Here we cover the second part of the story of Yamato Takeru, following his path back from the northeast and through the mountains of Kai and Shinano, taking on the gods of the mountains as he did so. This episode we cover perhaps some of the less well known parts of the rest of Yamato Takeru's life.
For more go to: https://sengokudaimyo.com/podcast/episode-35-the-brave-of-yamato-part-ii
Rough Transcript
Welcome to Sengoku Daimyo’s Chronicles of Japan. My name is Joshua, and this is Episode 35: The Brave of Yamato, Part 2.
First off, a quick shout out to Coran for donating to support the show. If you would like donate, yourself, you can do so over at kofi.com/sengokudaimyo, and thank you to everyone who’s done so already.
Alright, so welcome back to Part 2 on this look at the legendary warrior prince, Yamato Takeru, the Brave of Yamato. If you haven’t already listened to last episode, in which we told the start of the tale, we’ll start with a brief recap, but you may want to listen to that episode, first.
So once again, we are in the reign of the 12th sovereign, Oho Tarashi Hiko, aka Keikou Tennou. Specifically we are talking about his son, Prince Wo’usu, more popularly known as the warrior, Yamato Takeru, the Brave of Yamato. While much of his story is likely fictitious, it is probably drawn from various stories and accounts, and its influence on later periods makes it well worth going over. It also introduces us to some of the rest of the countries and people of the archipelago, including various areas that we can probably assume were known or at least thought to be important in the archipelago.
To recap the story so far, the young prince Wo’usu harshly and brutally killed his older brother in return for his offence against their father. Terrified of his son’s awful strength, the sovereign, Oho Tarashi Hiko, dispatched the young prince, who was still a teenager, to pacify two Kumaso chieftains, over in Kyuushuu, who were in rebellion, and the prince did so through deceit and trickery, disguising himself as a woman. For this, he was called “The Brave of Yamato”, or “Yamato Takeru”. He then headed back to Yamato, subduing all on his way.
Once back in Yamato, he was sent off again. This time to subdue the Emishi in the east, Azuma, as well as in Hitakami, thought to be somewhere in Touhoku. He received the sword Murakumo from his aunt, Yamato Hime, at Ise shrine, and he got engaged to Miyazu Hime in Owari. In Suruga, the locals tried to assassinate him by setting the field around him on fire while he was out hunting, but he used the sword and a Firestarter kit to clear an area and survived. That sword was given the name Kusanagi, and is one of the three main pieces of regalia for the royal line of Yamato. After destroying his enemies, Yamato Takeru then crossed to the country of Awa—with the help of his surprise wife, Oto Tachibana Hime, who threw herself into the waters to calm them. He made his way up the coast to Hitakami, where he pacified the Emishi and took their chieftains as slaves.
And that brings us up to the start of this episode, where we pick up as Yamato Takeru is working his way back home to the Yamato court.
While we don’t know exactly where Hitakami and the port of Take happened to be, we have a better idea of the path that Yamato Takeru is said to have traveled on his way back. For instance, we know that he passed through Niihari and passed Mt. Tsukuba. These are in the area of old Hitachi Province, and we have a few records from the Hitachi Fudoki that includes Yamato Takeru’s adventures there, as well as giving us more about the people of the area.
Now some of this may be anachronistic, but I still think it is useful to understand Hitachi and its people as viewed by the 8th century Fudoki compilers. For one thing, they differentiated between the people of Yamato—those who, by that point, were part of the larger Japanese state—and two distinct groups that were lumped together as the “Kuzu”, a term that derives from “Kunisu”, and which some have suggested may come from a corruption of “kuninushi”, meaning the “land masters”—you know, like the famous Oho-Kuni-Nushi. This term is not found only in Hitachi, but also in songs in the Man’yoshu regarding people in the Nara area, so may have been a general term for local, indigenous people that were seen as apart from the larger Yamato ethnic group, though that shouldn’t be taken to necessarily mean that they were otherwise separate from the larger Wa ethnicity.
Anyway, these “Kuzu” up in Hitachi were further divided into two separate ethnic groups that appear in the Fudoki. There are the Tsuchigumo—a term we are rather acquainted with by this time, and seeming to refer to people who live in the mountains and hills in caves and pit dwellings—though it should be noted that many, if not most, of the common people, even in the heart of Yamato, continued to live in pit-dwellings up through the Nara period. The second group is called the Yatsukahagi. This may have simply be another name for the Tsuchigumo, however, as the Fudoki largely lumps them together as “Kuzu” or specifically as “Tsuchigumo”, so we know little about them.
There are some terms that we notice in names in this area that seem to be connected with this group. For instance, the term “Saheki”, which would seem to indicate the leader of some kind of group. For example, there is the story of Tori Hiko, who is described as a “saheki” who would not submit in the time of Yamato Takeru, and so he was killed. We have other Saheki such as Tega, Sone Hiko, and Wotaka. Notably, however, many of these names would just as easily fit anywhere else in the archipelago. So we have Ki tsu Hiko and Ki tsu Hime—supposedly the lords of an area called “Ki”. They are considered Kuzu leaders around the time that Yamato Takeru came through. Ki tsu Hiko would not recognize the authority of Yamato Takeru, and so he was killed. Ki tsu Hime then submitted, we are told, and served Yamato Takeru and, by extension, the Yamato court.
Perhaps more telling, though, is that none of these people seem to be counted as “Emishi”, suggesting that Hitachi was, indeed, separate from Hitakami, which is thought to be farther north.
Moving on from the area of Mt. Tsukuba, Yamato Takeru came to Ashigara Pass, between the countries of Sagami and Suruga. He quite possibly had traveled this way earlier, coming the other direction, if he was traveling overland. This pass, just east of the modern city of Gotemba, north of picturesque Hakone, would take him over the hills and into the plains surrounding the iconic Mt. Fuji. It was here at the Ashigara Pass that the next incident took place—at least as recorded in the Kojiki. The Nihon Shoki places this story in a different context, which we will discuss later on.
Anyway, according to the Kojiki, Yamato Takeru had stopped at the foot of the pass to take the midday meal. As he was finishing up, he saw a white deer. Taking a hiru—a local vegetable, similar to onion or garlic—and he threw it at the deer. Of course, it found its mark and struck the deer square in the eye with such force that the beast keeled over, dead. Thinking little more of it, he and his men continued on their way, turning north to the province of Kai—modern Yamanashi Prefecture, and they stopped at a place called Sakaori, which would appear to be in the eastern part of modern Kofu City, the ancient capital of Kai province, and even seat to the later Sengoku warlord, Takeda Shingen. Its location, situated on a plain surrounded by mountains, would have made it an ideal location for early settlements, and there is clear evidence of habitation since the Jomon era. In fact, only a little further east you will find the Middle Jomon era Shakado site, an ancient ritual center.
Here Yamato Takeru took his ease at the palace there, though they don’t tell us whose palace it was. In fact, the only other character that we really get is an old man with was apparently tending the fires. Yamato Takeru, likely a bit in his cups, relaxing after a long journey, composed a quick poem, basically asking how long was the trip from Niibari and Tsukuba?
Nihibari / Tsukuba wo sugite / Ikuyo ka netsuru?
The old man tending the fire responded to the prince with a poem of his own, saying it had been 9 nights and 10 days:
Kaganahite / Yo ni ha kokonoyo / Nihi ha to’wo ka wo
Well Yamato Takeru was thrilled at this response. Poetry has long been considered a key skill in the Japanese court, and the ability to answer a poem with another poem was an important skill to have. It would be used between lovers, communicating after a passionate evening together, and even in the Man’yoshu we find examples of Renga, or linked verse, with poets “replying” to one another with poetic verses that build, one on top of the other.
Thus, we can perhaps understand Yamato Takeru’s delight in having his poem returned with such facility by the man whose job it was to simply tend to the fires in the palace—likely indicating the fires used to provide light, not necessarily a hearth fire. Then and there, Yamato Takeru decided to reward the man handsomely for his accomplishment.
The Kojiki, in its typical bias towards epic gestures, even claims that the man was made the new governor of all of Azuma—that is to say the entire Kanto—right on the spot.
Now I’m not saying that a certain felicity of language shouldn’t be a key trait of anyone in management, but somehow being able to come up with poetry on the fly hardly seems to qualify one from a promotion from tending the fires to overseeing an area the size of the entire Kantou region. Besides, we still don’t have evidence of any kind of hierarchical state reaching out this far to the east. That does leave a few things that might be going on, though.
First, this may be one of those anachronistic stories handed down by the later nobles in the Kanto area, explaining their royal favor. It is fantastical, but not entirely unbelievable for poetry to have been cited as the cause for an individual’s elevation or demotion—poetry was serious business in the later Japanese courts, where one’s social reputation was an important part of your overall profile and portfolio.
Second, while it is doubtful that any such presence existed this early in history, there are numerous examples throughout Japanese history of officers being posted out to the Kantou region to help with the administration, similarly to how there was the Dazaifu in Kyushu. Of course, the Dazaifu was also overseeing much of the trade with the mainland, while various Kantou and Touhoku governors were typically more concerned with internal security and military matters. Positions like the Chinjufu Shogun, the commander-in-chief of the military district overseeing the borderlands in Touhoku, and then later the Kantou Kanrei, presiding over the shogunal affairs in the Kantou region, both demonstrate the utility of having certain individuals in the east to help oversee and administer the area. However, that was many centuries later, with a much more developed administrative apparatus than we are seeing any inkling of at this time.
Regardless of what happened to the poet-firekeeper, Yamato Takeru and his men eventually left to continue their circuit of the Eastern Lands. From Sakawori in Kai, they turned back towards the east, traveling through the country of Musashi—much of the western portion of today’s larger Tokyo Metropolitan area, and then through the country of Keno, later known as Kozuke, turning back to the west and crossing over into Shinano at Usui Toige Pass. Here he split his forces, sending Kibi no Take Hiko north to check on Koshi while Yamato Takeru and the main force headed east.
Crossing through the country of Shinano—modern Nagano Prefecture—Yamato Takeru would have passed through some of the most mountainous terrain of his journey. This is the area of central Honshu known today as the Japanese Alps. To the north is the Hida range, dominated by Mt. Tateyama, one of the three holy mountains of Japan, including Mt. Haku, in the same range, and of course the iconic Mt. Fuji along the Pacific coast. The Hida range largely separating the Japan Sea Coast with the rest of central Honshu, also known as the Chuubu region.
This part of the journey would have been treacherous. Aston’s translation of the Nihon Shoki here really puts it in perspective. “This is a Land of high mountains and profound valleys. Verdant summits are piled up ten thousand fold, so that for men with staff in hand they are hard to ascend. The cliffs are precipitous, and are girt with flying bridges. Many thousand are the hill-ranges, where even with slackened reins the horse makes no progress.” Of course, other than the anachronistic reference to horses at such an early date, this does a fairly good job of putting things in perspective.
The Japanese Alps here really are impressive. Even by the Edo period there was not a good map of all the roads and valleys through them. It is easy to understand how villages and towns could basically disappear in the mountainous folds of the land, and people could easily get lost without a local to guide them.
And over the gorges and between the mountains they mention the flying bridges—kake-hashi—which seem to indicate the classic rope bridge—you know, like you might see in an Indiana Jones or Tomb Raider movie. Ropes made of vines with wooden slats held in between, to cross deep gorges with fast flowing water underneath.
Also, remember, this is an active volcanic range, with deadly eruptions even in the past decade. There are numerous hot springs, but also jigokudani, valleys that can fill with invisible, poisonous gasses.
In fact, that may be at the heart of one of the encounters the Yamato forces had as they traversed the area. You see, at one point they came upon a mountain known as Mt. Ohoyama or Mt. Mitake—the meaning appears to indicate that it was called “Big Mountain”, which is not exactly a unique moniker in the Japanese Alps, and so we aren’t exactly sure which mountain was indicated, but it is of little matter.
On this particular mountain, Yamato Takeru was plagued by the deity of the mountain. Finally, it took the form of a white deer and Yamato Takeru took a nira and threw it at the animal, striking it in the eye and killing it—in other words, another take on the tale that was told about Ashigara Pass in the Kojiki. Except that there is another tradition mentioned in the Nihon Shoki, because they say that, before this all happened, anyone who crossed this particular path would “inhale so much of the deity’s breath” that they would fall ill. After this incident, however, anyone who chewed garlic, human or beast, would be able to travel through the pass safely.
This certainly sounds like a jigokudani situation. Likely the pass, usually a low point between various peaks, would collect the poisonous volcanic gasses, and anyone who came through that area would have been at risk of falling ill or even dying, depending on the concentrations. Of course, no, chewing garlic will not save you from poisonous volcanic gasses, please do not try it. However, it could be that the strong scent and flavor overpowered some of the more noxious fumes, at least, and it is likely that the danger levels fluctuated depending on both subterranean activity as well as local weather conditions, which might disperse the gasses. And in time they may have abated, naturally, as new vents are formed and others, like volcanos themselves, go dormant and extinct.
No doubt the people of the time would not have known, and even if the most poisonous of gasses were no longer present, sulfurous deposits and other such odiferous minerals, disgorged by the earth, may have still been present.
Making their way past the noxious breath of the kami, they continued to pick their way through the mountains and valleys of Shinano. At some point, however, they were approached by a white dog—or possibly a white wolf, in some traditions. White animals, you may be noticing, are often cited in strange or miraculous occurrences, and this was no different. The white dog made a show of guiding Yamato Takeru and his men, and so they followed it, probably through the Kiso valley, until they finally came out in Mino—modern Gifu Prefecture, you might recall. They rendezvoused with Kibi no Take Hiko, who had finished his circuit along the Japan Sea coast, and then made their way to Owari, where Yamato Takeru was finally able to reunite with the woman he had left waiting, Miyazu Hime.
It is clear that Miyazu Hime was overjoyed to have him returned safely, and they laid out a feast for her fiancé. Yamato Takeru entered and food was brought out, and Miyazu Hime herself brought out a giant cup of sake and presented it to him—an act that brings to mind marriage ceremonies in Japan, even today.
As they were feasting and drinking, however, Yamato Takeru looked down and noticed that there was blood on the hem of Miyazu Hime’s cloak. It was apparently her menstrual period, and Yamato Takeru couldn’t help but make a comment in the form of a snarky poem, noting how the “moon” had risen:
“Across the heavenly Kagu Mountain / Flies like a sharp sickle, the long-necked swan.
Your arm slender and delicate like the bird’s neck / Although I wish to clasp it in my embrace / Although I desire to sleep with you / On the hem of the cloak you are wearing / the moon has risen.”
You see, traditionally, women and men were not supposed to couple during a woman’s menstrual cycle. This is commonly explained as being due to the spiritual pollution of blood, a common belief in many Shinto tradition. However, there is also the idea that it had less to do with any kind of pollution—an idea that may have actually been a later development—and, instead, it may have been that during the menstrual period women were actually considered sacred to the kami, and therefore unapproachable. In either case, it would seem that they would need to wait until they actually slept together.
Well, Miyazu Hime had waited too long. Besides, who was he to lecture her about timing? After all, they could have had all of this cleared up when he took his leave of her. Instead, he took his sweet time on his campaign, while she was left back home, waiting for him. And so she retorted with her reply, indicating that it was his fault for coming back at a bad time, not hers:
o O high-shining Sun-Prince / O my great lord Ruling in peace!
o As the years one by one pass by / The moons also one by one elapse / It is no wonder that while waiting in vain for you / On the cloak I am wearing the moon should rise.
Well, it seems to have made an impression because after that they were conjugally joined. It is unclear if they decided to ignore the taboo or waited, though Yamato Takeru hardly seems like the type that stands on protocol too often. It is said he stayed there for a month before again taking his leave.
This time, though, he made a curious decision, and he opted to leave the royal sword, Kusanagi, with his wife and their household. No reason is given for why he did this. After all, wouldn’t Yamato Hime want the sword back at Ise? Or at the very least one would think that the Royal Sword should go back to Miwa and to his father, for future generations. It is all rather confusing until you realize several things.
First, Atsuta Jinguu, the present day home of Kusanagai no Tsurugi—or at least a copy thereof, or maybe even just the box—is in modern day Nagoya, which is the old province of Owari. This may have just been an easy point to explain why Kusanagi was kept at Atsuta. Of course, we have a few other possibilities.
The most obvious one is that he didn’t leave the sword there because he never had it. Despite all of the hype and the story about the burning plain, there is plenty of evidence that the sword may not have existed, at least not as a part of the royal regalia, until some time in the 7th century. We’ll see several times in history where the sword is said to have been lost and either it miraculously shows up again, or else it turns out that the one that was lost was only a copy and we have the real one right here, see, and it absolutely is not a copy because the other one was the copy and would you just stop asking questions and smile!
So not to get us too far off on a tangent, but what do we know about the sword, and even the regalia, at this point?
Well, we know that the sword was found in the tail of the eight headed serpent Yamata no Orochi in the headwaters of the Hi River, in Izumo, by Susanowo. The official story says that Susanowo went back to the Heavenly Plain to give the sword to Amaterasu, and then she sent it down, with the mirror—at least in one story—so that it could be housed at her shrine in Ise. Except that, of course, her shrine wasn’t at Ise, yet, it was at the palace, so the sword must have been moved from the palace, over to Kasanui, and then to Ise, as Amaterasu’s shrine moved around.
What if, however, the sword *wasn’t* given to Amaterasu? Remember, Susanowo had found it. And then, when Ohonamuji, his descendant, and later the Great Land Master, well what if, in reality, that was the sword that Ohonamuji had taken from Susanowo’s house, along with Suseri Bime? The Sword and Arrows of Life? Could it have instead been part of the Izumo regalia?
And then there is the connection between Yamato Ohokunidama—the spirit of the Land of Yamato—and Ohomono Nushi, who himself was a spirit of Oho Kuni Nushi, the Great Land Master, the ultimate title of Oho Namuji of Izumo. So perhaps the sword was originally part of the regalia of Oho Mono Nushi, representing command over the land and even military might, while the mirror, round and reflecting back light, represented the sun, and thus was associated with Amaterasu. The mirror and the sword: feminine and masculine, heavenly and earthly, secular and spiritual. It is entirely possible that the role of the sword was changed in later years as the cult of Amaterasu grew in prominence, and thus the various regalia all became associated with her, as the single progenitor deity of the royal family.
That could, in part, explain the presence of Yamato Hime in these stories as well. We already know that the dates in the Nihon Shoki are bogus, but there is something like 110 years from the time Yamato Hime founded the shrine at Ise to when she is giving out her old clothes to a young Yamato Takeru on his way down to vanquish the Kumaso. We’ve mentioned before that it is quite possible that Yamato Hime was not a single individual, but was a title—and Yamato Takeru may have been the same. These may have been figures in the old stories, like the Harlequin and Columbine of Commedia dell’arte fame—stock characters used in place of actual people to tell a story. The Chronicles stringing them together, as though trying to make a series of Commedia Dell’Arte productions all fit into a single giant, coherent story line.
Whatever the answer, there is still more to this story, fictional or not, and it does introduce us to more of the archipelago and the stories that people believed to be true back in historical times, so let’s go with it.
So taking leave of his wife once more, Yamato Takeru headed back to Mino and towards Mt. Ibuki. This Mountain sits just north of the path between the countries of Mino and Oumi, and Yamato Takeru had heard that there was a savage deity on the mountain, and so he decided to go subdue it. I guess when one had defeated as many people as he had, why not go after a kami? After all, hadn’t he been subduing the deities of the mountains and rivers throughout the land?
Near the foot of the mountain, just as he was beginning his climb, Yamato Takeru noticed a large beast. In the Nihon Shoki, which generally seems to be truer to the original material, from what we can glean, it is a giant serpent, which is par for the course—there seems to be a thing with kami appearing as snakes, especially those kami that personify mountains. In the Kojiki, where it feels they have taken more liberties for the purpose of story, they note that it was a white boar as large as a cow—of course, that must have been a later comparison, as the earliest mention of cows seems to be the 5th century, another century or so off.
Seeing this beast, Yamato Takeru didn’t recognize it as the Kami of Ibuki, but rather assumed that it was just messenger kami—like Inari’s foxes. He apparently made some offhand comment about coming back to kill them later and started up the mountain. Well, as we saw with the Awa Straits at the mouth of Tokyo Bay, the kami apparently don’t like being dismissed, and there was a way you were supposed to talk to them—and whatever he said, that certainly wasn’t it.
As he made his way up the mountain, weather started to blow in. A storm kicked up, with violent hail, and the tops of the mountains became covered in mists, or perhaps low hanging clouds. Either way, he couldn’t see and was unable to find any way forward, becoming dazed and confused. He finally turned back and found his way out of the storm. Coming to a fresh spring, he was able to regain his senses, but he grew sick.
It seems that Yamato Takeru had met his match. For all that he could conquer through his sword and quick thinking, the kami of Mt . Ibuki had hit him with illness for his disrespect, something that for all of his strength he could not fight. His mind was clear, but his legs were weak. He started south, towards Ise. First he passed the plain of Tagi—so named because his enfeebled legs were wobbly—tagitagishiku. To help make sure that he could continue the journey, he got a staff, and so the pass he traveled through was called Tsuetsuki Pass.
He continued to make his way down south, eventually coming to the Cape of Otsu. Apparently he had left a sword there by a tree when he had stopped to grab a bite to eat on his way out to the east. Honestly, this is possibly the strangest entry in the bunch, and it leaves me with so many questions.
First, what is up with Yamato Takeru just dropping off swords? Is he forgetful? Did he sit down for lunch, put his sword off somewhere so he could get comfortable, and then before he knows it he and his men are half way to Owari before he realizes that he’s missing his sword? I mean, he did have Kusanagi by that point, so it was just a spare, but still, odd.
I mean, I may be biased as a student of Japanese and Western swordsmanship, but if I just left my sword somewhere after a meal, my teachers and fellow kenshi would never let me hear the end of it. And it isn’t even like it was just him—what about the people who were with him? Nobody noticed that he didn’t have his sword on? Or were they too afraid to say anything lest he tear their limbs off, a thing he was known for, at least according to the Kojiki.
Of course, I have another thought. Is this related to the story about leaving Kusanagi with Miyazu Hime? Did some other story originally have him leave the sword by a tree before going to Mt. Ibuki for some reason and then come and retrieve it? That might make some sense for the discontinuity—after all, they couldn’t have him retrieve Kusanagi or it wouldn’t make sense as to why it was at Atsuta Jingu. So this had to be about a different sword, obviously. Still, it doesn’t really make sense.
Most probably I’d suggest that the reason this entry exists, more than anything, is because he wrote a song about it. As Aston has it:
Oh! Thou single pine tree!
That art right opposite
To Owari-
Ah me-thou single pine tree!
If thou wert a man,
Garments I would clothe thee with,
A sword I would gird on thee.
And this gets to something that I’ve been glossing over, for the most part: There are a lot of songs in the Chronicles. In the Kojiki it makes some sense, as it claims to have been written down from an oral tradition, and songs and poetry are good ways to remember things, but in the Nihon Shoki, where everything is written in a mainland style, using the latest in 8th century Sinitic characters—i.e. kanji—well, they could have skipped over the songs and poems—and they didn’t necessarily have a reason to just make them up. Why should they?
More likely than not, these songs and poems were already known. It was probably part of the oral traditions, some with stronger connections to various episodes than others. It would be like writing a history of the Black Plague in Europe, and you almost have to include Ring-Around-the-Rosie, since everyone knows it. But now imagine you’ve lost the context for many of these songs. So the Chroniclers are doing their best to fit them into the narrative. There may be oral traditions we don’t see that give them some clue, but otherwise they may be doing the best with what they have.
And I suspect that is the real reason that some of these poems and songs and other things—which often don’t seem to really advance our narrative much—are here. Because they were the things that people probably knew, and were familiar with, and so by including them it helped create a connection with the narrative and helped provide context for some of these traditions, even if that context wasn’t entirely correct or solid.
Of course, I could be completely wrong, here. Maybe they were just making these up as they went along, but that hardly seems to be the consensus. Most of these songs are marked, either in the text themselves or by later scholars, as related to this or that particular function, ritual, tradition, etc. And so the narrative evolved as we’ve seen.
Speaking of the narrative: once he had picked up his sword, Yamato Takeru continued on towards Ise, making it as far as Nobono Plain on the Anraku River, just west of modern Suzuka city, and about 40 miles, or 63 kilometers, from Ise Grand Shrine. Here he must have realized that he would go no further—he wasn’t going to make it to Ise.
He sent the enslaved Emishi chiefs on to Ise as gifts to the shrine, and he asked Kibi no Take Hiko to take his report back to the court, and to tell his father that he was dying. And with that, the life of Yamato Takeru came to a close.
But our story doesn’t end there. There is still an epilogue. Yamato Takeru wasn’t going to let being dead get in the way of his legendary feats.
Now, first, when Oho Tarashi Hiko heard about his son’s death, he wept, and he had his ministers see to his son’s burial, and Yamato Takeru’s wives and children who were in Yamato—presumably in the area of the court, at Makimuku—came out to help build his mausoleum.
This is traditionally identified as Nobono Outsuka Kofun, or Prince’s Hill Kofun of the Nobo Plain. It is a round-keyhole tomb from the middle kofun period, probably built towards the end of the 4th century, and possibly the start of the 5th century—putting it outside our current estimates for this reign. It is about 90 meters in length and eight and a half meters high. Though it has not been excavated, there were remnants of haniwa found on its surface. One particular type of haniwa seems to show similarities to models from Iga city, which later were found in the area of Western Mino and then even in the country of Owari. These were actual haniwa, not just the early style jar stands. Round, clay cylinders that could be sunk into the ground, and various containers or statuary placed on top, which fit into the open mouth of the receiving vessel. In the late 4th century, clay representations of houses, ceremonial equipment, and military implements appear to have shown up in a special area of the kofun, though in this particular case it seems we mostly have fragments and it is hard to make out just what the arrangement would have been.
Given its date and other materials, this is probably not actually Yamato Takeru’s final resting place. A better candidate may be a local king or chiefly figure. It is, after all, not terribly far from the Tsubaki Grand Shrine, the Ichinomiya, or primary shrine, of Ise, where Saruta Hiko Ohokami is enshrined.
Regardless of where Yamato Takeru might actually be entombed, the Kojiki tell us that when his tomb was finished, his family stayed started to sing songs of mourning. One is about vines, growing among the rice stems in the paddies. The next is about wading through a field of low bamboo stalks, rather than flying above. After there, it is a song about wading through waist-deep ocean waters. Finally, a song about a plover on the rocky shores. These songs were apparently handed down as songs sung at the death of any sovereign, and they were eventually transcribed into gagaku—the formal court music of later centuries. Today they are known collectively as “ruika”, or “mourning songs”.
The Kojiki also attaches these songs to another legend—the last miraculous event of the life of Yamato Takeru. It is said that as the tomb was finished, Yamato Takeru’s soul, in the form of a great white bird, took off from the tomb mound, flew out over the sea, and then turned and headed west, coming to land in Kawachi, where they built him yet another tomb: Shiratori no Mihaka, identified in modern times as Karusato Ohotsuka Kofun in Ohosaka, south of Kashiwara, part of the Furuichi Kofun Group.
This tomb surpasses the one in Ise in size. It is a round keyhole tomb surrounded by a moat. It is 190 meters long and 23 meters high—more than double the size of Nobono Kofun in all respects. It is also even later, having been built in the latter half of the 5th century, so it probably had nothing to really do with Yamato Takeru, either.
Now about this whole thing with the bird, and even the songs. There is a fair amount of evidence of birds in the mythology and ritual, particularly surrounding death and burial, and it is possible that this story and songs have to do with beliefs about birds and the departure of the soul. This may have been part of kofun death rituals—though exactly when and where is still a question.
Thus ends the story of the Brave of Yamato: Yamato Takeru, aka Wo’usu no Mikoto. Embellished and romanticized as they may be, the stories of Yamato Takeru seem to come up again and again in various ways. This figure is one of the first of those that Ivan Morris refers to as “tragic heroes.” In his book, “The Nobility of Failure”, he talks about this particular trope in Japanese storytelling—the hero who goes out, does what he needs to, performs heroic deeds, but for one reason or another, he often dies in some unexpected way before his time. Later we will see a similar pattern with the stories about Minamoto Yoshitsune, another warrior who starts young and is seen as something of a military savant, who was then hunted down and killed by his brother, Yoritomo. Even the Forty Seven Ronin fall into this category, as does the very historical example of Saigo Takamori. These are similar to many of the standard European style folk tales, but, however commendable their actions may be, there is no “Happily Ever After” for them. It puts me in mind of the older European stories, like Beowulf. Sure, most people remember the story of how Beowulf defeated Grendel, and Grendel’s mother, but then there is the later story, when Beowulf takes on a dragon, and is killed.
No doubt we’ll revisit this time and again, but these tragic heroes had a certain appeal, especially to those in power. Their stories both provide the heroic tales that people crave, with heroes who go above and beyond, but they also teach that such heroes who buck the system and rise above the rest inevitably meet a bad end, discouraging those who might try to rise up and go against the status quo. It puts one in mind of the perhaps too famous Japanese proverb “the nail that sticks up gets hammered down.”
Ivan Morris also reiterates the idea that Yamato Takeru is really a composite figure, which nobody really seems to doubt. If the accounts aren’t made up, “Just-so” style stories to help provide context to various placenames then they are accounts taken from other commanders and heroes whose names may have been entirely forgotten, or whose roles were significantly diminished.
The Nihon Shoki demonstrates its own problems with continuity, here, as the accumulated stories end up with a narrative that somehow has the sovereign, Oho Tarashi Hiko, marrying his own great-great-granddaughter, who is claimed as a descendant of Yamato Takeru, a feat that is only believable in the world of the early age of the Chronicles, where time seems to have little meaning.
Speaking of Oho Tarashi Hiko, the Nihon Shoki does give us a postscript on his adventures, as the sovereign himself decides to make a tour of those lands that Yamato Takeru had subdued. Following in Takeru’s footprints, Oho Tarashi Hiko stopped at Ise Shrine, first, and then heaededeast, apparently taking ships along the coast, following the sea route, and then crossing the straits at the mouth of Tokyo Bay. He made it as far as Kazusa, where he stayed a while, feasting on clams and bestowing titles on those who served him.
After he returned, Oho Tarashi Hiko made Prince Hiko Sajima, one of the sovereign’s distant cousins—he is given as the great-grandson of Mimaki Iribiko, the 10th sovereign, though one could also note that there is a Hiko Sajima listed as the son of Ohoyamatoneko Hiko Futoni, aka Kourei, our alleged 6th sovereign.
Hiko Sajima, being appointed as the “Governor General” of the eastern mountain road, or Tousandou, went east to take control, but only made it as far as Anashi, in Kasuga, before he fell ill and died. The people of the area are said to have buried him in Kozuke—earlier known as the country of Kenu. When word of this reached the court his son, Mimoro Wake no Miko, was sent out to take over. Interestingly, if I’m reading this correctly, this name would seem to indicate that this royal prince was the lord, or “Wake” of Miwa, also known as Mimoro.
Once he got out to the Kantou, the Emishi once again made a disturbance—a classic causus belli raised by most expansionist states looking to expand their borders—and so Mimoro Wake raised an army to attack them. In the end, three chieftains came and submitted themselves to him, offering him their territory. There names were transcribed as Asipuripe, Opopapuripe, and Topotu Kurapope. In Modern Japanese this would probably be Ashifurihe, Ohohafurihe, and Tohotsu Kurahohe, but I’m not exactly sure what dialect—or even language—the people of the Tohoku region were speaking at that time, so it is hard to be sure. That’s why we usually just go with the modern Japanese, but these don’t seem to fint the naming patterns found in other names on the archipelago so far, which makes me wonder if they were representative of another tradition altogether.
As in other tales of these conquests, those who submit are graciously allowed to live while those who resist are put to death.
And if these stories sound like they are just mimicking Yamato Takeru’s previous trip, let’s just consider: Were these the actual stories that were then conflated into a single campaign of a national hero figure? Who can say, for sure, but we definitely can see the story, at least as it was passed down, of how Yamato gained its primacy on the archipelago. In all likelihood there was never any one single campaign that did it, but a combination of campaigns, treaties, marriage alliances, and more.
So anyway, that is the story of Yamato Takeru. The son of Oho Tarashi Hiko who subdued the Kumaso in the south and the Emishi in the north. Though strong of arm, he is perhaps more well known for his creative strategies. He is at once one of the first brave warrior figures and also claimed by practitioners of arts such as ninjutsu as evidence of the use of stealth and trickery from an early time. He is at once terrifying and heroic. And yet, for all of his strength and cunning, it was nothing next to illness and disease. Death comes for us all, eventually, either on the battlefield or off, and even in death his spirit was overwhelming. Even though his story may be a combination of multiple different tales, it is nonetheless the story that was passed down and would influence future generations. So for whatever degree of “truth” we want to ascribe to it, there was definitely a certain level of truth that others believed it to contain, and sometimes that is enough.Next episode we’ll finish up with the reign of Oho Tarashi Hiko and the early 4th century in Japan. In particular I’d like to focus on some of the stories out of other sources, like the Fudoki, and talk a bit more the sovereign’s marriage ties, and what they mean, focusing a little less on the wars and fighting. Not to worry, however, there is plenty more of that to come eventually, I promise.
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 want to help us keep this going, 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.
Our TOPPODCAST Picks 
Stay Connected
