of people who accompanied him, as well as all the loot he brought down with him.

•              Book Five: The Original Record of the Heavenly Grandson, which briefly covers Nigi Hayahi’s descent, but then goes into much greater detail on his two sons, and their lineages, down to the Ohari and Mononobe uji

•              Book Six: The Original Record of the Royal Grandson, which focuses largely on Ninigi and his progeny up until Ihare Hiko’s ascension to the throne—spoiler alert—in Yamato.  Here, Nigi Hayahi is mentioned more in line with accounts in the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki as background material on Umashimaji and his uncle, Nagasune Hiko.

Book Five, following the descendants of both sons of Nigi Hayahi covers the entirety of history effectively twice.  Once from the older brother, Ame no Kago Yama through to the 7th century descendants in the Ohari family—though generally only following a single line, fortunately—and once from Umashimaji all the way down to the 7th century Mononobe descendants.  And then Book Six takes you back to the Age of the Gods and the descent of Ninigi and we run through it all over again.

This type of narration does tend to lead to some inconsistencies, possibly due to the fact that they were lifting the material from different source records.  Sometimes names are different from one section to another, and other times there are questions about the timeline, such as between the four generations of Ninigi, Hiko Hohodemi, Ugaya Fukiaezu, and Ihare Hiko versus the two generations of Nigi Hayahi and Umashimaji.  Of course, the source material seems to handwave this away given that we are in the transition period from the age of the gods, when people are still said to live for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.  Nonetheless, it is a quite noticeable discrepancy.

One thing that does shine through pretty clearly is that connection to the Owari and Mononobe uji.  The Mononobe family comes through quite clearly, in fact, if you really think about how many of the individuals in the story are connected to the Mononobe.

As we go through the rest of the Chronicles, I encourage you to look there for more on the Mononobe and their story.  I suspect that they were a powerful part of the early Yamato court, and not simply those who handled weapons and served as warriors.  Just like any powerful court family, they were ritualists, and may even have been one of the ruling families.  Later, their influence waned, but it was not gone, and there are those who believe that this particular work was mean, in part, as pro-Mononobe propoganda, while still glorifying Temmu’s line and paying lip service to the official histories.

Anyway, that’s some background, and hopefully you learned something new.  Next time someone asks you about the descent of the Heavenly Grandson—you know, that popular conversation topic at any family gathering, usually brought up just after someone mentions politics or religion—well, now when someone asks that question, you can cheerfully ask:  “Which one?”  And hopefully avoid your drunk auntie’s latest tirade about the kids these days.

Next episode we’ll get back on track with the Orthodox mytho-historical account as we follow Ihare Hiko as he marches eastward out of Kyushu and takes his place in Yamato.

Until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on topics from this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

CW:  Men disrespecting/not listening to women

This episode we finish the story of Ninigi and move on to the story of Hiko Hohodemi.  We'll touch on the stories, where we've tried to combine the elements of the various chronicles into one narrative. 

And there are definitely some themes in these stories about the men of the Heavenly lineage not listening to the women in their lives, which shouldn't be much of a shock at this point.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-23

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua and this is episode 23:  Heavenly Princes Behaving Badly, or Cursing your own siblings for fun and profit.

Last episode we followed the descent of Hiko Hononinigi no Mikoto, the Heavenly Grandchild, the grandson of both Amaterasu Ohomikami and Takami Musubi no Kami.  He was granted the sacred regalia—the jewel, mirror, and sword—and sent down with a retinue, including the five ancestral kami of the great clans of the early Yamato court.  On the way they met Saruta Hiko Ohokami, who left with Ame no Uzume no Mikoto to live in the province of Ise, where Uzume becam the ancestor of the Sarume clan, who were traditionally led by a lady as the clan head.

Eventually the heavenly party made their way down to earth, coming to rest in Kyushu, where Ninigi set up a palace just above the high tide mark on the shore, and where he found his wife, Konohana Sakuya Hime.  Of course he was also offered the hand of Sakuya Hime’s elder sister Iwanaga Hime, but Ninigi declined, not because he was a devoted monogamist, but simply because he found Iwanaga Hime to be not quite up to his standards in the looks department.  Because this shallow decision, his descendants would not endure as long as the rocks, but would disappear like the sweet but ephemeral blossoms of spring.

And that pretty much catches us up to where we are.  We’ve traversed many miles—and several stories—to get here already.  In fact, I have a suspicion that the tale of the Heavenly Grandchild is made up of at least three, if not four, different stories, merged into one.  There is the Amaterasu story, which likely described the descent of Oshihomimi and was centered around the province of Ise.  Then there is the story of Takami Musubi’s grandson, Hononinigi, whose descent was likely more an allegory for an abundant harvest and connected closely with the royal rites of the Daijosai, and probably the closely related Niinamesai.  Then there is the descent of Ninigi—or perhaps some other chieftain—to southern Kyushu, the home of the later Yamato court’s nemeses, the Kumaso and the Hayato.  Finally, we have this story of Konohana Sakuya Hime and Iwanaga Hime, which sounds like it could have been about just about anyone , as the actual man is unimportant, for all of his apparent status as the protagonist in the story.  One of the reasons I suspect the latter is that Sakuya Hime has another, less fantastical name that she goes by, and while it is given in various fashions it is basically some form of “Atatsu Hime”, or “the lady of Ata.”  Conveniently, Ata happened to be right there, in Southern Kyushu.

So in Kyushu, Ninigi and Sakuya Hime or Atatsu Hime had met and she had immediately taken him home to see dad.  Rather than meeting him with the ancient Japanese equivalent of a shotgun, Ohoyatsumi, her father, brought him inside and greeted him with a feast.  This was apparently what amounted to a wedding feast at the time, and Ninigi and Atatsu Hime were considered married from that point forward.

Of course, getting married was more than just a lot of good food.  There was also the traditional consummation of the marriage, which is not exactly described, but the consequences definitely are evident, as Atatsu Hime shortly thereafter told her new husband the good news—she was pregnant, and since Ninigi was Amatsu Hiko, that is, Heavenly Prince, his children shouldn’t be kept a secret, but it should be public knowledge that they were his, for their own sake if nothing else.

Ninigi was incredulous.  Like so many young men that haven’t quite figured out how this whole sex thing works, he insisted that there was no way that the kids could be his.  After all, even as the Divine Descendant, it was highly unlikely that he could have gotten Atatsu Hime pregnant in just one night.  Surely, he protested, these must be the children of some earthly deity that Lady Atatsu had had relations with before they met.

This went over with Atatsu Hime like a lead balloon.  Who was this man to come into her life, get her pregnant, and now he was denying it all?  And so she made a vow—an Ukehi vow, much like Susanowo had made to Amaterasu, but in this case with somewhat more of a personal stake.  She claimed that if they were children of a heavenly deity, they would be unharmed by something as simple as fire.  But if they were the children of an earthly deity then surely they would be burned and perish.

Saying that, she had built for her a special building, and when it was time to give birth she went in and then had herself sealed inside.  Then, as she started to give birth, she set fire to it.

Just as the light of the fire started to grow, Ho no Akari was born—but he wasn’t alone.  As the fire reached its height, Ho no Susori—aka either Ho no Suseri or Ho no Susumi.  Then, as the flames died down, another brother was born, and his name was Ho no Wori.  Finally, as the flames settled down into fiery hot coals, radiating heat, the last son was born:  Hiko Hohodemi.

All four of these brothers survived the fire, proving their Heavenly lineage.  Though, admittedly, we don’t quite know how their mother, Atatsu Hime, made it out, though she was the daughter of Ohoyatsumi, the Mountain God, which would make her the granddaughter of Izanagi and Izanami, so a little fire was probably not top of her worries.

And after all of this, they don’t say it, but I imagine Ninigi giving it the slow clap with a smirk on his face.  As Atatsu Hime pulled herself out of the ashes and presented herself to Ninigi, the proof of her fidelity written in the ashes and soot covering her face and newborn children, one imagines the fiery steel in her eye growing to rage as Ninigi casually remarks that, yeah, yeah, HE knew all along that they were his kids, he just didn’t want people gossiping and trying to claim that they were someone else’s, and that’s why he had to protest so hard.

Atatsu Hime was livid—so mad that she refused to speak to him.  She cared for and raised the children, but would not say a word to Ninigi, nor in any way return any of his affections.  He was pining for her and tried to win her back with a poem  , but there’s no clear evidence if it worked.  In any case, he must have remained in the doghouse, because the story from here mostly ignores him and focuses on the youngest child Hiko Hohodemi and one of his older brothers.

Before we get into that, though, let’s talk about this.  First off a couple of the discrepancies—not all of the accounts give the same names of the children, let alone suggesting they were all born at the same time.  That certainly would have been something—quadruplets are not unheard of, but certainly not usual, by any stretch of the imagination.  So I rather doubt the story as given.

Let’s start with the number of children—stories vary between 2 and 4 siblings.  Three actually seems the most common, with Ho no Wori often being just another name for Hiko Hohodemi.  Ho no Akari shows up in a few other places in the Chronicles, and, indeed, seems to have little to do with the next few passages, though some accounts note them as the ancestor of either the Wohari no Muraji, or the Chieftains of Takumi—the Takumi no Miyatsuko.  One assumes that the Chieftain of Takumi was of the Wohari no Muraji.

To confuse things further, the Kojiki suggests that one Ame no Ho Akari no Mikoto was the older sister of Ninigi, not one of his sons—and of course, “son” may often be an assumption, as the original may simply state “child” and expect gender to be known by context in the rest of the story.  And so we may keep an eye out for Ame no Ho Akari, later.

As for their birth, many of the stories reference the building that they were born in.  In the Kojiki they call it a palace, like the one made for Ohokuninushi in Izumo, while in the Nihon Shoki it is referred to as a “muro”, which Aston suggested was a kind of pit house.  Interestingly they do not use a term found elsewhere:  ubuya, or parturition hut.  We’ll talk about these later, but they were basically detached buildings used for giving birth.  Given the terminology, it is unclear if something else other than childbirth is actually going on—and that may be related to the fact that in some stories the children are already born before Atatsu Hime goes through with her vow.

Speaking of which, we’ve seen and talked about these Ukehi vows a couple of times, now, so we should have an idea of what is going on here.  It has been suggested that this is also an example of the kind of trial by ordeal—in this case a trial by fire.  The idea being, of course, that if you are guilty of some offense you would be burned, but if you were innocent, then you would come out unscathed, as she and the children did.

And I don’t think I need to talk too much about Ninigi’s role here as douche-canoe supreme.  About as charitable as I can be is to say is that this may have been a teaching lesson for young men about just where babies come from and that yes, even if you are a Prince of Heaven, you can get someone pregnant on your first go.  Still, I don’t think too highly of him in this instance, not that we are necessarily supposed to.

Nonetheless, we can see Atatsu Hime’s motivation, because she wanted to make sure that her children were legitimized as descendants of the Heavenly lineage.  And with that we largely get to put Ninigi in the eight-fold rear-view mirror  as we proceed with our story, which in this case involves only two of the brothers, one of whom is typically Hiko Hohodemi, who—spoiler alert—will go on to continue the royal line, while the other one—usually Ho no Susori, but the names aren’t always clear—he’s often credited as the ancestor of the Hayato, or at least the Hayato of Ata, their mother’s territory.  We’ll talk a little bit more about them later in this episode, and we mentioned them briefly, before, but the key thing to understand is that the Hayato were considered by the people of Yamato to be a separate ethnicity from their own, who lived in Southern Kyushu, and they are mostly referenced during the reigns of the later historical sovereigns.

Given some of the ambiguity in the various sources about who the brothers are, I’m mostly going to use the tactic they seem to take in this next piece, which is to refer to the Older Brother and Younger Brother.  Indeed, I highly suspect that much of the story may have simply been about an unnamed Older Brother and an unnamed Younger Brother, and then it was grafted in here, for reasons we shall discuss, later.  But for now, let’s get on with our story.

So there were two brothers.  Well, actually there were three—or maybe four.  But there were two whom we are talking about here.  They were each gifted with a Sachi, or lucky fetish —and now get your minds out of the gutter.  That is fetish as in an item believed to have some sort of mysterious or magical powers not, well, the other thing.  Unless you happen to be in to items with mysterious or magical powers, in which case, whatever works for you, I’m not here to judge. 

So because of his lucky fetish, the Elder Brother was also known as Umisachi Hiko, the Prince of the Sea-Luck, and he had a fishhook that allowed him to catch anything in the sea, so he would always bring in a bountiful catch.  In like fashion, the younger brother was known as Yamasachi Hiko, the Prince of the Mountain-Luck, and he had a set of bow and arrows that were so potent, every time he would go out hunting, he would never fail to bring back game, and this made him a consummate hunter.

Now the Younger Brother—whom we are told was Hiko Hohodemi—he thought it would be fun if each of them were to swap their lucky tools.  Initially, his Elder Brother refused, but the Younger Brother wore him down and eventually he did agree.  And so the Elder Brother took the bow and arrows, and the Younger Brother took the fishhook, and they each went off to try their hand at the other’s craft.

Of course, luck isn’t something that can just be given, and try as he might, the Elder Brother could find no game in the mountains, and he eventually returned emptyhanded.  The Younger Brother, likewise, could catch nothing, and after a while he even lost the fishhook altogether.  When the two of them met up once again, the Elder Brother handed his younger sibling his bow and arrows back, and then demanded the return of his fishhook.  The Younger Brother, however, could only apologize that he had lost it, and he could not find it.

Well this would not do, and the Elder Brother demanded that he produce the fishhook he had let him borrow.  The Younger Brother made platter upon platter of fishhooks for his brother—he even had his long sword melted down and made into thousands of fishhooks, but nothing would satisfy his Elder Brother, for none of them were the fishhook that held his sea-luck within it. 

Dejected and depressed, the Younger Brother wandered along the shoreline, lamenting that he had no way to please his Elder Brother.  As he was crying and wailing, he was spotted by the Old Man of the Salt Sea, Shihotsutsu no Oji, whom some say was the same person as Nagasa, who had given over the land to Ninigi.  The Old Man approached, addressing the Younger Brother as “Soratsu Hiko”, the Prince of the Sky, and asked him just what was the matter.  And so, the Younger Brother laid out everything that had happened, and how he had lost the fishhook, and how his Elder Brother would not accept any of his attempts to replace it.

The Old Man thought about this for a while and then he came up with an idea.  He took out a black comb and threw it on the ground, and it immediately grew up into a grove of bamboo.  The old man harvested the bamboo, and from the stalks he made a loosely woven vessel, like a basket or a boat, and he told the Younger Brother to get into the boat and he would send him down, under the sea.  There he would come upon a sand bank, and if he followed it, he would eventually come to gates of the palace of the sea god, Watatsumi no Kami.  Outside the gates was a well, and besides the well was a large katsura tree.  The Younger Brother should climb up into the branches of the Katsura tree and wait for Watatsumi’s daughter to emerge.  She would then see him in the tree and be able to help him out of this situation.

And so the Younger Brother did as he was told.  Sure enough, everything was just as the old man had described, and the Younger Brother found the Katsura tree and he climbed up in it.  He then waited for a very long time until a beautiful woman came out of the gates, carrying a jeweled vessel, and she went to the well, intending to draw some water.  This was Toyotama Hime, the daughter of the sea god, Watatsumi no Kami  But as she looked down in the water of the well, she saw the Younger Brother’s shining visage reflected in it, and this startled her so much she ran back inside.  And can you really blame her?  What would you do if you popped out your front door to get the paper and suddenly saw some guy up in your katsura tree, smiling at you?  Stalker-vibe, much?

So Toyotama Hime ran inside and immediately told her father that there was a beautiful man outside the gates, up in the tree.  He didn’t have any of the dirt of Heaven or the dirt of the Earth upon him—could he be from the Sky?  Indeed, a Prince of the Sky, or Soratsu Hiko?  She decided to send out her handmaiden to find out who he was and what he was doing here.

And so the handmaiden did as she was asked and went out to inquire just who this beautiful Sky Prince must be.  When she came back in she explained that he was a son of the Heavenly Deity—by which the chronicles mean he was Hiko Hohodemi, son of Ninigi no Mikoto.

Toyotama Hime’s father, the Sea God, listened to all of this and thought he would test this Prince to see that what he said was true.  And so he set out three platforms and a many-folded mat for him to sit upon.  He then went out and invited the Prince into his palace.  The Younger Brother accepted the invitation, and at the first platform he wiped both of his feet, at the second platform he wiped his hands, and then finally he sat upon the blanket in the third—a blanket not unlike the coverlet that Takami Musubi had placed over Ninigi no Mikoto when he was sent down to earth.  By these acts, he thus proved his status.

And no, I don’t know how that proved his status, but according to the Kujiki, it did.  You know, didn’t your mother teach you that when there are three chairs you wipe your feet on one, wipe your hands on the other, and then sit on the third?  No?  Well, you must not be a descendant of the Heavenly Deity is suppose.

Anyway, back to our story.

As you might guess, the sea deity, Watatsumi, was thrilled to have a descendent of the Heavenly deities stopping by, and so, much like the mountain deity, Ohoyatsumi, had done for Ninigi, he had a grand feast prepared and he offered his daughter’s hand in marriage, which the Prince gladly accepted.  And as they sat there, Watatsumi asked the young Prince just what had brought him down to his realm, under the sea, and the son of the Heavenly descendant went on to tell him the whole story, and how he had lost his Elder Brother’s fishhook and now he was searching for it.

Hearing this, the Sea Deity called all of the fish together and asked if any of them had seen the fishhook.  Nobody had seen anything, but there was one who had a sore mouth, and maybe the hook was stuck in there.

Now here’s where most stories say it was the Red Woman, or Akame, aka the Red Tai, or Sea Bream, who had the hook in her mouth.  In those stories, they generally take out the hook and give it to our protagonist.

But there is another version where it is “Kuchime”, literally “mouth woman”, the Gray Mullet, who had the fish stuck in her mouth.  This time, as the sea deity had the hook taken out of her mouth, he admonished Kuchime, saying that they would never again swallow fishing bait nor be among the items offered to the Heavenly Grandchild, which is why grey mullet is never offered to the sovereign.  And I don’t know about you, but that hardly seems like an admonishment, but more like a reward, but whatever.

At this point, I think we all understand that this whole episode is a patchwork of different stories, or at least different variants of the stories.  Like a bunch of variant comics, except that instead of just changing the covers, they change the characters, kind of like the various Tenchi Muyo series.  It isn’t just the different fish, or different ways of getting under the sea or how the story unfolds, but the names of the two brothers also differs.  Perhaps most common are the names Ho no Susori and Ho no Wori, but most of the narrative seems to simply refer to the Elder Brother and Younger Brother, which is why I’ve told it as I did, above.  I wonder if these weren’t originally Umisachi Hiko and Yamasachi Hiko—which really just refers to them as the Prince of the Sea Luck and the Prince of the Mountain Luck.

In part because of these inconsistencies, I’m intrigued by this idea of Hiko Hohodemi being a “Prince of the Sky.”  As I mentioned earlier this is very specifically “Soratsu Hiko” as opposed to the more common “Amatsu Hiko”, or “Heavenly Prince”.  “Sky” appears to be a third realm, different from the earth, “Kuni”, and Heaven, “Ama”.  It is just one more thing that makes me think this whole story is added much later, after the fact, possibly coming from an entirely different cycle  than the other stories, at least up to this point.

But anyway, they had found the fishhook.  So the Heavenly Grandchild could go back and finally give his Elder Brother the fishhook, so they can live happily ever after, right?  That would seem to make sense—which is how you know it probably isn’t going to happen.

Yup, instead, the Younger Brother decides to just stay at the Sea Deity’s palace and chill with his new wife, Toyotama Hime.  And it isn’t too bad—they don’t mention it, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the seafood was on point.  Well, except for the grey mullet.  Three years passed like this, but as the years dragged on, the Heavenly Grandchild began to think about home and let out a tremendous sigh.  His wife heard this sigh, which was the first time she had heard anything like regret since her husband had arrived at the palace, and she went to her father.

Watatsumi, the Sea God, brought his Son-In-Law into his chambers and he asked him what was wrong, and told him that, as much as he and his daughter loved having him around, they would help him return to the land if that is what he so desired.  The Prince admitted he missed his homeland, and so the Sea God agreed to send him back.

First, however, he prepared him to return to his Elder Brother.  He gave him the fishhook, but he also told him how to curse the fishhook as he gave it back.  Because, you know, you can’t just, like, give it back.  Nope, gotta be a jerk about it.

Anyway, he was to give the fishhook back, behind his back, and secretly saying to the hook:  “This hook is a gloomy hook, an uneasy hook, a poor hook, a dull hook.”  With that he would destroy its power of luck, and destroy his brother’s prosperity.

Furthermore, if his Elder brother were to get upset at all of this—you know, for *some* reason—the Sea deity also gave the Prince two jewels:  One that would cause the tides to ebb and the other that would cause the tides to flood.  If his elder brother opposed him he could use the tide-flowing jewel to raise the waters and drown his brother, but if his Elder Brother capitulated, he could use the tide-ebbing jewel and save him.   In addition, if his Elder Brother were to take to the seas against him, then his Father-in-Law would churn up the seas and cause them to roil and turn against him.  If he did as he was told, then his Elder Brother would submit to him and pledge his obedience.

With all of the sea deities’ gifts, the Prince was ready to return, but Toyotama Hime had one more thing for him.  She told him that she had become pregnant, and that after he had returned to the land he should prepare for her to come following, since his children should be born in the earthly realm, not under the sea.

And with that, there was only one thing left to do:  To get this Sky Prince back to the land.  So The Sea God summoned all of the sea monsters—the wani—and asked who could get him back to the surface the fastest.  Of the large monsters, they said that they could get him back in as little as 8 days, but the smallest one there, merely 1 fathom in length, said that he could do it in just one single day, instead.

So the smallest wani took the Prince back to the land.  In return, it is said that Hiko Hohodemi took out his knife, or sahi, and tied it around his steeds’ neck in gratitude, which is why that particular sea monster is known today as Sahimochi no Kami.

Back on shore, the Younger Brother did just as the Sea Deity had said, and, as one might predict, when he cursed the fishhook and gave it to his Elder Brother in a backwards, or reverse, manner, his Elder Brother was immediately upset.  His hook wasn’t simply lost, it had now been turned against him.  And so he came to attack his Younger Brother, who then used the tide-flowing jewel, bringing the waters up to his Elder Brother’s neck.  As he was threatened with drowning, just before the waters covered him, the Elder Brother repented.  He promised to serve his Younger Brother, and so his Younger Brother took out the Tide Ebbing Jewel and caused the waters to recede.

And so, for a time, his brother obeyed his commands, but he soon rankled at his subservient position.  After all, he was the Elder Brother, it did not seem right that he would be ruled over by his own Younger Brother. But once again, as his Elder Brother began to challenge him, the Younger Brother used the tide flowing jewel.  This time, the Elder Brother climbed a mountain, but the waters still came for him.  So he went to the very top of the mountain and climbed a tree, but the waters still came.  Finally, the Elder Brother had nowhere left to go and so he gave up.  He promised he would serve his Younger Brother, and that even his off-spring would serve the offspring of his Younger Brother, to the point of serving as guards-slash-performers in the court.  To finally appease him, the Elder Brother smeared clay on his hands and face and debased himself.  He danced around, imitating his own anguish as he was drowned by the tide-flowing jewel.

And apparently, this is why you should never bother someone about returning a needle—or, I guess, a fishhook—lest they try to curse you and drown you in the rising surf, I guess.  By the way, given this story and the story about Saruta Hiko, it certainly feels as though there is a particular connection between the rising tides and people dying—or almost dying.  There were certainly some later punishments where people were staked out in the surf during low tide, only to have them drown as the tide came in—a particularly slow and gruesome punishment, to be sure.   I am not sure if that has any relation to what we are reading about, here.

Alright, so let’s break some of this down.  After all, why is Hiko Hohodemi portrayed as such a bully and what does the submission of his Elder Brother have to do with anything? Well, it probably has a lot to do with the fact that his Elder Brother is said to have been the ancestor of the Hayato—or at least the Hayato of Ata.

Earlier this episode I briefly mentioned that the Hayato were a people of Southern Kyushu.  In the 7th and 8th century there are three groups that are generally named as living on the archipelago, and from south to north they ran roughly as:  The Hayato, the Yamato, and the Emishi.  Now we already know the Yamato—a Wa people, whose kingdom was based in Yamato.  The Emishi are still a bit of an enigma, but appear to be largely descended from the Epi-Jomon people of Tohoku, in northeastern Japan.  I’ve seen some suggestions that they were likely a mix of the original Jomon inhabitants and also various Wa people who remained outside—or purposefully fled—the Yamato polity.  Regardless, it appears they would have been different culturally, ethnically, and even linguistically.

The Hayato are even more of an enigma.  The Hayato  appear to have lasted well into the historical period, but past the Nara Period we really don’t hear much about them, as they appear to have been subsumed into the larger Yamato polity.  Some have theorized that the Hayato were an Austronesian speaking people, connecting them with theories of a southern migration up from Taiwan along the Ryukyu island chain.  There is no evidence that they were Austronesian, and DNA taken from skeletons in the regions and time periods associated with the Hayato don’t show any clear distinction from the other Yayoi descendants.  While it is possible that some mixture of Yayoi and Jomon or southern island culture formed and persevered in the south of Kyushu as the Wa that would become Yamato flourished in the north, it is hard to say exactly how they were different.  They have left some distinctive cultural artifacts, such as their painted shields, which have been incorporated into various Yamato rituals, but then again, much of the archipelago was culturally diverse.  It is even quite possible that they shared enough of a linguistic distinction to have some trouble communicating, but without contrary evidence I would still assume that their language was at least related to Japonic, if not a direct offshoot.

Now their placement in the Chronicles is rather interesting.  In particular, their connection with the Elder Brother, Umisachi Hiko, of this story.  Theoretically, this story is taking place well before the formation of Yamato, but interestingly, other than this story, the Hayato don’t show up until much later.  The earliest account of the Hayato appears to be in the early 6th century, and the greatest mention of them appears to be in the accounts for the 7th century.  And then, in the early 8th century, as the Kojiki and the Nihon Shoki were being compiled, it seems that the court was still working on incorporating the Hayato under Yamato control, to include sending colonists from Bizen into Hayato lands to, quote unquote, “Lead them on the proper path.”

Furthermore, by the 8th century, the Hayato were supplying guards for the Yamato palace, where they were expected to “bark” as people entered on special occasions, such as coronations and the visits of foreign envoys.  They were sometimes referred to as “dog-men”, and the Nihon Shoki says that this was directly meant to be done in place of guard dogs.  Furthermore, during certain rituals, they were expected to perform a dance which, according to the chronicles, was meant to mimic the actions of their ancestor being drowned by his Younger Brother, the ancestor of the sovereign of the Royal Court. 

The dance is even described as follows:

•              First, the dancer shuffled, as the tide first reaches the feet.

•              Next, they raised their feet, as the water reached the knees.

•              After that, as the water reached the thighs, the dancer ran around in a circle.

•              The dancer then rubbed his loins, as the water reached that high.

•              They placed their hands on their breasts to represent the water coming up to their sides

•              Finally, the dancer would throw up their hands, waving their palms.

Evidence of these practices is even found in the Engi Shiki in the 10th century, so it would seem it wasn’t just some artifact of the 8th century, but continued on as a tradition even beyond the Nara period.

I can’t really express how messed up this seems to me—not that similar things aren’t found  but at least we have some explanation for this whole episode, as this was effectively Yamato’s case for why they were naturally superior to the Hayato people, a position taken by every colonial and conquering power, always justified in their own way.

Now, I couldn’t tell you if this story was originally used to relate the Hayato and Yamato people in this manner, if it was another story that was just used in this way, or if it was even related, originally, to some dance by the Hayato people.  I tend to think that the Hayato would not have been too keen on acting out their ancestor’s submission in what sounds like a humiliating manner.  Perhaps the dance, and maybe even the barking, were based on customs of the Hayato whose meanings were twisted by the Yamato court, but then again, perhaps they were just trying to humiliate a subjugated people.  After all, if there is anything that history has proven, it is that, as human beings, we can be pretty crappy towards one another.

Regardless, it seems clear that the Hayato lands, even if they were in a subordinate tributary status, had not been completely absorbed into the Yamato polity and were still seen as culturally and ethnically distinct, even when compared to the various cultural differences in other provinces, like Izumo, etc.  Perhaps we’ll dive in a bit more when we start to see them in the historical record, but for now we will leave the story as it is and move on.

Now where were we?  Ah, yes.  The Elder Brother had clearly, and humiliatingly submitted to his Younger Brother.  But there was still one thing left to resolve.

Remember, before he had left the Sea God’s palace his wife for the past three years, Toyotama Hime, told him she was pregnant, and as the time for her delivery grew nigh, on a day when the winds and waves were heavy, she came up from below the waters to join her husband on shore.  At that time she brought along her sister, Tamayori Hime, to assist her.

There, they built for her a parturition hut—that is a temporary structure made for giving birth, also called a birthing hut—but in this case they used cormorant feathers in place of the normal thatching.  They were still finishing the roof when the time came for Toyotama Hime to give birth, and so she warned her husband, Hiko Hohodemi, that when she gave birth she would revert to her true form, for she was not human, but a daughter of the sea god.  Therefore, to avoid embarrassment, he should not look at her.

Of course, given the track record thus far of the line of the Heavenly sovereign for listening to and respecting the women in their lives, you might guess what came next.  Of course HIko Hohodemi had to have a look.

As he did so, he saw that his wife’s true form was that of a humongous sea monster, or wani.  However he would have reacted to this, we are left to wonder because he apparently rolled a one on his stealth check, and Toyotama Hime knew that he had done the very thing that she had asked him not to do.

After giving birth she was saddened and angry.  She told Hiko Hohodemi that because he had broken his promise, she would return under the sea, and the path between the land above and the land under the sea would be henceforth blocked.  She was not entirely heartless, however, and left her sister, Tamayori Hime, on shore with him to help raise their child.  When Hiko Hohodemi realized what he had done and that he would never see her again, he sent Toyotama Hime a poem, and she replied, but still she left as she said she would.

The child that was born was named Hiko Nagisatake Ugaya Fukiaezu—often just shortened to Ugaya Fukiaezu.

There’s a lot of information in here.  First off, I don’t know if this was originally connected to the story of the fishhook or not, but it definitely is used to explain the royal lineage, as we’ll see in a bit.  The birth of Ugaya Fukiaezu seems to have little narrative purpose other than to continue that dynastic lineage.

Speaking of birth, let’s talk about these so-called birthing huts.  Now, we’ve encountered the idea of a parturition, or birthing, hut before—Remember when Izanagi promised to build fifteen hundred of them every day to offset Izanami’s promise to kill one thousand people in the same time?  Referred to as “Ubuya”, this custom of women going into temporary confinement during the birthing or even menstrual periods is a common theme in many parts of the archipelago and persisted up until modern times in various places and forms.  Ohobara Jinja—a Shinto shrine whose name means “large fields” but could also sound like “large womb”—this shrine is believed to have a particular focus on the area of pregnancy and birth, and they have a permanent birthing hut, or ubuya, on the premises.  The structure is low to the ground, with nothing more than a thatched roof and a wall on either end, much like a low, thatched A-frame tent, and its construction would not look terribly out of place in a village of Yayoi pit houses.

Many connect Ubuya and similar places with the idea of kegare, or natural pollution, associated with the blood that accompanies the menstrual period and childbirth.  Though natural, and without the moral judgment associated with any kind of actual “sin”, per se, the idea of pollution does feature heavily in Shinto belief, where many of the rituals are focused on some form of ritual purification.  Building a temporary structure would both mean that it was untouched by previous pollution and it would keep any pollution away from elsewhere.

Of course, it is unclear if these ubuya were always temporary.  In some cases there seem to have been birthing huts set up for the village, not just for one person, though there also seems to be a tradition of building them as they are needed.  It is also unclear, to me, if they were necessarily built because of the pollution of blood that was associated with things like childbirth or if they were built more as a pure space for the woman.  Was this a matter of excluding the mother-to-be during the birthing process or was it, as some have suggested, more of a place made especially for women.  It is possible that it was even both depending on the time and place.

Ubuya were not universal, by the way, and not everyone used them.  They were certainly common enough throughout the archipelago, but their use seems to be highly localized, and I suspect the traditions associated with them were as well.

As to the particular parturition hut built for Toyotama-hime, the thatching is certainly unorthodox.  After all, cormorant feathers seem less than practical as a roofing material.  And no wonder it took them so long to prepare it—I mean, how many cormorants do you need to catch to thatch a building, even just a small one?  However, this appears to be connected to the name of the child, Ugaya Fukiaezu, whose name references the cormorant feathers.

So Ugaya Fukiaezu would inherit his father’s lineage.  Hiko Hohodemi lived a good long time—the legends say  it was some 580 years.  Hardly the “brief” lifespan promised by Iwanaga Hime and her father, but well shy of immortality.  Some stories say that he was buried on the summit of Mt. Takaya or Mt. Takachiho.

Ugaya Fukiaezu inherited his father’s throne, and, in a move that Freud would no doubt have a field day with, he had his aunt and wet nurse, Tamayori Hime, appointed as his consort.  There are various lineages listing out their offspring, but in all of them is one name in particular that we should pay attention to:  Kamu Yamato Ihare Biko no Mikoto.  He would eventually be known by his posthumous title, Jimmu Tenno, and he is credited for traveling to Yamato and founding the royal dynasty.

But we will talk about him more in the next episode.  For now, I think this is good. 

Until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

Finally, the Heavenly Grandchild makes their descent to the earthly realm!  Thus begins the story of the main thrust of our story, with the royal line of sovereigns now in the archipelago--though we are still a few generations from the "first" ruler.

This episode we will follow the Divine Descendant down to earth, along with their retinue, and see just who they meet along the way.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-22

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua and this is episode 22:  The descent of the Heavenly grandchild.

So this episode we are going to talk about the descent of the Heavenly Grandchild—that is, the legendary ancestor of the Japanese sovereigns.  We’ll go over his descent from Heaven to the earth, below, and how he set up shop in the archipelago.  This is going to introduce a few different characters—some we may remember from previous episodes but some new ones as well.  And we’ll see several “just so” type stories that explain different things about how the world is set up.

I’ll also be going over some of my own thoughts, reading through this, and how we really seem to have several different stories, all woven into one for an attempt at consistency.

But before we really get started on this episode—in fact, the next couple episodes—a quick content warning:  It is very clear that the authors of the Chronicles had a different moral compass than we may have today.  Despite what we know or can suss out from bits and pieces about female rulers and chieftains—even the figure of Amaterasu no Ohomikami herself ruling the High Plain of Heaven—the authors of the Chronicles were working from a worldview that had already largely succumbed to patriarchal ideas about gender roles and norms.  We’ve already seen it in the way Izanami is blamed for speaking first when they went around the pillar of Heaven, and then later becomes a terrible monster that is responsible for death in the world.

As we go through the Chronicles, it will not be uncommon for our so-called “heroes” to treat women in ways that listeners may find objectionable.  From disbelieving women to not respecting their requests to shaming them for their appearance, it is all on display, even if there are often consequences for it.  Then there is the tendency for men to often “give away” their daughters, as though they were little more than possessions.  These are stories through the lens of the 7th and 8th centuries and they hold some of the same biases, despite the clear indication of strong, powerful women even contemporaneous to the publishing of the Chronicles themselves.

Really, at times it is somewhat incredible that this is what the Chroniclers decided would be the things to leave in the narrative in order to make the royal family look good.  In some cases, there are clear moral lessons embedded in the stories that may make them somewhat redeemable, but in others it is enough for the Chroniclers that this is the Heavenly lineage, and therefore it is only natural that others would bow and submit to them.  Just think about the treatment of Ohokuninushi and the gods of Izumo. 

There were also different ideas of what was consider erotic, lewd, and improper.  This can lead to descriptions that we may consider much more risqué than they did at the time.

So please keep that in mind as we continue these stories.

Alright, now when we last left off, Ohokuninushi had ceded the land to the Heavenly Descendant, and so now it was time for Oshihomimi to claim the earthly realm.  However, in all the time that they had been working on subduing the land of the Central Reed Plains—at least 11 years, if not longer—Oshihomimi, son of Amaterasu Ohomikami, had taken to wife Yorozu Hata Toyo Akitsushi Hime, aka Takuhata Chihi Hime, the older sister of Omohikane and daughter of Takami Musubi.  Her name, by the way, may give a hint to Oshihomimi’s interest in her, as it implies she is the princes of myriad bolts of silk, which were often used as currency and thus indicated someone of great wealth—unsurprising given who her father is supposed to have been.

Together, Oshihomimi and Takuhata Chichi Hime had children, and among them was one whom they named Ame-nigishi Kuni-nigishi, Amatsu Hiko Hiko hono Ninigi no Mikoto, more commonly known simply as Ninigi—much of his name is actually made up more of qualifiers and title, rather than actual name, as is quite common in these stories.

Anyway, Oshihomimi must have decided that he still didn’t want to leave home, and so he suggested that his son go in his place, and everyone found this acceptable.  After all, Ninigi wasn’t just the descendant of Amaterasu, but he was the descendant of both Amaterasu AND Takami Musubi.  This is important of course because, if you haven’t already picked up on it, this is the Heavenly Grandchild who would become the mythical ancestor of the royal line of Japan, and it is through their connection to these two deities that the sovereigns of Yamato claimed their legitimacy.  In fact, in some stories this legitimacy is almost entirely through Takami Musubi, and Oshihomimi is barely given a mention, but by the 8th century the royal line was an admixture of the two deities.  Takami Musubi was a clearly important in the early court rituals—one of eight kami that were enshrined around the sacred rice field before the Daijou-sai—the great food offering ritual conducted as part of the enthronement ceremonies for a new sovereign. Takami Musubi, as a fertility deity, is considered the chief god of that festival, followed by the food deity, Ohomike.  There are other familiar deities in the festival, such as our friend from Izumo, Kotoshiro Nushi, but interestingly Amaterasu is nowhere to be found.  This has led some scholars to conclude that the Daijou-sai rite must have been codified before Amaterasu was seen as one of the ujigami of the Yamato court.

Again, as I’ve mentioned in the past, a lot of these stories and variations appear to have been retconned over the years as contemporary understanding and political realities changed.

Alright, so where were we?  Oh, yes, the Heavenly Grandchild, Ninigi, grandson to both Amaterasu and Takami Musubi, was now being sent down to take possession of the earthly realm and the islands of Japan.  It is said in preparation of him going down, Takami Musubi took the green coverlet off of the dais where he would recline, and put it around his grandson’s shoulders—a tradition that is remembered in the Daijosai, where a similar coverlet is laid out as a place for the ancestral kami during the ceremony.

Amaterasu’s gifts to Ninigi may be a little more well-known by those familiar with Japanese history: these are the jewels, the mirror, and the sword, known as the three regalia.  Though there were other symbols of sovereignty that came and went over the centuries, these three have been central since at least the 8th century.

The jewels were magatama, or comma-shaped jewels, found in Japan since Jomon times.  Magatama are often used as spiritual symbols, amulets, and charms, and show up again and again in these early stories.  These particular magatama were hung on the tree that was used to lure Amaterasu out of the Heavenly Rock Cave.

The mirror was also from that same incident.  The mirror was the 8-fold mirror that was hung in the branches of the tree, which reflected Amaterasu’s light and made her curious enough to look out of the cave.

Finally, the sword was the sword that Susanowo had found in the tail of Yamata no Worochi—the sword later known as Kusanagi.

These three treasures, or regalia, remain the symbols of the Japanese royal line even to this day.  Even as we may argue about whether they are actual originals or not, their symbolic importance remains.

And as we’ve already seen, symbols of authority like these were hardly unique to Yamato.  Izumo seems to have had its own regalia, handed over to Yamato as part of their submission.  It may be that these items were simply one lineage’s regalia, elevated as that lineage became the rulers of the entire archipelago.  Certainly, all three such items are found as prestige goods in burials across Japan, and they would have been recognizable as such by most people.

Having given Ninigi these symbols of authority, the kami then put together a retinue for him.  There are various names, but perhaps the most important are five names in particular:

•              Ame no Koyane, ancestor of the Nakatomi

•              Futodama, the Ancestor of the Imbe

•              Ame no Uzume, ancestor of the Sarume

•              Ishikoridome, ancestor of the mirror makers, the Kagamizukuri no Muraji, and said to have made the mirror that Ninigi had been given

and…

•              Tamaya, ancestor of the jewel-makers, aka the Tamanoya no Muraji, and likewise responsible for the jewels that had helped lure Amaterasu out of the Heavenly Rock Cave and which now resided in the possession of Ninigi.

These are said to be the five heads of the powerful court families of Yamato.  The Nakatomi, Imbe, and Sarume were all closely connected with religious ceremonies and important rites.  Likewise the mirror and jewel makers provided the requisite ritual components.  All of these deities also are included as part of the story of the Heavenly Rock Cave—in fact, this whole section seems tied to the Amaterasu side of the story, and possibly even later additions.

Some of the stories even give more specific instructions, including a tradition that basically sets up the mirror as a stand-in for Amaterasu’s spirit—a practice continued across Japan, today, where a mirror may be set up outside of the shrine as a representation of the sun goddess.  The gods and worship of Ise Jingu are basically then laid out – but as with so many things, this seems to conflict with later stories about Ise and its founding, and is likely a later addition to the story.

There is also one other point of interest as they are preparing the details for Ninigi before he and his retinue descend.  You see, some of the stories seem to give the regalia—particularly the mirror—to Oshihomimi, Ninigi’s father.  In fact, in those stories, Ame no Koyane and Futodama are sent down to set up a shrine area and are attached to him.  This leaves the curious question if there weren’t some story where Oshihomimi, the son of Amaterasu, was the founder of some lineage—perhaps a line of chieftains—other than the royal lineage.  Was Ninigi always descended from Oshihomimi?  It certainly seems odd the way that he is told to go down and he just stops and suggests that his kid be sent in his place, you know?  But if there are stories that would give a different interpretation, they are lost, or at least buried in the various other tales, which is why this whole period is murky and cannot be relied upon as an accurate historical source, but can only give us impressions of things that might have happened.

Okay, so there they were:  Ninigi had his mandate, he had the symbols of authority, he had his posse to back him up.  It was finally time for him to head down.  There was just one last problem.  As soon as they began to set out, they found a shining deity situated in the crossroads between Heaven and Earth.  This deity was tall—almost at least seven feet, though one account says more like 7 fathoms—more like 42 feet.  His nose was also extremely long—somewhere between 2 and 5 feet; quite the Pinocchio-vibe going on in their description.  This nose sat beneath a pair of red eyes like giant mirrors.

I would note, too, that when I say this was a “shining deity” we aren’t talking Hikaru Genji style poetic euphemisms, but literally shining—they say that he illuminated both the earth and the heavenly plain.  Not only that, though, but we also get this other curious detail, for the light shone forth not just as some sort of aura, but it specifically issued forth from his mouth and his posterior.  Yeah, so, there’s an image for you.  Tall, long nose, red eyes, and light shooting out both ends. 

Unsure just who this was and what he was doing at the crossroads, and with all of the deities there to accompany Ninigi down, they decided to send Ame no Uzume forward to inquire as to what was going on.  As the Chronicles put it, despite her graceful appearance, she was considered the most able to subdue him.

And so she approached this bright, shining deity with red eyes and long nose with her breasts exposed and her skirts shuffled down to below her navel.  And in such a manner—quite similar, in fact, to the dance she had performed at the entrance to the Heavenly Rock Cave—she appeared to mock him.

The shining deity at the crossroads was apparently confused at this, and asked her just what it was she was doing.  And so she informed him that she was a forerunner for the Heaven’s grandchild, who was descending down to earth.  At that point the great deity then explained that he was, in fact, waiting for the Divine descendant—he was Saruta Hiko and he was waiting to welcome this very person, as he was offering his services as a guide.

At this, Ame no Uzume asked him just where they would go, and Saruta Hiko noted that the Heavenly Grandchild would go to Kushifuru Peak in Takachiho, in Himuka, while he, Saruta Hiko, would go to the Isuzu River in Sanada of Ise.

And to top it off—in one of those ever so mysterious leaps of divine kami-logic—since Ame no Uzume had been the one to discover who he was, it would be her job to accompany him to Ise.

And thus it was that Ninigi and his retinue made their way to Himuka Province, in Tsukushi, aka Kyushu—and we’ll get to that in a bit—while Saruta Hiko and Ame no Uzume headed to the province of Ise.

So once again we are struck with what appears to be a deficit of details.  The encounter as I just told it to you is roughly the canonical version, but of course, this wouldn’t be the Chronicles without some debate over just what was going on.  While officially Saruta Hiko was the guide for Ninigi’s descent, some scholars believe that at the heart of this encounter lay a few other interpretations.  One of them is that Saruta Hiko was actually opposing the descent of Ninigi, and as an earthly kami he was using shamanic powers and spells to prevent the party’s descent.  In this interpretation, Saruta Hiko was not originally willing to give up his land, and he had to be persuaded to step aside and allow Ninigi’s descent.  To that end, Ame no Uzume, herself the quintessential representation of a divine shamaness, was then performing a counter-ritual to suppress Saruta Hiko’s interference, which she was clearly able to do.  But let’s take a look at the description of her and how it compares to other things we know.

First off, in the fashion of the 8th century, the skirt, or mo, would normally have been worn at the natural waistline—no hip-huggers for them!  So to bare her breasts and pull her skirt down below her navel would appear to be quite scandalous to our modern sensibilities, but who knows, perhaps this was not uncommon for certain rituals? Or maybe it is just as it seems: a tactic used to throw Saruta Hiko off his game.

Of course, one can imagine that “discovering” the name of a kami would have been a key role of spiritual diviners.  If there was calamity in a particular area and you wanted to know what kami was behind it, or even if you just wanted to know which kami could best help you with a particular task, it would make sense that you would go to a shaman or medium of some kind, who would perform a ritual to determine just which kami you should propitiate to accomplish your task or to remove the obstacles in your path.  In discovering the names of such deities, the next step would likely be to set up temporary or permanent worship of them so that they would remain appeased.  We can see this play out at various times in the historical record, and occasionally, as in the case of Kitano Tenjin, often to the political benefit of some group or another.

Another theory about Saruta Hiko is that he was originally another sun god, similar to Amaterasu—and they point to the description of him shining out across the Plain of Heaven, Takama no Hara, as well as upon the earth.  Of course, it would not be out of the realm of possibility, given the connection to sun worship found throughout the early Wa placenames and titles that there could have been different sun deities worshipped within the archipelago, just as there are various deities of the harvest, fertility, etc.  However, given that there is only one sun, there would have to have been some kind of reorganization, either by merging various worship practices together or by stripping out some of the solar elements and redefining the roles to better fit the various stories together.  Then again, we have already seen other deities, such as Ajisukitaka Hikone (and, one assumes, his BFF brother-in-law body double, Ame no Waka Hiko) who were said to shine with a great light, so maybe this is just a feature of some kami, it is hard to say.

Today, worship of Saruta Hiko Ohokami continues at Tsubaki Grand Shrine, just a little north of Ise Jingu.  In fact, Tsubaki Grand Shrine lays a claim—based on their records and traditions—of being the oldest shrine in all of Japan, with a purported founding date of 3 BCE.  They are also known as Ise no Kuni Ichi no Miya, or the First, or Number One, Shrine of Ise Province, despite the presence of the perhaps more well known Ise Jingu, the head shrine of the cult of Amaterasu Ohomikami.  Tsubaki Shrine continues to worship Saruta Hiko Ohokami and Ame no Uzume no Mikoto, and they are known for their practices of misogi and chinkon—Shinto spiritual practices.  Saruta Hiko also has a modern connection to the art of Aikido, in that the founder of Aikido, Morihei Ueshiba, considered Saruta Hiko a god of Aiki, and if you live on the West Coast of the US you can actually visit a branch shrine in Washington state, at the Tsubaki Grand Shrine of America, which also enshrines the spirit of the North American Continent.

By the way, before we get back to the story of Ninigi, there is another part to the story of Saruta Hiko and Ame no Uzume that we should cover, as the Chronicles generally thought it was important enough to warrant mention.  As we said, Ame no Uzume was attached to Saruta Hiko, and she followed him to Ise.  There is one curious tale in here about how Saruta Hiko was out fishing near Azaka when his hand was trapped by a type of clam called a hirabu—though I can’t help but think of it like one of those giant clams that have been known to snap closed on an unsuspecting diver’s foot.  Unable to escape, the story says he sank or even drowned, and as he did so three spirits were formed, which are today worshiped at the twin shrines of Koazaka and Oazaka.  Of course, being a kami, a little thing like drowning seems to have hardly meant much, or perhaps he was dragged to safety by Ame no Uzume.  Either way, this role as a drowned god—well, not *that* Drowned god—seems to be important to his story, as is a connection to the sea. 

In another story they say that Ame no Uzume gathered all the fish together and asked which of them would be willing to serve the offspring of the Heavenly deities—which basically meant she was asking them which of them would be willing to be caught and eaten.  Most of them responded as enthusiastically as a pig mascot for a pit barbecue, but the sea cucumber said nothing, and so she took out a small knife and cut its mouth—which is why, or so they say, a sea cucumber has a slit for a mouth.  By the way, if you aren’t familiar with sea cucumbers, or namako, they are a type of sea slug that look like, well, a fleshy cucumber.

So why is all this important, and why did the chroniclers bother with it?  After all, we saw how they just totally skipped over Yatsukamizu Omizunu and his landpulling myth, but they are quite concerned, apparently, with why the sea cucumber has a weird mouth.  Well, much like Hollywood, it is all about connections—in this case the connection between Saruta Hiko, Uzume, and a group of Uzume’s descendants known as the Sarume.  According to the story, their name comes from Saruta Hiko, but they trace their lineage to Ame no Uzume, and this would seem to include their role as spiritual mediums for the court.  They are often credited with early Kagura—the dancing to entertain the gods—as well as traditions that led to Noh and other dance forms.  Also, the Lords of Sarume, the Sarume no Kimi, were women, even after the patriarchy had taken hold of much of the rest of society.

As for all that talk about the fish and sea cucumbers, the Chronicles appear to capture a tradition that the Sarume no Kimi would be responsible for presenting the First Fruits of the tiny province of Shima, the smallest of the ancient provinces, consisting of merely the tip of the peninsula at the mouth of Ise Bay.  These first fruits were customarily varieties of sea food, a tradition that is clearly attested to, elsewhere, but the involvement of the Sarume no Kimi only appears in a few accounts in the Chronicles themselves.  Nonetheless, I believe it is significant that one of the five major clans that accompanies Ninigi down from the Heavenly Plain, and one of the major clans at the Yamato court, was specifically matriarchal in its structure.  Of course, this could just as easily be about gender roles and norms in the court rituals of the day, but even that helps shed insight into the early Japanese court.

But enough of our dalliance here on the shores of Ise and Shima provinces.  We will have plenty of time to address them in later episodes, no doubt.  For now, let us turn our attention back to the path of the Heavenly deity, Hiko Hono Ninigi no Mikoto.  Per the negotiations with Saruta Hiko, he was headed for Tsukushi and the province of Himuka, later known as Hyuuga Province. 

Specifically they say that he took off from the Floating Bridge of Heaven and eventually came to a floating sandbank, from which he then alighted onto one of the peaks of Mt. Takachiho in Himuka province.  From there, he passed through the empty desert land of Sojishi, eventually coming to the Cape of Kasasa in Ata.  In his retinue, he was traveling not just with the ancestors of the five great clans of Yamato, but there are others, including Ame no Oshihi no Mikoto and Amatsu Kume no Mikoto—the latter which, is generally taken to be referring to a Heavenly Army—Ame no Gun or Ame no Gumi.

Of course, once they arrived, they found that most typical annoyance to colonizers everywhere—other people.  Yes, it seems there were already people living in the land, generally represented by a fellow named in the Chronicles something along the lines of Kotokatsu-Kunikatsu Nagasa.  Fortunately, Ninigi merely had to drop a quick humble-brag about his status as the Heavenly Grandchild and Nagasa quickly agreed to turn over everything to him, suggesting he roam throughout the countryside and survey they land.  I’m sure that the large, armed retinue that Ninigi was traveling with didn’t even enter into the conversation.

Ninigi did, in fact, have a look around—in one story going up to the top of a hill to gaze out, which was basically a ritual that we’ve seen elsewhere as “Kunimi”, or “country viewing”, part of a rite that chieftains and other rulers seem to have done as a symbolic acknowledgement of their sovereignty over a territory.  He then had a palace built for himself at the crest of the highest wave—so on the shoreline, but above the high tide mark—with thick, rock-based pillars and tall rafters that were said to go “up to the High Plain of Heaven.”  And it was here that Ninigi rested.

So before we get into the next piece of this, let’s talk this through a bit.  So first off, this area, in Miyazaki prefecture and the rest of Southern Kyushu, is covered in shrines, monuments, and land features that are connected to Ninigi and to Amaterasu in general.  Besides Mt. Takachiho, there is a Yasugawa, just like the one in Takama no Hara, and there is even a cave that they claim is the actual Heavenly Rock Cave, which you can go and visit.  There are various other places that appear to fit the narrative given in the Chronicles as well.

On the other hand, it is hard to tell how much of any of that was original, and how much was named after the fact, using clues in the Chronicles to then site various locations that they mention.  Over time, it becomes a chicken and egg problem—and frankly irrelevant for the spiritual significance of these locations.

On the other hand, there are a lot of scholars who question this section, and with good reason.  First off, for all that time that the Heavenly deities spent getting Izumo to capitulate, why wouldn’t they have come down somewhere near there, the land that had been pacified already?  In fact, southern Kyushu is some of the last territory to actually be subdued by the Yamato court before the beginning of the Nara period, and the Kumaso and Hayato who lived in the area are represented as a separate people who would eventually be conquered by Yamato’s armies, but that wasn’t until much later.

Well, based on various scholars’ suggestions, I can think of several things that might be happening.  First off, it is possible that the Kyushu apologists are right, and that Yamataikoku was originally located in Kyushu, but that this story represents part of a tradition reflecting how it would eventually move to modern Yamato in the Kinki region.  I don’t tend to buy that one, for reasons I hope I’ve discussed clearly enough in previous episodes.

It could be possible that the sovereigns of Yamato by the 7th and 8th centuries were not actually the original sovereigns of the Yamato region.  This is a theory that is often pushed forward by proponents of the idea of an invasion by continental horse-riders some time in the 4th or 5th centuries, and that this story represents their coming to the islands and eventually sweeping eastward and taking control, setting up a system of continental elites that displaced or assimilated the Yayoi and early Kofun elites.  Of course, if that were the case, why start along the eastern coast and then go south?  While it is understandable that the Chinese might not fully understand or trust the directions in relationship to Japan, one would imagine that those who were in the islands had at least some idea.  In addition, this theory has largely been debunked by many scholars, though you still find vestiges of it here and there.

It is quite likely that there was a continental connection in Ninigi’s descent to a mountain peak.  Besides making some obvious sense—if you really believe that Heaven is in the sky, then the peak of a mountain would be your closest point—it would be in good company with similar founding myths on the Korean peninsula, where works like the Samguk Yusa make mention of divine rulers coming to earth in a similar fashion.  Given the relatively constant movement of people from the Korean peninsula—including various elites of the Korean kingdoms—into the archipelago it would not be surprising that their stories would influence the stories of the local dynasty, especially as they were often trying to use continental learning to demonstrate their erudition, sophistication, and level of civilization.

It also seems possible that these were local legends of Himuka province that were assumed by the royal line, perhaps after some sort of marriage alliance or even conquest of the area.  The Hayato appear to be more frequently mentioned in the latter part of the Chronicles, but it is possible that these stories were included as part of Yamato’s justification for their causus belli in the region, staking an ancestral claim to territory that was otherwise being occupied by people outside the court, itself. 

And then some scholars point out that this whole story may have been picked up and moved from another part of the archipelago.  After all, “Himuka” is not an uncommon placename, which shouldn’t be surprising as it basically means “facing the sun”—i.e. a “sunny place”—which seems to have been one of the prime designations for a good, sacred space for sun worship.  It even appears as a designation for the holy space at the top of Mt. Miwa—Himuka Shrine.  In addition, “Takachiho” can be translated as “mature, abundant rice ears”, and the name Hononinigi can likewise be translated as being about “abundant rice ears”.  Given what I mentioned earlier about Takami Musubi and their place in the rites of the royal court, it seems reasonable that this whole story may have originated not as the coming of the royal ancestor, but perhaps more importantly as an early harvest ritual, and an allegory about the coming of the spirit of abundance.  If this is the case, then it was only later that the story was specifically placed in southern Kyushu—possibly for reasons that I’ve already mentioned.

Regardless of how they ended up here, it is where we happen to be, and in our story, Ninigi was hanging out in his palace by the sea.  It was while he was there that he apparently noticed couple of women with jewels that clinked and jingled upon their wrists, and he quickly found Nagasa and asked about the quote-unquote “beautiful one”, because, well, I don’t exactly want to say that the Heavenly grandson was shallow, but Ninigi seems to have been about as deep as a kiddie pool after all the children have finished with it.  He was told that the woman’s name was Konohana Sakuya Hime, which roughly translates to the Lady of the Suddenly Blossoming Trees.

Ninigi thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, so he went out to talk to her.  He confirmed her name, and learned that her sister was Iwanaga Hime—or Lady of the Length of the Rocks—and they were both daughters of Ohoyatsumi, the mountain deity, one of the direct offspring of Izanagi and Izanami.  With that, Ninigi had just one more question—though it came off as more of a statement:  “I shall make you my wife.  How do you feel about that?” 

Again, these heavenly deities come off just as smooth as dried rayskin.

Well, Sakuya Hime wasn’t going to be quite that impulsive, and she told Ninigi that he really should at least ask her father, first.  And so she took him to their home and introduced him, but of course, Ohoyatsumi was thrilled at the prospect of marrying his daughters off to the Divine Descendant.  He immediately had both of his daughters bring in food and held a feast, during which he gave Ninigi not just Sakuya Hime, but Iwanaga Hime as well.

Well Ninigi seemed pleased with the feast, and with Sakuya Hime, but he took one look at Iwanaga Hime and said “no thank you.”  Apparently she was too ugly in his eyes, and he sent her away, taking Sakuya Hime as his only wife.

Of course, Iwanaga Hime was none too pleased at this, and neither was her father.  They were both embarrassed by the turn of events.  In some of the accounts the spurned Iwanaga Hime then cursed Ninigi and his descendants, but in others it is her father, Ohoyatsumi, who takes the opportunity to confront Ninigi about turning down his offer.

You see, Ninigi should have paid more attention to the princesses’ names than their looks.  Had he taken both of them to wife, then he and his descendants would have endured as long as the rocks, while prospering like the blossoming flowers.  However, since he had only taken Sakuya Hime, then the lives of his descendants would also be like flowers, and their lifespan would be cut short just like the ephemeral, sweet blossoms.

And of course, this explains why, even though descended from immortal kami, the members of the royal line have limited lifespans, just like any other human being.  In fact, in some of the stories, this pronouncement doesn’t just fall on the royal lineage, but on all humanity, everywhere.

The story here is not unique to Japan, and I wonder if it wasn’t a separate story that, once again, was crammed into the narrative by changing out the main protagonist for a member of the royal line—in this case, Hiko Hononinigi no Mikoto.   Though slightly different in character, it is another story addressing man’s mortality, much as the story of Izanmi and Izanagi did during their confrontation at the border of the land of Yomi.  There it was more directly about birth and death, and here they are talking about the span of a life, but it all addresses that deep existential crisis that people around the world face:  Why must it end?

Of course, it does seem that it took a while for the curse to fully take effect.  Ninigi would persevere, according to the chronicles, for another 580 years, give or take, and many of his descendants would likewise be granted lifespans far beyond what one would expect—though as I’ve mentioned before and others have commented, that may be more about making the dates work out properly than anything else, and we’ll see that as we continue.

But for now, let’s take a break.  Ninigi made his way to the earthly realm, and from here on out we are largely following him and his descendants throughout the rest of the Chronicles—or at least, so the Chronicles would have us believe.  Next episode we will look at the stories of some of those descendants, and just what the Chronicles suggest you do when you borrow your brother’s favorite fishhook and then lose it.

Until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more—and trust me, we realize that not everyone can during this time—we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have a few photos, maps, and some more discussion on this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

This episode we are back in the Chronicles and going through the attempts by the High Plain of Heaven to pacify the land so that they could send the Divine Descendant down to rule over it.  This would be perfect if it just weren't for the fact that, well, there were already people there. But that has rarely stopped people in the past. We'll go over the various attempts to send different kami down to subdue the land until finally they send kami that aren't going to just set up shop down in the earthly realm, and they gain the submission of The Great Land Master himself.  Spoiler alert:  Yamato eventually wins.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-21

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua and this is episode 21: Ceding the Land of the Central Reed Plains.

And before we get started, a big shout-out and thank you to Brian for helping to support the show.  If you wish to do the same you can go to ko-fi.com/sengokudaimyo or you can find the link at the bottom of our website, sengokudaimyo.com.  Now, on with the show.

So after our brief foray into the land of Izumo, let us return to the stories of the Yamato court.  In fact, we’re going to switch our perspective in the Chronicles, now, from Izumo culture hero, Ohonamochi, back to the Gods of Heaven.  In the Nihon Shoki, this is actually the start of the next section of the chronicles—the second section on the Age of the Gods.  The Kojiki is less dramatic, as the chapters are smaller, and the Kyujiki is made up of various books, each with a particular purpose, that often retell the details of the same stories, just from a different context.  But in just about all of them this next part is quite similar, as it focuses on the story that is most near and dear to the heart of Yamato:  The descent of the royal line.

So there are a few discrepancies between the sources.  I’m going to try to start off with the most complete version of events, and we’ll talk about it after each section.  But let’s dive in.

So our scene moves back to the High Plain of Heaven, Takama no Hara, where we find Amaterasu Ohomikami as well as someone else we talked about previously, Takami Musubi, one of the ancient high kami created even before Izanagi and Izanami and who is apparently ruling in Takama no Hara as well.  One day, Amaterasu decides that she would like her son, Masakatsu Akatsu Kachi Hayahi Ama no Oshihomimi no Mikoto, to rule over the Land of the Central Reed Plains.  You remember Masakatsu Aktsu… screw it, let’s just call him Oshihomimi.  Anyway, he was one of the children born of the contest between Amaterasu and Susanowo, back when he came up to say his farewells.  So Amaterasu wants her son, Oshihomimi, to go down and rule the Central Land of the Reed Plains.  Oshihomimi went down to the Heavenly Floating Bridge to see what he was getting himself into, and it didn’t look good.  The whole land was in an uproar, and it was hardly a civilized place.  He went back up to Amaterasu and Takami Musubi and reported what he’d seen, and they gathered all of the Kami in the heavenly riverbed, where they asked Omohikane just what they should do.

Now you may remember Omohikane, whose name literarlly refers to thinking about things.  He was the one that came up with the rituals to bring Amaterasu back out into the world when she had hidden herself away in the Heavenly Rock Cave.  Now here he was again, being called on to once again come up with a solution.

Thus, Omoikane, the big thinker of the group, suggested that they send Ame no Hohi no Kami, another one of those offspring from the contest between Amaterasu and Susanowo, and the ancestor of the Izumo no Omi.  Omoikane recommended him for this job because he was “superior”—you know, just a good solid kami.  His job was to scout out the land and prepare it for Oshihomimi.  Except after going down, he fails to report back for three years, so they sent his son, Ohoseihi, to check on him and see what was going on, but he didn’t return, either.

Turns out that, much like Lawrence in Arabia, they had both fallen in with Ohonamuchi and gone native.  Or at least that is what the Yamato histories say.  The Izumo no Omi, who claim descent from Ame no Hohi no Kami, tell it a little different.  Their version of events is specifically laid out in the Kamuyogoto—a special rite of fealty recited by the titular chief of Izumo, Izumo no Kuni no Miyatsuko, in a ceremony that continued to be practiced even after their chief had been relegated to simply the Chief Priest of Izumo Shrine.  In that ritual, the whole story is told a little differently.  First off, the ritual cuts out Amaterasu altogether, and it has Takami Musubi and Kamu Musubi no Mikoto yielding Japan to the Heavenly Grandchild, which probably relates to an older tradition—one from before the late 7th and early 8th centuries.  Second, it is much more favorable to the Izumo no Omi’s ancestral kami, Ame no Hohi.  Felicia Bock provides an English version in her translation of Books 1-10 of the Engi Shiki, and it is probably best to just read straight from there to give you a complete picture.  It goes something like this:

“When those ancestral kami of the High Heaven, Takami-musubi and Kamu-musubi-no-mikoto, yielded the Great Country of Many Islands to the divine descendant, the distant ancestor of the nobles of Izumo, Ame-no-ho-hi-no-mikoto, was sent to inquire the condition of the land.  He pushed asunder the many-layered clouds of heaven, and, flying through the heaven and over the land, he viewed all the lands under heaven and brought back an answer, saying:  ‘The land of rich rice-ears growing in the reedy plains in the daytime buzzes with flies as in early summer, and in the nighttime there are kami who shine like fire-pots.  Everywhere sounds from the rocks, the tree-stumps and the bubbles of foam on blue waters are heard as they talk in this restless land.  Nevertheless, I shall calm and pacify it, and I shall cause the divine descendant to rule it as a pleasant and peaceful country.’”

As we can see, the Izumo no Omi were claiming that their ancestral deity, Ame no Ho Hi, was no slacker, but he stayed on mission the entire time.  Interestingly, there does not appear to have been any objection to this contradiction of the official narrative—after all, even if the theology was different, this was still an oath that acknowledged the supremacy of the Yamato dynasty and their authority to rule, so a little self-aggrandizement from the Izumo no Omi was permitted.  It does raise some questions, a few of which we’ve already asked:  Were Takami Musubi and Kamu Musubi originally the High Gods of Heaven?  The suggestion has been made that they may actually represent pre-agricultural concepts and so they could easily have been part of some earlier pantheon, or perhaps they were part of the original Izumo gods and their stories were merged with Yamato whenever the Kizuki and Miwa cults were entwined together.  Unfortunately, we don’t have enough of their stories to really know, just these glimpses here and there in the record.  Clearly Takami Musubi was important, however:  in fact, in the main story of the Nihon Shoki it is Takami Musubi directing everything, and the focus is much more clearly on his lineage than Amaterasu’s, though the Heavenly Grandchild that gets sent down is inevitably descended from both of them in all cases.

Anyway, for now let’s take the side of the Yamato court and assume that Ame no Ho Hi was a slacker who went native, leaving the Takama no Hara high and dry.

And so once again they gathered up all the deities and looked around for who they should send down.  Now in the Kojiki, they say they again listen to Omoikane, because he was so on the nose about Ame no Ho Hi, but in all the other sources it just says that the assembled gods made a recommendation.  And who was it that they thought would be fit for this task, where Ame no Ho Hi had failed?  Why, they recommended Ame no Waka Hiko—whose name translates to, essentially, the Young Prince of Heaven.  So they armed him with a bow and a set of arrows and sent him down to the earth to prepare the way, and afterhe left, they waited.  They clearly expected this would take some time.

Of course, you know how you sometimes leave that pot of pasta on the stove for just a moment, and the next thing you know it is boiling over and starchy water is burning on the stove?  Well, that seems to be what happened here, but rather than a couple of minutes, eight years went by—which probably just means that many years went by—and they realized they had heard nothing back.  Even with Ame no Ho Hi they had reached out after three years.  So Amaterasu and Takami Musubi consulted with Omohikane about just what they should do.  This time, Omohikane came up with a new ploy:  animal messengers.  I guess in a time before TV they didn’t have talk shows to teach them that animal acts rarely go the way you want them to.

Nonetheless, Omohikane suggested a dove and a male pheasant, who was called “Nanashi”, or “no name”—early Japanese naming practices are actually rather spot-on and perhaps lacking, at times, in the creativity department..  They were sent down with a message, like owls to Hogwarts—though in this case hungry and easily distracted owls. Because as the dove and male pheasant flew down  through the clouds, over the land, they saw the fresh millet, and rice, and all the other grains, and they just couldn’t help themselves.  They stopped for a snack and forgot their mission.  Even the animal messengers were going native—this was truly a disaster?

Omohikane had to redeem himself, and so he rushes to cover his mistake.  Not by taking a different tact, though—why in the world would he do such a silly thing as that?  No, instead he doubles down on the animal messenger theme and  suggested they try one more time, but this time they would send a female pheasant, named Nakime—the Crying Woman.  Unlike the other two layabouts, she avoided any temptation of food and made her way to the front gate of Ame no Waka Hiko’s home.  She set herself up amidst the heart-shaped leaves of a nearby Katsura tree, and there she called out the message from Takama no Hara that Ame no Waka Hiko was to report back in immediately.

Of course, she was outside of his gates, presumably because she was trying to be polite—I’m pretty sure that Z Frank has covered how impeccably polite pheasants are, hasn’t he?—so Ame no Waka Hiko didn’t actually hear Nakime.  Instead, one of his servants, Ame no Sagume heard it and she rushed in to tell him about it.

Now you see the truth was that, after all this time, Ame no Waka Hiko had made a pretty good life for himself down here in the earthly realm.  He had come down from Heaven and he quickly fell in love with Shitateru Hime, a daughter of Utsushi Kunidama—an earthly kami also known to us as our good friend Ohonamuchi.  Yup.  Ame no Waka Hiko had followed in Ame no Ho Hi’s footsteps, going native and even marrying into the enemy camp, and now he was living the good life.  He had made friends and generally seemed to be enjoying himself.  If he went back to Heaven and reported they would realize that he had set aside his duty to subdue the Central Land of the Reed Plains.  This is why he needed to do something about the pheasant screaming its head off outside of his front gates. 

And so, for perhaps the first time since he had arrived down in the earthly realm, Ame no Waka Hiko picked up his heavenly gifts, the bow and arrows, and went outside, where he could see Nakime sitting in the Katsura tree.  Taking careful aim, he fired his bow at the feathered messenger.  The arrow hit its mark, but the shot was so powerful that it went through Nakime and continued to fly up, up—all the way up to the High Plain of Heaven itself.  There it sank into the ground at Takami Musubi’s feet.

Startled, Takami Musubi picked up the arrow and immediately recognized it as one of the arrows he had given to Ame no Waka Hiko, now covered in blood.  Takami Musubi wondered what such an omen might mean—was Waka Hiko busy fighting the kami of the earth, as he was supposed to be doing?  Or was there something more ominous?  Nakime still hadn’t returned, after all, which was certainly suspicious.

And so Takami Musubi put a spell upon the arrow, you know, as you do.  If Waka Hiko really was fighting with evil deities, he would be safe, but if he had fired the arrow with some ill intent, it would return back to him and punish him.  Takami Musubi then tossed the arrow back through the hole it had made in the clouds and it traveled back to earth.  As it turns out, Ame no Waka Hiko had just lay down after the Niinamesai, or Feast of the First Fruits, when suddenly the arrow struck him in the chest, and he died.

From this incident comes the phrase that one should “fear a returning arrow”, which was already well known by the 8th century.

Now Waka Hiko’s wife, Shitateru Hime, cried and wept over his death, and his parents sent a wind to blow his body back up to Heaven for his funeral. The Chronicles then go into some depth as to just how this funeral unfolded.  In fact, this is one of the first real descriptions that we have of a funeral at this time.

First off, they built a mortuary house—a temporary structure for the body to reside in as part of the mogari ritual.  The body would be laid out here before being buried, and though we talk about it being temporary, it may have been 3 to 6 months, but it could also be for several years.  In the Kofun period, this probably provided time to build a burial mound, if the deceased warranted such.  This idea of temporary burial appears to go back in Japan all the way to the Jomon period, where we see  but also has elements in common with the Chinese and Korean—specifically Baekje—traditions.  In all actuality I the specific rites mentioned in the Chronicles were probably a combination of traditions that evolved over the centuries.

Along with erecting a building purely for the temporary interment of the corpse, there were then the various rites, requiring a myriad of individual participants.  There were the food bearers, and the feast bearers, and the rice pounders.  Then there were the mourners, female and male—though female mourners seem more common, including, it seems, special dancers, in the tradition of Ama no Uzume.  There were also cleaners, possibly to sweep and purify; weavers to sew the garments for the ritual; not to mention people to bear the various  and “spirit receptacles”, who may have had a role as a type of medium, to represent the deceased.  Together, along with the family, they would wail, mourn, and sing for 8 days and 8 nights.

Amidst all of these preparations and ceremonies for Ame no Waka Hiko, a figure walked into the celebrations, and, by the sound of it, things just about came to a stop.  Like an ancient record scratch, Ame no Waka Hiko’s father and his wife both cried out, for this stranger was nothing if not the spitting image of the dead Ame no Waka Hiko.  They were overjoyed that their son and husband was alive once more and clung to his hands and feet.

However, their hopes were dashed as the stranger pulled away.  He was not, in fact, the resurrected form of the deceased, but rather he was Shitateru Hime’s brother--and let’s not even get into the fact that Shitateru Hime married someone who looked exactly like her brother—and he had met Waka Hiko when he had come down to the Land of the Central Reed Plains.  Over the years, the two had become extremely close, such that this friend had made the journey all the way to Takama no Hara for the funeral.  His name was Ajisukitaka Hikone, and they say he really did look just like Waka Hiko, assuming one could even make him out—one account claims that his glory was so bright that it illuminated the space of two hills and two valleys.  Regardless, being mistaken for his dead friend whom he had come to mourn was just too much—he was insulted and disgusted, and drew out his sword, Ohogari, in anger.  He cut down the temporary interment house, collapsing the whole thing and putting a sudden end to the festivities.  By the way, they say that the remains of that building become the Mourning Mountain, aka Mo-yama, just above the Ayumi River in Mino.   Traditionally this is believed to be in Gifu, just east of Sekigahara, near the site of the old residence of the Nagoya Domain leadership and modern Tarui station.

Alright, so the kami sent down Ame no Ho Hi, and he went native.  Then they sent Ame Waka Hiko, and he went native.  But they still needed to establish a foothold.  So what did they do next?

Well, what else?  Called the kami together and ask for yet another council.  I swear that their answer to just about anything is a committee, which is more than a little interesting considering the top-down nature of later Japanese bureaucracy.  Could these constant councils be evidence of an earlier, human tradition in the archipelago?  One that looked for consensus?  It would certainly seem to fit with the idea that Himiko, and her successors, were somehow selected by the people, not simply granted position by the accident of their birth.  At the very least they seem to be attempting to demonstrate some early form of inclusive leadership.  But I digress. 

So Amaterasu asked the collected deities just whom they should dispatch, and they told her that it should either be Itsu no Ohabari no Kami or his descendant, Takemikazuchi no Kami. 

Now if you’d been reading along at all, but if Itsu no Ohabari sounds familiar, that’s because this deity actually made an earlier appearance:  As Izanagi’s sword.  Of course, this is not uncommon in the world of kami—rocks, trees, mountains, and just about anything else could be a kami.  This is particularly true of things owned by people or deities. 

And of course his son, such as he was, was Takemikazuchi.  He was actually born from the blood that ran off of Izanagi’s sword—that is, that ran off of Ohabari—when Izanagi slew Kagutsuchi, the fire god whose birth took the life of Izanami.

So what had Ohabari been doing all this time?  Well apparently he lived in the Heavenly Rock Cave—I guess after Amaterasu was finished hiding in there he decided it would be a good place to move in.  Ohabari also seems to have been a bit of a troublemaker, as they say that he dammed up the Heavenly Yasu River—the Ame no Yasugawa—and thus barred the way between Heaven and Earth, and so the deities sent someone to check it out.  When they told Ohabari that he had been recommended to go down to the earth and subdue the kami, Ohabari declined and suggested Takemikazuchi would be the better candidate.  After all, Ohabari may have been a literal sword, but Take Mikazuchi was a brave warrior god of thunder—just without the flying hammer.  And that settled it--Take Mikazuchi would go down, instead.

Oh, and about the whole thing regarding the river?  They just conveniently leave that out.  It isn’t even mentioned again.  Maybe it is part of some other story, or maybe it will have consequences later, but for now it seems to have been dropped.  Presumably he stopped, as Ohabari said he would obey the commands of Amaterasu, but like so much with the kami it is not explicit.

So Takemikazuchi started to get ready to go down to earth and start clean house.

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the Heavenly Plain, Takami Musubi was also calling everyone together and asking who should be sent down to subdue the Central Land of the Reed Plains—you know, Japan.  Well, either this was a different set of “everyone” than previously or nobody wanted to mention that Amaterasu had already asked them for a name, and rather than give him the same answer as before, they suggest a second kami: Futsunushi no kami.

Now “Futsu” is supposedly the sound a sword makes as it cuts through the air:  the tachi-kaze, as they say, the sword wind.  And you can just about hear it:  “Fut!” “Put!”.  Nushi means master, so Futsunushi implies that he was a master of the sword—or at least a master of a sword cutting through the air.

As soon as Takemikazuchi heard that Futsunushi was going down too, he threw a bit of a fit.  After all, wasn’t he worthy?  Was he not a hero?  Were they not amused?  Oh, sorry, wrong bit.

Anyway, yeah, they ended up sending them both down to pacify the land.  Which was probably for the best—sending them down one at a time hadn’t really been working out up to this point.

Or at least, that’s how the Kujiki tells it, which seems to be almost a mishmash of the different stories.  The Nihon Shoki has a similar version of events:  The gods chose Futsunushi, and as he was departing, Takemikazuchi asked why he shouldn’t go as well.  In the Kojiki, there is no mention of Futsunushi whatsoever, and Take Mikazuchi went down with Ame no Torifune, the Heavenly Bird Boat.  The Kujiki is probably drawing from the same sources as both the Nihon Shoki and the Kojiki, and weaving them together.  In contrast, the Kamuyogoto of Izumo has no mention of Takemikazuchi at all, but both it and the Izumo Fudoki mention Futsunushi. 

Trying to make sense of all of this, I can only assume that Futsunushi was part of some earlier story—probably one associated with Takami Musubi and Kamu Musubi, and before Amaterasu was really in the picture.  Takemikazuchi, on the other hand, seems tied to the story of Amaterasu.  Regardless, by the 8th century the stories were all mixed up together, and Takemikazuchi and Futsunushi had become intertwined.  Even today, these deities are often found together or near one another, such as at the famous shrines of Katori and Kashima, and various sword schools claim a relationship to them in some way, shape or form.

And so the two were sent down to subdue the land—taking out an evil star god, Ame no Kagasewo, along the way.  Not entirely sure why he’s even mentioned, but it likely meant something to the people back then.  Anyway, they headed down to the land of Izumo, landing at Itasa Beach, near Kizuki, where they went straight away to see Ohokuninushi himself.  They walked up to him and immediately explained why they were there.

Now, I can’t help but see this whole next part as some kind of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure type story.  These two gods of war strolled up from the beach, found Ohokuninushi and then planted their swords into the ground and sat there, cross-legged, upon them.  Now maybe it is just lost over the years and in translation—perhaps there was something where they actually sat on their swords as evidence they weren’t going to use them, or perhaps plunging their swords upright into the earth was a clear indication that they were armed and ready for a fight if it came to that.  But that certainly isn’t how it reads:  It sounds like they literally sat on their upright swords as if they were bar stools.

Ohokuninushi, for his part, took this as a clear threat, and so he was wary, but agreed to listen to their demands.    They lay out their case—that the High God of Heaven—whether Takami Musubi or Amaterasu, it depends on the source—wanted their descendant to rule the Central Land of the Reed Plains, and if Ohokuninushi would just hand over control willingly, the other earthly deities would surely submit.

Ohokuninushi begged their pardon and requested they send for one of his sons, Kotoshiro Nushi, to ask him his advice on this matter.  Unfortunately Kotoshiro Nushi was out hunting and finishing at the Cape of Miho, along the northern edge of the Izumo peninsula, so someone would need to go find him.  In some stories this was Ame no Torifune, the Bird Boat of Heaven who came down with Takemikazuchi, but in others it is a local “swift boat” that was sent—swift boat referring to a boat with more oarsmen and thus could ply the waters faster than most, and not to some Vietnam era PCF.  Either way they found Kotoshiro Nushi and explained to him the Heavenly request.

Now Kotoshiro Nushi seems to have been the Izumo equivalent of Omohikane no Kami.  Some suggest that his name, Kotoshiro, refers to “thinking thoughts”, and he appears to represent the more esoteric or intellectual arguments.  He may represent some office or group that was in charge of oracular pronouncements in Izumo  Of course, Kotoshironushi hears the decree from Heaven and immediately decides that yes, they should clear the way for Heaven’s descendants—and if Ohokuninushi cedes the land without a fight it will be as they said, and the other deities will indeed capitulate as well.

And as soon as he says this he makes his own bizarre move:  standing on the bow of the ship, he makes an enclosure of green branches, and then he performs a “reverse clap” and leaps off the bow of the boat, becoming concealed, a term that is often used in the Chronicles to imply that they had died.It softens the harshness of the tragedy.  You know—like you could tell your child: Rover’s not dead, he’s just concealed himself, and now we’re playing the longest game of Hide-and-Seek ever.

So this would seem to be a suicide, though later we get evidence that, unlike Izanami, Kotoshiro Nushi is still around, just not in the realm of men.  Some believe that “becoming concealed” may have just been a term for leaving the visible realm and becoming invisible—conveniently explaining why you don’t see kami in the world today like they were back during the Chronicles.  I would also suppose that concealing oneself may refer to the death of a corporeal form—perhaps even the death of the person who, in death, became the invisible kami in question.  But it is not entirely clear.

There is also the matter of the reverse clapping, which some suggest is either clapping with your hands facing outwards or clapping vertically instead of horizontally.  However it would be done, it is reminiscent of Susanowo and his “reverse flaying” of the horse—some sort of magical spell or incantation.

Furthermore, the enclosure, made of green branches, is described like a holy site.  Some of the earliest shrines appear to have simply been areas that were fenced off where the kami’s spirit was thought to dwell, with actual shrine buildings coming much later.  And you might remember just how pleased Susanowo was with the many walls—the yaegaki—that he constructed around Kushinada Hime’s home.

Anyway, with Kotoshiro Nushi now concealed, the Heavenly deities once again asked Ohokuninushi if he would give up the land, but he deferred yet one more time.  He had another son, Takeminakata, whom he would consult—though he promised this was the last one.  Honest, guys, really.

And so they waited while Takeminakata arrived, and, well, you know how I said this feels like some weird Joestar adventure?  Yeah, well Takeminakata arrives carrying a huge boulder—one that the chronicles say would take a thousand men to lift—and he’s carrying it on his fingertips as if it were nothing.  If Kotoshiro Nushi represented the brains, Takeminakata was bringing the brawns—and oh was he bringing it.  Setting aside the boulder—and no doubt pausing to flex a bit—Takeminakata requested that they have a test of strength.  This may have referred to some kind of traditional wrestling match—possibly even the kind of wrestling that later led to sumo.  But whatever it may have been in actuality, the chronicles take that up to 11.

So first off, Takeminakata grabbed Takemikazuchi’s arm, which immediately ran cold, turning to ice, and then into a sword blade.  Maybe these were euphemisms for combat in some way, but I just have anime vision in my head as the muscle-bound Takeminakata grabs Takemikazuchi and his arm actually does change, startling Takeminakata.

Of course, then it is Takemikazuchi’s turn.  He grabbed Takeminakata’s arm and crushed it like a young reed, apparently tearing it off and throwing it to the ground, at which point Takeminakata went running off, pursued by Takemikazuchi and Futsunushi until they caught up to him at Lake Suwa in Shinano—modern Nagano prefecture.  Just before they were about to kill him he raised a hand in defeat.  He agreed to submit and that he wouldn’t go against the words of his brother, Kotoshiro Nushi.  Takeminakata is still worshipped there, today, at Suwa’s Upper Shrine.

And so, having defeated Takeminakata, Takemikazuchi and Futsunushi they return to Ohokuninushi and ask one more time if he is willing to submit—they had to be getting more than a bit frustrated by this point.

At last, Ohokuninushi agreed that he, would, in fact, yield the Central Land of the Reed Plains, but only if they set up a palace where he could be worshipped.  In some cases he requested this, in others it was an offer by Takami Musubi, but either way, everyone agreed.  A palace would be built in Kizuki, one that was near to the heavens.  It would have all the trappings of the palace—or shrine—of a High God of Heaven, and it would be near enough to the shore that he could go out boating when he needed to, and people would be appointed to take care of his every need.  They would even leave him in charge of the spiritual realm as long as he handed over the physical realm to the Heavenly heir.

With all of this prepared, Ohokuninushi handed over the spear he had used to gain control of the land, noting that he hoped it would help to bring peace to the land, and then he, too concealed himself.

Or at least, that’s how the Yamato court told it.  In the Kamuyogoto of Izumo it is a little more nuanced.  Rather than giving up the land, Ohokuninushi—or Ohonamochi, as he’s addressed in the Kamuyogoto—tells them that the Divine Descendant could live in Yamato, rather than giving up everything.  Furthermore, the Izumo Fudoki makes it sounds as it Ohonamochi gave up all of the lands that he had conquered outside of Izumo, but kept Izumo as his own. 

In addition, the handing over the regalia—the spear—seems pretty significant.  I can’t help but think of all of the bronze weapons that were found in Kojindani, including spears as well as swords and bells—was this something similar?  There is also a note in the Izumo Fudoki about how Yatsukamizu Omizunu, when he was finished pulling the lands of Izumo together into one, plunged a staff in to a mound on the Ou plain and declared that he was finished.  I may have mentioned this before, I can’t help but wonder if this is an echo of some ancient practice, possibly some kind of ceremony.  It strikes me as not all that dissimilar from the European proclivity to place flags wherever they go—heck, we even put one on the Moon itself!

In addition to that there is a story that Funado—the deity that came from Izanagi’s staff—apparently led Futsunushi around as he pacified the land—without any mention of Takemikazuchi, mind you.

So what are we to make of all of this?  It is certainly hard to say for certain, as there is no sure link between the archaeology and the mythical stories.  Still, I’m more inclined to accept the stories in the Izumo Fudoki and as handed down in the Kamuyogoto as containing a greater part of the earlier traditions.  Those traditions seem to have centered more on Takami Musubi and Kamu Musubi as the chief Heavenly deities, and Futsu Nushi as the warrior spirit who later calmed the land of Izumo.  The passage in the Fudoki where Ohokuninushi gives up all the land he had conquered except for Izumo proper has echoes in the way that we see round keyhole tomb mounds spring up first in Tottori, rather than Izumo, and it is in Izumo that we see them hold out the longest.

I would propose that Takemikazuchi may be a deity truly from outside of Izumo, and possibly brought into the narrative along with Amaterasu, to bolster the Yamato narrative.  He may have originally been a Yamato deity—or possibly from elsewhere in the archipelago.  I would not be surprised if the story about him and Takeminakata was lifted from some other myth cycle and transplanted here.

Regardless, both Takemikazuchi and Futsunushi were important to the Yamato court—particularly to the Yamato military.  Takemikazuchi is enshrined at Kasuga Taisha, the ancestral shrine of the Fujiwara, a powerful family that arose from the Nakatomi court ritualists and eventually gained immense political power in the court.  Both Takemikazuchi and Futsunushi are enshrined in the eastern Kanto region, though, and it is thought they were brought East as the Yamato military marched out, possibly fighting with the Emishi and any other group outside the Yamato polity.

Regardless of the original stories, the land was now at peace, and the divine descendant could finally leave the Plain of Heaven and start their rule over the Central Reed Plains.  But we will leave that story for another day.

There is a bit of an epilogue to this story, one that belies some of what came before.  In the various stories, they note who submitted to the Will of Heaven, and amongst them are a couple names in particular.  There, Kotoshiro Nushi and Ohomono Nushi—whom you might remember was a part of the spirit of Ohokuni Nushi who dwelled at Mt. Miwa, near the birthplace of Yamato—were both said to have submitted themselves and were thus taken up into the High Plain of Heaven.  Ohomono Nushi was even forced to take a Heavenly Deity as a wife, as Takami Musubi wouldn’t trust him with an earthly spouse.  And so he was wed to Takami Musubi’s daughter, Mihotsu Hime, whose name seems to reference the same cape where Kotoshiro Nushi was out hunting and fishing.  This whole thing reeks of the kind of marriage politics that we saw earlier between Ohonamuchi and Yagami Hime and even Nunakawa Hime.

But nonetheless, how could they have submitted and gone up to Heaven if they are said to have concealed themselves, especially if concealing themselves really is meant to refer to death?  We could just pass it off because they are kami—they don’t have to follow our human rules, thank you very much.  And it could also be that the various stories that were being drawn from all had different endings.  Who knows?

Anyway, as I said before, we’ll leave it here and next episode we’ll start to look at the divine descendant and their descent from the Heavenly Plain, eventually leading to the birth of the first sovereign of Yamato.

Until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more, we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have some more discussion on this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.

This episode finishes our brief look at Izumo.  There is a lot more that people could dig into, but this will give us the broad strokes through the Kofun period, up to roughly the period of the Chronicles.

For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-20

Rough Transcript

Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.  My name is Joshua and this is episode 20:  Yakumotatsu Izumo, Part 2.

Before we get started, a big thank you to Fabian for your generous support on Ko-Fi.  If you would like to join them, you can find a link to our KoFi site on our web page, sengokudaimyo.com or go straight to our Kofi site:  KoFi.com/sengokudaimyo.

So last episode we covered a lot of the background of Izumo—and if you haven’t listened to that one, you may want to for an appreciation of the geography of the area that we are talking about.  Still, in this episode, I have to warn you up front, it is a bit of a jumbled mess.  I mean I’ve tried to put the information together as best I can, but there are a lot of gaps and assumptions that we have to make because the record just isn’t that clear.  Furthermore, many times we just can’t be sure when a particular earthwork or feature was created, except in broad terms.  My hope isn’t to give you a full history of Izumo, here, but rather just a glimpse at what was happening, so that later, when we see what is going on in the chronicles you have some point of reference.

By the way, if you are really intrigued by Izumo, I highly recommend reading some of the references we have on the Podcast blog and doing some research of your own.  This area of study is still being developed as more and more information comes to light.  Izumo clearly was an important in the early days, and in fact there was recently an exhibit at the Tokyo National Museum focused on the relationship between Izumo and Yamato

All that said, here’s a bit of what we know, with a little bit of recap from last episode:

Today, Izumo seems like a relatively distant and isolated territory, but it plays a rather large part in the Kojiki and the Nihon Shoki, particularly in the Age of the Gods.  Over time we’ve come to see that there is a lot more to Izumo than meets the eye, with sizeable Yayoi settlements and caches of bronze weapons that dwarf other finds on the archipelago.  They were definitely a player, connected via land and sea trade routes to groups throughout the islands and the mainland.  But were they, as depicted in the story of Ohokuninushi, the masters of all the land?

Well, not quite, at least based on the evidence we have—certainly not in the Yayoi period.  There is even some question of whether or not there was any one central authority in Izumo itself.  While there was a strong, flourishing culture, the distribution of burial mounds across the Izumo cultural Zone doesn’t point to a single, central power overseeing anything. 

Still, they were clearly an important point on the Japan Sea trade routes, and would remain such for years to come, as they were particularly suited to maritime trade.  In fact, by the third century, most of the archipelago, from at least Kyushu to Kanto, was part of a complex network of trade relationships that extended all the way to the Korean peninsula. This included those areas in the Izumo cultural zone.  These trade links would allow for the transmission of news, culture, and religion, just as they helped spread Izumo Culture, which may account for stories of Ohonamuchi—or some aspect of him—being found in so many places across the archipelago.

That said, while Ohonamuchi’s shrine, Izumo Taisha may have been an important religious site, possibly drawing in people from around the Izumo Cultural Zone and possibly even beyond, that doesn’t appear to have translated into clear secular authority outside of the Izumo Plain.  This is probably an accident of geography as much as anything else.  The lands of Izumo were largely disconnected, either by the mountains that separated the various alluvial plains or by ocean waters, in the case of the Oki Islands or even the distant lands of Koshi no Kuni, whose name comes from the word “Kosu”, “to go beyond”—as in going beyond the borders of most of the Wa states, indicating Hokuriku region and even farther than that—up to Tohoku and the border lands with the Emishi in the north.

So what does it mean if there is no clear central authority, yet the Wei Chronicles claim that the land of Touma—which we are assuming is Izumo—has a governor and deputy—the Mimi and Miminari?  How could there have been a single governor over all of this?

Well, just because we have separate elites in these various areas doesn’t mean that there wasn’t someone designated to oversee larger, regional affairs.  There may have been someone with status and position—particularly in the middle of the third century—who could speak for the various settlements in matters pertaining to outsiders.  This may have been someone put forth by and chosen by the other elites, much as Himiko appears to have been chosen by others in the islands.  Possibly, the translation should read more along the lines of “the governors are called “Mimi” and their second-in-commands are called ‘Miminari’”, indicating that these are general titles.  Still, one would have expected the chroniclers to remark on such a setup if they knew about it.

Expanding on this line of thinking, it occurs to me that you don’t necessarily need to have despotic sovereignty to represent Yamato.  While the Chinese chronicles harp on the harsh rules and punishments in the islands, they present Himiko as less of a tyrant and more of a shaman, and we certainly know that there was a close tie between religion and the Yamato sovereigns.  Not only did they claim descent from the kami, but many of the shrines were effectively extensions of the sovereign’s rule.  So when we talk about “Kings” and “Chieftains” we need to be careful not to assume too much of a Western European or even Chinese bent. 

In this system, there may not have been firm centralized control, and this fits with later Japanese forms of government.  Even the Tokugawa shogunate remained in place largely because no single daimyo could challenge its power, and no daimyo trusted the others sufficiently to band together.  When that finally happened, and Choshu and Satsuma banded together, the Tokugawa fell.

That would seem to match with what we know of Himiko’s reign.  Though little direct evidence appears in Izumo, the Chinese chronicles talk of a period of turmoil, from which the Yamato state emerged as the most powerful on the archipelago.  Even if Izumo resisted, Himiko likely had control of most of the shipping lanes. If you wanted to trade with the mainland, you had to at least play nice with the Yamato court.  On the other hand, Izumo, being on the other side of the mountains, did not directly threaten Yamato’s trade and commerce.

Personally I suspect that, at least in the 3rd century, Yamato and Izumo were in something of an alliance.  Izumo was not as organized as Yamato, and it had different cultural norms—though perhaps not so different as to prevent an alliance.  And Yamato had ambitions.  It was at the westernmost edge of a cultural zone that included the modern cities of Kyoto and Nagoya, and likely had allies along the Pacific coast of the Kanto all the way to Tohoku.  By the 3rd century they had close ties with the cultures of the Seto Inland Sea and Northern Kyushu, not to mention the lands near Busan on the southeastern tip of the Korean peninsula.  These trade routes, combined with the natural agricultural wealth of the Nara basin and adjacent regions gave them a tremendous amount of clout in the islands.

Meanwhile, the Izumo cultural zone had made it through the 2nd century, during and after the turmoil that the Chinese chroniclers say wracked the country, with a confederation of chiefdoms along the Japan sea coast with similar traditions and language but their own independent authorities —though likely some regional organization.  New land had been claimed through successful agriculture, and generally the settlements were not in direct competition with one another, but were sharing resources. Each chiefdom covered a large alluvial plain region, and these were united under a ruler—male or female—or perhaps a ruling pair.   These chiefs might even have been considered sovereigns—kings and queens—at least within their territory—though again, we want to be careful about assuming they acted in any way as European royalty might.  They were probably the landholders—the Na-mochi—and the masters of their small countries—the Kuni Nushi. They might have taken on the title of Kimi—or perhaps Mimi.  They lived in communities made up of a combination of pit houses dug into the earth and other buildings, including storehouses, watch towers, and even other houses, perhaps the residences of the elite.  These latter buildings may have been built above the ground on raised posts.  Two large features dominated these early communities.  In amongst their dwellings sat larger, taller above-ground buildings, raised up on a grid of 9 pillars.  As with the Taisha style architecture, people most likely entered through the gabled side of the building, and held events of both religious and political significance.

These religious bonds may be another intangible relationship, through which the elites may have garnered and granted prestige with one another.  Links between various chieftains may have had implications for trade but also for prestige.  Though we talk about the Kojiki and the Nihon Shoki incorporating the various religious traditions across the archipelago, who’s to say that this wasn’t simply continuing a trend of syncretism tied to the theocratic positions of those in power?

Another major feature of these early communities are the burial mounds, which might have been in their own area of the settlement—perhaps even another area on the plain, entirely.  These mounds, with their four protruding corners, are the resting places of the elites of the community, and as the years went on they acquired fresh, new burials, until it became physically or politically necessary to build a new mound.

Now these communities were well aware of their neighbors.  They were part of these trading networks throughout the archipelago and the mainland; Independent, but not insular.  They no doubt operated under a series of norms that we may never really know or understand, at  least, not beyond the glimpses we get in the Chinese records; and they may have been driven, perhaps, by the same cooperation that wet rice paddy agriculture had fostered in people since its arrival.

Chaos in parts of the archipelago—even if it didn’t directly affect the Izumo chiefdoms—would have been a disruption to trade and therefore a destabilizing factor, at the very least.  That may have led the region—or at least some in the region—to support Yamato’s dealings with the Wei, or at least not obstruct them.  It may also have been a reason for members of the cultural zone to join together to take military action, at times, and may have even been a driving force to join the Yamato coalition—even if as a more peripheral member.

As for what Yamato got out of the deal:  Izumo had access to the trade routes along the Japan Sea.  This could bypass the Seto Inland Sea trade routes.  Whether they wanted to use them or simply have a say over the competition, I couldn’t really say.  The communities of Izumo show no clear indication that they had the grand ambitions towards the mainland, that Yamato had, but it would better support Himiko’s cause if there was at least an appearance of unity.  How such cooperation was obtained, however, is still unknown. 

Of course, it also could be the case that Izumo *had* no connection with Yamato.  The Wei may have known about Izumo because of trade routes, and simply listed it as another well-known location, not intending it as an actual stop on their ancient itinerary.

And as for Izumo’s connection to the cult of Mt. Miwa—originally Mt. Mimoro—Yamato could have built that connection any time between the 1st to 4th centuries, really.  To me, the information in the Chronicles, location of the Makimuku palace, as well as other local features suggest that the connection between the Miwa cult and the Kizuki, or Izumo Taisha, cult came about fairly early on.  Whether the result of some sort of early marriage politics, or a deliberate conflation of the deities to provide a more explicit religious connection, I’m not sure, but I highly suspect that the connection came about well before the deity of Miwa was replaced by the goddess Amaterasu and her shrine at Ise as the chief deity of the Yamato court.

And we should consider one more thing:  That the relationship between Izumo and Yamato may have been more properly of a type of “tributary” nature, with Yamato creating bonds through gifts. Specifically, gifts from Yamato were sent out to various local leaders, which may have, in turn, boosted their status, locally.  This could explain how Yamato never really had control – they maintained an ability to claim some status, but politically they were still left in a shaky position.  This fits, in my opinion at least, with the mirrors that were distributed from the various Chinese embassies, later.  After all, despite their interventions on the mainland, the archaeological evidence does not clearly demonstrate that Yamato itself expanded much beyond its own borders until the 5th century or so.  That means that Yamato remained essentially in its original location for about as long as the United States has been a country.  That’s a lot of time for alliances to shift, change, break down, and be built up once again.  Unfortunately, we only get the broad strokes of this story in the archaeological record so far.

But let’s talk a little bit more about Yamato.

Now even if you are a die-hard proponent of the Kyushu theory – that is, that Queen Himiko’s Yamatai was actually in Kyushu, and that Yamato was an entirely different state in the Kinki region.  Even they cannot deny that by the 3rd century there is a thriving community in Yamato, and the finds at Makimuku, in modern Nara prefecture, certainly seem to suggest that it was the center of a lot of activity.  One of the most lasting physical marks upon the landscape that attests to Yamato’s power and existence are the keyhole shaped kofun—the Zenpou-Kouen-fun.

Now the kofun, or ancient tumuli, are burial mounds, similar, in some ways, to the funkyuubo, or Yayoi period burial mounds.  However, while the funkyubo were elite burial mounds for multiple people—either separate generations or perhaps those who were somehow connected—the kofun tomb mounds were built for only one or two people, generally. 

Just stop and think about that.  While the previous elites organized labor so they could be buried in a separate, monumental location, this was now being done for only one person.  And the size quickly dwarfed previous burial mounds.

Now the oldest kofun that we know of is probably Hokenoyama Kofun in, where else?  Sakurai City, near Makimuku.  The massive Hashihaka Kofun, considered the first true round keyhole shaped kofun, follows shortly after. Round keyhole shaped kofun have a shape like a keyhole: one end is round, but then the other side flares out into a trapezoidal structure such that the whole think looks like a giant keyhole from above.  In Japanese this is described as Zenpou-Kouen, or “Angular Front and Round Back”.  Technically accurate, but not nearly as distinctive.  Anyway, the shape is often emphasized by a moat around the structure, and possibly earthworks. 

The Hokenoyama Kofun is similar, but the trapezoid is much smaller than the keyhole shape, and so it is actually classified as a scallop shaped kofun, more like a scallop shell.  This shape would appear from time to time and is considered the forerunner to the round keyhole shape.  Hokenoyama is about 80 meters or so in length, and originally had two burial chambers, with a third added much later, for some reason.  It was probably built in the 3rd century—I’ve seen dates as early as 230, which would put it only a few years prior to Himiko’s missions to China.  Could this, then, be the resting place of her predecessor?  Or perhaps it was built at the beginning of her reign and she was interred there later?  Either way, some intriguing speculation. 

In comparison, Hashihaka kofun was built later in that same 3rd century, about the year 250, also in the same area.  It is a true keyhole shaped tomb, and likely the model for those that came afterwards.  In fact, I recommend just going to Google Maps, turn on Satellite View, and search for Hashihaka.  You should see it clearly along with several other kofun in the area.  That distinctive keyhole shape became the shape for members of the Yamato polity, and they are our key indicator as to whether or not we consider that a particular area was part of the early Yamato state.

Regardless of who is buried where—and I really do hope that one of these days we’ll be able to get more information on that question—the two tombs of Hokenoyama and Hashihaka signify the beginning of something new.  Because you see, this isn’t a tradition the Yamato sovereigns keep to themselves.  Rather, this idea of building individual tomb mounds for various rulers and people of import becomes a fad that travels well beyond Yamato’s borders.

In fact, in Izumo, our oldest kofun appears to be in Shiotsuyama, in modern day Yasugi, overlooking the Nogi plain in Eastern Izumo.  This kofun was probably built somewhere in the mid-3rd and early 4th centuries—so after the time of Himiko—but using a mix of Yamato and Izumo burial practices.  Unlike the Yamato-style round keyhole tombs, it had a shape similar to the protruding corners of the four-cornered burial mounds, with some evidence of pronounced corners still remaining, but it was otherwise just a large rectangular tomb, with only one burial.  As with other early tumuli and other burial mounds, they dug a pit straight into the top of the tomb mound and covered with a stone roof.  This would be the norm for burial chambers in the early part of the Kofun period in Izumo and beyond.

The fact that this is a square shaped tumulus and not a keyhole shaped tomb, like those that Yamato is known for, suggests that, though the local Izumo elites may have been borrowing the idea of a monumental tomb from their neighbors to the south, they were still independent.  They used a mix of techniques—keeping up with the Tarous, as it were, but in Izumo’s own style.  After all, if Yamato was going to start building monumental tombs, then so would Izumo.  It’s just a good thing nobody had any bridges to jump off of or the whole thing could have escalated. 

This also indicate something that we already knew from the Yayoi period:  the Nogi plain was clearly a happening place, but we have no clear evidence that it was part of the greater Yamato polity, beyond the mention in the Wei Chronicles.  So they were likely still doing their own thing in Izumo, even if they were part of a larger political coalition.  Some have even suggested that they were only briefly vassals of the Yamato, but then regained a sense of independence.

Now these square kofun, or houfun, in the Izumo region were not quite as large as the keyhole shaped tombs of Yamato, but they were still impressive.  In the coming years, they built more and more along the Nogi plain, with the largest being part of the Tsukuriyama cluster. 

The largest kofun of the Tsukuriyama cluster, in Nogi, has sides about 60 meters long, and was likely built in the early 4th century.  Because of its square size and height—about 4 and a half meters tall—it is also incredibly massive.  It must have taken incredible efforts to mobilize the labor that went in to building it, and there is, strangely, no evidence of extreme coercion.  Similar to the pyramids of Egypt, these tumuli do not appear to have been built by slave labor but by the same forces that drew labor from one community to help build irrigation for another, just now on a different scale.  Clearly it wasn’t only the elites, but also the people who had some inclination that these tombs were an important part of who they were as a people.

Over the next century, the people built more kofun, mostly of the square type that seems to be so peculiar to Izumo.  The area was still divided into various groups in the different valleys, and the Nogi Plain area seems to have prospered the most.  Indications of Yamato’s hegemony are present, but only just, especially when compared to the communities of Kibi and Northern Kyushu, where clusters of large Yamato-style keyhole tumuli can be found.  The Izumo style Houfun, though square in shape, internally does show similarities to the kofun in Yamato, though.  Some of the kofun even show a connection in their grave goods, and in both directions—some of the clay figures found in other areas of the archipelago are identified as having been made in Izumo.

Now one of the interesting indications of the connection between Yamato and Izumo sits in Western Izumo, along the reaches of the Hii river, at small shrine called Kanbara Jinja.  This shrine is actually built on top of an old tomb mound, an old square kofun.  In fact, there are quite a few shrines that found themselves atop these tomb mound; perhaps as the occupant’s memory was carried forward, they lost their mortal status and were equated with a kami.  Regardless of how the shrine got there, when this particular kofun was examined they found that it contained a mirror with an actual date inscribed on it that suggests it was made about 239—right around the time that Yamato traveled to the Wei court.

The Kanbara Jinja Kofun was probably constructed around the early 4th century—within a century from the time the mirror came back from the mainland—but still, this indicates that someone in Izumo wound up with a mirror from Himiko’s collection.  So they had to have some connection back to the Yamato court, and quite likely a subservient one, at least from Yamato’s perspective.  The mirror clearly had significance to be buried with such an elite member of society.  On the other hand, this kofun was not built as one of the Round Keyhole tombs that were so often used by the Yamato court, so in all likelihood, this person was either outside the Yamato court structure or held a low rank.  The general assumption being that tomb shape and size were impacted by one’s lineage and place in Yamato’s hierarchy.  Of course, for those on the periphery, I can’t help but wonder if other factors were in play as well.

Now, besides Kanbara Jinja, we also see connections to Yamato on the far eastern edge of our range, in Eastern Tottori.  Sitting on a ridge over the West Tottori Interchange, between the Nosaka and Sendai Rivers, is what was originally thought to be a round kofun, but which has since been confirmed to actually be one of the round keyhole shaped mounds, such as those found down in Yamato.  It turns out this kofun, known as Motodaka Kofun, may be the oldest keyhole shaped kofun found in the San’in region—that area on the Japan Sea side of the mountains in Western Honshu.  Motodaka Kofun, as well as Kanbara Jinja Kofun, are both thought to be products of the early 4th century.  By then, Himiko had passed away, as had her immediate successors—an unnamed male ruler and then a woman named Iyo, a 14-year old relative of Himiko.  These early rulers in Yamato handed out the bronze mirrors they had received from the Chinese court, and they would later be found in burials throughout the archipelago.  In the fourth century, beadwork from the Korean peninsula—particularly the area of Pon-Kaya—made its way into these tombs as well.  Not surprising, as this was the period when Yamato and the people of the peninsula were actively supporting groups on the mainland.

You see, on the Korean Peninsula, in the early 4th century, Koguryeo attacked and finally defeated Daifang and the Lelang commandery.  The kingdom of Baekje developed a stratified culture of their own, and the chiefdoms in Jinhan were coming together to form Silla, distinguishing themselves from the Gaya confederacy, to their south. The peninsula also had its own mounded tomb culture—a culture that likely influenced the archipelago.  Yamato would spend the next fifty years or so embroiled in conflicts with various allies on the peninsula, with constantly shifting allegiances and loyalties.  Were Izumo soldiers there as well?  Did they answer the call when Yamato levied troops to go to the continent?  Or did they sit on the back side of their mountains, dealing more with their own internal struggles?  It is hard to tell, but the keyhole tomb at Motodaka does appear to indicate that there were at least some who were loyal to Yamato and offered it service—possibly military service at that.  This trend continued in Eastern and Central Tottori, where many more round keyhole tombs would be built in the following centuries.

Meanwhile, Eastern Izumo and the Nogi Plain still seems to have supported the largest and most prosperous site in the area, including the 60m long Oonari Kofun and Tsukuriyama Kofun—the most massive kofun in the region, if not the archipelago.  These are remarkable for their size and their shape—it must have taken a massive number of people from the area, and possibly beyond, to build such monumental tombs.  If they were part of the Yamato polity, would such an effort have been used for someone who wasn’t to be buried in the Royal Yamato fashion?  Whoever was in charge in the Nogi area, they must have been living pretty well, for the period, and they weren’t quite drinking the Yamato Kool-Aid.

That said, the Yamato style round keyhole tomb style tumuli did make some inroads across the Izumo cultural Zone in the 4th century:  There is Oodera Kofun on the Izumo plain, thought to be the oldest round keyhole tomb there, and even kofun such as Kamimaruyama on the Nogi plain, which may have been built as early as the 4th century.  But these were interspersed with other types of burials and tumuli of various shapes—particularly on the Nogi plain.  What are we to make of this other than there were some connections to Yamato, but for the most part Izumo remained on the periphery?  This matches up with a court that was embroiled in politics on the Korean peninsula and also seeing some turmoil at home; some time in the 4th century, you see, the court abandoned its site in Makimuku, for reasons that are not entirely clear.  In later periods these kinds of moves were often made when a sovereign died, presumably to avoid any spiritual pollution surrounding their death, though possibly also linked with some sort of political realignment. 

And so the 4th century was one of dynamic growth and change.  The rise of the mounded tomb culture in the archipelago affected the Izumo region, but of course with its own distinct flair.  Conflict on the peninsula sent various groups of exiles to the islands, where they would settle in, often becoming influential in their new home.  They settled across the islands, including Izumo, and they brought the technical innovations, particularly in the ways of working iron.  These immigrant smiths appear to have settled in the mountains, and may have brought some of the stories and traditions that we associate with the god Susanowo, possibly explaining his connections with Silla.

During all of this time, communities in Izumo proper kept up their independent streak, but more and more other parts of the Izumo Cultural Zone appear to have adopted the round keyhole tumuli—and presumably they thus came more and more under the sway of the Yamato court.  Besides the tombs in Central and Eastern Tottori, they also appear in the Oki islands.  We even see round keyhole tombs as the dominant style on the Izumo plain, though the number of tombs that could be considered “royal” is much fewer than elsewhere, possibly indicating that Western Izumo may have been subordinate to the chieftains in Eastern Izumo through much of this period.   Over time, more and more of the Yamato style kofun also appear in the area of modern Yonago, until only the area of Eastern Izumo continued to exert their independence. Eventually, even the Nogi plain and areas east of the Ou plain, around the Nakaumi, largely adopted the Yamato style. 

Of course, it wasn’t just keyhole shaped tombs that make an appearance.  We mentioned square tombs, or houfun, and there were also round tombs and even some scalloped shape tombs similar to Hokenoyama.  We also see a new and different type of Kofun start to arise that is of particular interest, one that we might refer to as the “square keyhole”.  This generally mimics the Yamato keyhole shape, but instead of a round end, where the burial pit is typically placed, these use a square shape, not unlike the houfun that grew out of the earlier four-cornered burial mounds.  It is suspected that this shape was chosen as it was similar to the Yamato style, but not exactly, thus it would have been clear of any potential conflict with edicts from the Yamato court.

“What was that?  Who gave us permission to build a keyhole shaped tomb?  What are you talking about?  As anyone can see, this is *square* tomb mound, and we just put a little extra bit on it.  It is totally different.”

You know, like the Duracell and Energizer bunnies—completely different pink rabbits used to hawk batteries.  I’m sure any similarities are just a complete coincidence.

I should note that Eastern Izumo wasn’t the only place to use this kind of a square keyhole kofun shape.  In fact, they aren’t even unique to the San’in region.  The oldest kofun in the square keyhole tradition actually comes from the modern prefecture of Aichi, in Ichinomiya city, northwest of Nagoya, and later there are monumental square keyhole tombs built in the Yamato area as well.  Whether or not this was actually a predecessor to the tombs of Izumo or simply a parallel development, though, is difficult for me to say—but the point is that this idea was not unique to Eastern Izumo. 

Moving on to the 5th century, these trends continue in the archaeological record, and at the same time, the Chronicles start getting more and more trustworthy the closer we get to the time of their writing, though they still aren’t 100% accurate.  

According to them, Yamato was being ruled by the Great Lord Wakatakeru, also known to history by his 8th century posthumous title: Yuryaku Tenno.  He is also known from the records of China’s Liu Song dynasty as “Bu” the King of Yamato.  “Bu”, you see, is the Chinese reading of the character for “Takeru”, and along with some other evidence provides us a bit of validation for Yuryaku’s existence and rough regnal dates.

Now the story of Yuryaku gives an idea of where things stood in Yamato at this time.  Even while they were expanding their influence, the Yamato court was hardly peaceful.  Yuryaku was the youngest son of his father, and when his eldest brother, Ankou Tennou was murdered—yes, you heard that right, murdered—all hell broke loose.  Yuryaku eventually triumphed over his brothers and took the throne, as confirmed by the Chinese chronicles.

There are many or stories about Yuryaku that I’m sure we’ll get to in the podcast, but important to us is that during his reign, Yamato and Kibi were in conflict with one another.  This may be part of how Eastern Izumo was able to thrive so well without a great deal of interference from the central authorities.  That didn’t mean that Izumo was out from under Yamato’s thumb entirely, though, only that it had room to breathe.

I would note that the Chronicles do not treat Yuryaku well, claiming that he was “ungovernable” and excessively cruel.  Even after his death, which was probably around 502, according to the Chinese Chronicle, conflict continued, and his successor, Ohodo, aka Keitai Tenno, had to put a stop to it through military force.  This included the rebellion of Tsukushi no Iwai, a powerful governor in Kyushu, who rebelled in 527.

Clearly Yamato was busy.  Nonetheless, Izumo was not entirely ignored.  The Chronicles tell us that during this time Yamato was “guarding” the sacred regalia from various shrines around the country—to include Kizuki Taisha, aka Izumo Taisha, among several others.  The Nihon Shoki states that these treasures were kept safe in Isonokami shrine, down in the Nara Basin.  Were these treasures given freely or taken?  Were they kept in a place of honor, or were they effectively held hostage?  And when did Yamato acquire them?  Was it back in the 1st and 2nd centuries, during the activities attributed to Sujin Tenno, who is said to have initiated worship of Ohomononushi at Mt. Miwa?  It is unclear, but it could make some sense.

As the 6th century got under way, Western Izumo was building their round keyhole tombs and Eastern Izumo was largely continuing with their square keyhole tradition, though that would change over time, with more and more round keyholes showing up in the record over the course of the 6th century.  One aspect of the difference between Western Izumo and Eastern Izumo, besides the shape of the kofun, was consistency.  Eastern Izumo appears to have had much more variability in kofun shape, which would fit with their more independent style.  Western Izumo, on the other hand, appears to have fallen in line with Yamato tradition and the burials tend to be much more standard and common—though many fewer of them, at least at the quote-unquote “royal” scale.  In both cases, there are still items and artifacts that are uniquely Izumo, so Yamato had not yet broken their spirit completely.

I’d like to take this moment to also note a change in the way that kofun were built.  While the shapes remained fairly consistent, internal features changed over time.  Early on, many of the tombs consisted of a large mound with what was effectively a vertical burial—the main burial chamber was simply a pit, lined with large stones, and it was then covered with more stones and then the dirt and earth of the kofun.  Later, though, we see horizontal chambers, sometimes with stones used to block egress.  This may indicate a change in the burial procedures, including the ritual practices that having to do with scattering the remains and moving the various offerings to prevent the spirits of the dead from coming back to haunt the living.  This also appears to be the genesis of much of the imagery that we see having to do with the Land of the Dead in the legends and myths—such as the stories of Izanagi and Izanami or even Amaterasu’s own rock cave.  That isn’t to say that those deities were “new” in this period, but it shows how the stories may have changed as people’s relationship with death and its associated rituals changed, as well.  Thus many of the features in the “oldest” part of the Chronicles may actually be rather anachronistic, which, again, makes it hard to make concrete assertions about how the myths and legends might translate into actual history, customs, and traditions of any but the 8th centuries authors who were compiling them.

Another feature of these tombs is the coffin.  These are categorized in various shapes, from a simple box, to a boat shape, and a house shape, among others.  The manufacturing of these coffins can be linked to various other parts of the archipelago, or at least they were produced in styles that have a link to other locations, including as far afield as Kyushu, providing us some more glimpses into the intricate web that connected everything.

Now around this time, during the early 6th century, the center of influence appears to have shifted from Nogi slightly westward to the Ou Plain, which would be the administrative center of Izumo by the time the Chronicles themselves were written, and where we also see some of the greatest variability in kofun shape—particularly among those believed to house the remains of the regional elites.  This shift in the political gravity appears to have actually started around the end of the 5th century and continued in the 6th.

In concert with all of this, we have evidence that the priests at Izumo Taisha—who may have been related to the chieftains coming to power on the Ou plain—were sending tribute to the Great King, or Ookimi, of Yamato, and those rulers were returning the favor, providing their patronage to the shrine.

Whatever political machinations may have been happening, by 540, the leaders of Izumo, the Izumo no Omi, were attending the Yamato Court, and it seems that after this we see fewer square keyhole tombs that can be easily dated to after this period—though there are plenty where it is unclear just when they were built.

Over all, it seems there are about 17 square keyhole tombs identified in Eastern Izumo with lengths between 50 and 70 meters, and even more smaller tumuli, which had been built largely between the 4th and 6th centuries.  These are not nearly as large as the very largest round keyhole tombs in Yamato and Kibi—which, after all, are assumed to be the “royal” tombs.  Still, respectable, nonetheless.

The kofun would continue to be built until about the 7th century.  By then, Buddhism had arrived, and this new religion quickly spread throughout the archipelago, including Izumo, and it seems that kofun were abandoned in favor of new, Buddhist rituals.  By 733, there are more than a few new temples noted in the Fudoki.

At this time, Izumo was still powerful, but clearly operating in a subordinate position to the sovereigns in Yamato.  Still, the Izumo no Omi were able to maintain their position, such that they continued to run the show in Izumo, even under a unified Yamato court.  They maintained traditional privileges and even their title.  All of this speaks to the idea that Izumo must have kept some measure of independence—something we will see as we continue with the Chronicles.

So, whew.  That was a lot, and it is messy, confusing, and admittedly full of conjecture.  So to sum it up: What we know for certain is that around the 3rd and 4th century, the people of the Izumo cultural zone left behind the practice of their distinctive “four cornered burial mounds” and joined in with the practice of large, mounded tombs for their elites.  Early tombs followed in the tradition of their squarish burial mounds, and some of most impressive mound in the region actually followed that local design.

Meanwhile, the influence of Yamato, in the Nara basin, grew.  It spread through the regions of Central and Eastern Tottori—the 8th century provinces of Inaba and Houki—and eventually to the rest of the region.  In the last hold-out, Eastern Izumo maintained a mix of kofun styles for several centuries, but by the latter half of the 6th century the traditional rulers of Izumo were clearly a part of the Yamato court.  Still, they had enough political might to maintain some power in their local region, though whether it came from their ties to Izumo Taisha and other important shrines or because of secular power as an important trading port or some other factor, we cannot be certain—perhaps some hints shall be found in the chronicles as we move forward.

That they maintained as much independence as they did is impressive.  They were not crushed, like others who were seen as outside of the Yamato polity—the Tsuchigumo, the Kumaso, or the Hayato, for example.  But they did eventually accede to the rule of the Yamato sovereigns.  For their troubles, their gods and stories appear to have found a particular place of honor in the pantheon of the new Japanese state that was created, even if they are found in a subordinate position—though there is an argument that they were actually in a superior position vis a vis the cult of Miwa until the Ise cult gained dominance in the late 7th and 8th centuries.

Perhaps future historians and archaeologists will shed more light and better illuminate just how this process came about.  For now, I hope that it gives you some reference points as we proceed with the chronicles.  I mean, clearly, as we go into the story of how the Imperial Grandson was given power over the archipelago, we can see how that story was created for the benefit of the Yamato line.  And going forward, as we encounter Izumo in the record we can have some thought into just how complex the issues were—issues that are largely glossed over or ignored in favor of a more straightforward narrative.

But that will be covered in the future episodes.  Until then, thank you for all of your support.  If you like what we are doing, tell your friends and feel free to rate us on iTunes, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts.  If you feel the need to do more, we have information about how you can donate through our KoFi site over at our main website, SengokuDaimyo.com/Podcast, where we will have a few photos, maps, and some more discussion on this episode.  Questions or comments?  Feel free to Tweet at us at @SengokuPodcast, or reach out to our Sengoku Daimyo Facebook page.

That’s all for now.  Thank you again, and I’ll see you next episode on Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan.