Today’s yokai is not the first zatō yokai we’ve seen on the blog, and it probably won’t be the last. I’ve written the translation for zatō down below as “blind man,” but there is a lot more to it that isn’t quite picked up by that translation.

In the Edo period, there was a strict caste system in place, and you could only perform the certain types of work that were allowed by your caste. It’s an unthinkable restriction by today’s standards, but back then it did more than just control the peasants; it also provided welfare for certain groups of citizens. For example, while there was no social security system back then, the government did establish guilds for the disabled so that certain types of work were reserved for them, reserving for them a way to make a living.

The zatō were one of these guild-like organizations. Only blind citizens were allowed to become zatō, and only zatō were allowed to perform certain types of work: anma, a traditional kind of massage, and playing the biwa, a lute-like instrument. This allowed blind people their own realm in which to prosper (No word on what blind people who weren’t interested in music, massage, or accounting did for a living.). The zatō guilds made enough money that they were able to become money lenders.

The zatō was a popular staple of Edo period art, especially ukiyoe, which depicted the dreamlike “floating world” of urban life, beauty, and pleasure. As a result, it’s no surprise that there are more than a couple zatō-based yokai stories. Blind Hōichi from the famous ghost story Miminashi Hōichi (“Hōichi the Earless”) is a good example.

Fans of Japanese film might know the character Zatōichi the blind swordsman. He is of course a swordsman but also a zatō. So there’s a lot more to this word than just “blind man,” but there’s not really an easy way to translate it. I prefer to leave the word as-is, because it has no English equivalent.

Ōzato
大座頭
おおざと
“giant zatō (blind man)”

Toriyama Sekien’s Ōzatō

Ōzatō appear on windy, rainy nights, and usually loiter about the same areas night after night. They wear tattered, old hakama and geta. If you stop to ask them where they are going, they reply: “Always to the whorehouse, to play the shamisen!”

That’s all that Toriyama Sekien writes about them. It may not be much, but it does give you a bit of an idea of how Toriyama Sekien (and probably his readers) felt about certain zatō who loiters about late at night…

Some zatō were able to make lots of money from a few regular high-paying customers, and by profiting from moneylending and collection schemes. By manipulating guild fees, they could syphon funds away from the poorer guild members. It’s safe to say his opinion of these zatō was not very high either.

Sekien lived in a time of strong censorship, but he was about to hide his critiques of society in his yokai artwork. Among his yokai, there are a lot of -bōzu and -nyūdō (priests and monks) yokai, as well as a number of zatō yokai. He didn’t have a very high opinion of people who frequented red light districts either, judging by how many brothel monsters he slipped into his works.

Sekien especially did not look favorably on corruption among clergy. But can you blame him? Even today, who enjoys receiving solicitors, especially those who appear to be exploiting a disability to gain your sympathy? And corrupt priests are still just as infuriating today—just the other day we pulled into the gas station to fill up, and in front of us was an imported European luxury sports car with full leather interior. Out pops a monk wearing full robes, fills it up with high octane gas, and then ROARS down the street when he is done.

Many of Sekien’s yokai are not-so-subtle digs at these hypocritical aspects of society. Keep that in mind as we look at more of his monks and priests this week.

My sketch for Ōzatō

There’s a typhoon bearing down on Japan right now, and aside from the wind and rain, all sorts of things are flying through the air. Fall leaves, dirt and sand, tiny pebbles and pieces of torn election posters… And of course everyone is in their homes where it is dry and warm, so the mountains look wild and untamed, full of life, and probably teeming with yokai. Its the perfect weather right now for today’s A-Yokai-A-Day:

Tengu tsubute
天狗礫
てんぐつぶて
“stone thrown by a tengu”

Toriyama Sekien’s tengu tsubute

Tengu tsubute is a phenomenon that happens to people usually when they are walking out in the mountains alone. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a stone flies through the air and hits them!

Stories like this are found all over Japan. Mysterious objects which have no business being in the air—such as rocks—fly through the sky and hit a random person. But when you look around there is no one or nothing there that could have thrown the object. The conclusion is that a tengu, or maybe a prankster tanuki or kitsune, must have thrown it!

Why would a yokai do such a thing? Well, one answer is that many yokai are just annoying jerks who like to play jokes on people. This is precisely the type of thing that entertains them. However, because tengu are involved, another answer is common. Tengu are not usually portrayed as tricksters. Instead, they tend to be portrayed as punishers of the wicked. The person who gets hit by a random flying tengu tsubute may not be so random after all; maybe they committed some sort of crime or sin and got away with it, and this is the tengu’s way of making sure they get some form of divine punishment.

Tengu tsubute is not always just a harmless annoyance either; in some tales, the person who gets hit by the rock will become terribly ill—possible even die! Even if they don’t become sick, those who encounter this phenomenon are generally said to have some sort of misfortune (aside from being hit by a flying rock, that is).

In some instances, people don’t get hit by the rocks. They only hear the rock land next to them, but when they look, there is no rock there at all! Perhaps it is an invisible rock, or perhaps it disappears as soon as it lands, due to some tengu magic?

Tengu tsubute, upcoming in my Patreon project

When you think of Japan, one of the stronger images that comes to mind is that of the maiko or geisha, with their strikingly white makeup. Painting the skin white is not just limited to geisha of course. As it is in many cultures, lighter skin has been traditionally been viewed as a beauty standard in Japan. Thus, from ancient times onward, it has been a custom to use white powders called oshiroi in makeup over here. And just like the white powders that the ancient Romans used to lighten their skin, oshiroi often contained high quantities of lead, which could lead to symptoms of lead poisoning in heavy users. Today’s yokai is based on that kind of face powder:

Oshiroi babā
白粉婆
おしろいばば
“face powder hag”

Toriyama Sekien’s oshiroi babā

You find yourself alone on a dark road in Nara Prefecture near the end of the year… Suddenly you hear a harsh jara jara sound, almost as if someone was dragging along a mirror as they hobble through the streets. You turn around, and there is an old woman approaching, her back twisted and bent after who knows how many years of hard work. She carries a cane in one hand, and a sake bottle in the other. She looks up at you through a broken straw hat, and you see her face is caked with thick white powder and slopped-on makeup that looks somewhat reminiscent of Heath Ledger’s Joker…

You’ve just met an oshiroi babā.

Oshiroi babā doesn’t really do all that much. Her looks alone are scary enough that she doesn’t really need to do anything! According to some legends, she accosts people for makeup or even for sake, which makes her sound strikingly similar to other old hags, like amazake babā. According to others, she is a type of yuki onna who comes down from the mountains on snowy nights. In Toriyama Sekien’s description, she is a servant of Shifun Senjō, the goddess of rouge and makeup (though one would hope this goddess would teach her servants a bit more about proper application!).

As far as scary old hags go, this one may be creepy, but she’s not going to kill you. She’s almost like the yokai equivalent of that one old aunt on your family tree who wears so much perfume that she makes you queasy, and wears so much makeup that she gave you nightmares as a kid, and pinches your cheeks so hard that it hurts but your parents told you that you have to let her do it anyway. It’s scary, but the anticipation and the memory of it are far worse than the actual thing.

It’s actually fairly easy to imagine that this yokai was originally just an old woman, sick and crazy from age and possibly lead poisoning, overly madeup and wandering the streets begging for a little aid from her neighbors. In that case, she’s not really as scary as she is tragic.

Oshiroi babā

Today’s A-Yokai-A-Day comes from a famous ghost story originating in Honjō, Tokyo (a neighborhood located in Sumida Ward). It is known as one of the “Seven Wonders of Honjō.” Lots of places in Japan have their own local list of seven wonders or mysteries. We looked at the yonaki ishi the other day, which is one of Shizuoka’s “Seven Wonders.” And in fact we’ve actually looked at another one of Honjō’s Seven Wonders before on this blog: oitekebori. So here is another one to add to your checklist.

Ashiarai yashiki
足洗邸
あしあらいやしき
“foot washing mansion”

Utagawa Kuniteru’s ashiarai yashiki. Look how happy they are to receive that dirty foot!

Ashiarai yashiki is one of the few yokai stories which is relatively well known in the English-speaking world. It has been featured in a couple of English language books on yokai, and has been covered numerous times by blogs listing as many “wacky Japan” stories as they can. I’m pretty sure it gets featured on Reddit at least once a month, along with shirime. Of course you can’t blame people for coming back to it: it’s a fantastic story!

This story takes place at a certain mansion in Honjō, Edo, which belonged to Aji no Kyūnosuke, one of the shogun’s retainers. One night a thunderous, echoing voice was heard overheard:

“WASH MY FOOT!”

Then, with a splintering crack, the ceiling tore open and a big, dirty, foot covered in thick, hairy bristles descended into the mansion. The terrified inhabitants of the mansion quickly assembled and did as the voice bade, washing the foot until it was thoroughly clean. Afterwards, the giant foot ascended back up through the roof, apparently satisfied, and disappeared.

The following night, and every night thereafter, the same thing occurred: a voice would boom out “WASH MY FOOT!” and then a giant foot would crash through the roof, while the servants would scramble to wash it clean.

After a few nights of this, Kyūnosuke had had enough. He ordered his servants to ignore the foot if it came back. That night, the foot appeared as normal, crashing through the ceiling. However, when its commands were ignored, it thrashed around violently, destroying vast swaths of the mansion’s roof in the process.

Kyūnosuke was beyond frustrated with this nightly occurrence. He complained to his friends about what was happening every night, and they were very interested. One of them wanted to witness the event so badly that he offered to swap mansions with Kyūnosuke. Kyūnosuke agreed. However, as soon as his friend moved into Kyūnosuke’s mansion, the giant foot never once appeared again.

As with oitekebori, there’s no definite conclusion as to what caused this strange occurrence. It’s often blamed on a mischievous tanuki, for they have the power to create something as devastating as this, and they do love playing tricks on people. On the other hand, “washing your feet” is also a Japanese idiom for rehabilitating a criminal. A culprit whose “feet have been washed” can be said to have paid his debt to society. Is it possible that Aji no Kyūnosuke had been doing something illegal or immoral, and this yokai appeared demanding he stop? And why didn’t the foot appear again after Kyūnosuke moved out? We’ll never know…

Incidentally, the Aji mansion is no longer standing today, but we do know it’s general location. Here it is on Google maps. Not much there to see now, just a totally ordinary city block.

My ashiarayashiki, which will eventually be painted as part of my Patreon project

Old hag yokai are not in short supply in Japanese folklore, as I’m sure you’re well aware if you’ve been reading A-Yokai-A-Day for the past few years. For some reason, folklore loves to hear the story of a beautiful, upstanding young woman transform into a hideous, murderous witch. It’s often the deep, profound love of a pure and upstanding woman which is seen as the most potent catalyst to drive a person mad with jealousy or resentment—transforming them from human into demon. There’s a saying in Japanese: onnagokoro to aki no sora—“women’s hearts and autumn skies.” At least in folklore, women are said to be as fickle as the weather in fall.

Kokuri babā
古庫裏婆
こくりばばあ
“old temple hag”

Toriyama Sekien’s kokuri baba

“Baba” or “babā” is a suffix you’ll find on lots of yokai. It just means old woman. Kokuri is made up of “ko” meaning old and “kuri” which is the priest’s quarters in a temple. So this is an old hag who haunts the living quarters of an old temple. Kokuri babā is a fine example of a creepy old hag. In fact, in Toriyama Sekien’s description of her, he says that she is even more scary than Datsueba, the old woman who flails off your skin when you reach the underworld!

The reason she haunts is actually a tragic tale of love turned sour: she is the widow of the priest who used to work at a remote, rural temple. Once, she was a wonderful wife, helping out her beloved husband to run his temple, tending to the needs of the parishioners, cooking, cleaning, washing, and taking care of the temple grounds. However, after her husband died, she retreated into the temple’s living quarters and became a shut in. To survive, she steals the offerings of food and coins left behind by people visiting the temple. Over time, she gradually changes into a yokai. She starts to acquire meat from the corpses of the recently dead. When there are no fresh corpses available, she digs up the buried and peels off chunks of their rotting skin off to gnaw on.

It’s a tragic tale not only because she was widowed and forced to live by herself in the temple, but also because none of the temple parishioners ever lifted a finger to help her. You have to wonder how long it took for her to get this bad. If they had paid her a little more attention might she have remained human?

Although, now it does seems like she could make a nice pair with this guy. They at least have a common food interest…

Kokuri babā

One of the largest yokai subgroups is one called hinotama, or “fireballs.” If you’re not totally new to yokai, then you’ve probably noticed that there is a huge amount of fireball-type yokai. Just to name a few off the top of my head which have appeared on this blog: onibi, hitodama, ubagabi, sogenbi, kitsunebi, furaribi, minobi, hakanohi… the list goes on. In general, they each have one unique feature that separates them from the others, whether it’s a backstory, or one particular behavior, or what creature or thing allegedly creates the fire.

Differentiating between different types of hinotama can be sometimes be fairly easy—hitodama, for example, has a long tail which sets it apart from the others. Other times it can be very hard—onibi and kitsunebi look pretty much exactly the same; the definiting characteristic of kitsunebi is that it was created by a fox, but that’s about it. And of course, we see supernatural fireballs in cultures all around the world: St. Elmo’s Fire, will o’ the wisps, jack o’ lanterns, ball lightning, and so on. You could probably make a case that these are all different ways of describing the same phenomenon, rather than each one being a separate, unique apparition.

So what really separates, say, kitsunebi from a will o’ the wisp? Even if they are the same thing, it’s the folklore and stories that spring up around them that make them different. The subtle differences in each naming and each incarnation of the same phenomenon reflect the unique features of the locations and times in which those things appear. You can’t say will o’ the wisp without thinking of twisted, dark forests of the British Isles, and jack o’ lantern is so intrinsically connected with Halloween that the two are almost inseparable. That same rule applies to similar yokai. While the differences between any two hinotama might be very minor, they do tell you specific things about the people and places which named them.

Keeping that in mind, I’m about to introduce to you a very simple fireball yokai that does not stand out too much in comparison with all the others.

Chōchinbi
提灯日
ちょうちんび
“paper lantern fire”

Toriyama Sekien’s chōchinbi. Note the silhouette of the kitsune underneath the fireball!

Chōchinbi is a small fireball that looks like distant lanterns being carried by yokai wandering in the night. Chōchinbi float in the air about one meter above the ground, bobbing lazily to and fro. Sometimes they appear in long chains like strings of lightbulbs. When a person approaches them to investigate, they disappear.

Minor details vary from place to place. Chōchinbi is most commonly said to be the work of a tanuki, and thus it is sometimes referred to as tanukibi. Kitsune are sometimes said to be responsible, but that is just as often called kitsunebi instead. Chōchinbi usually appears in rural areas along the footpaths that separate the fields, but is also said to appear alongside rivers and streams, or to travel between one graveyard and another.

Hosukai depicts Oiwa’s ghost appearing from a burning chōchin

Chōchinbi also appears as a common device to create a spooky atmosphere in theatrical ghost stories. It is usually accompanied by eerie flute sounds. In this case it is often depicted as strangely colored fires burning inside or next to an old dilapidated paper lantern. Sometimes the lantern itself is a yokai: the chōchin obake, a tsukumogami of an old paper lantern. Oiwa’s ghost could even be said to be a kind of chōchinbi when it appears inside of a burning lantern.

I couldn’t tell you exactly what makes a chōchinbi different from a kitsunebi (especially if a kitsune is the one responsible for creating it!) or an onibi. They’re all eerie and otherworldy, connected to and caused by the spirit world, and potentially dangerous. The difference may be entirely arbitrary, depending only on who is telling the story and where they are from. Or maybe there is something substantial, but we as humans can’t understand it. Maybe if you asked a tanuki or a kitsune what the difference was, they would laugh at you for asking such a silly question…

Chōchinbi

Greetings readers!

Today’s entry is a long one, but hopefully it’s an interesting one. I won’t do much in the way of introduction, so I’ll let you get right into the juicy details! Have at it!

Hōsōshi
方相氏
ほうそうし
“Minister of the Four Directions”

Toriyama Sekien’s Hōsōshi

Hōsōshi is a pretty difficult word to translate, but “Minister of the Four Directions” is the closest I can get to the idea of the word without overdoing it. A professor of Heian period court life or East Asian folk religions could probably come up with a better translation than that, but I think it will do for our purposes. In any case, I’m going to give you a further explanation:

Hōsōshi was an official government title, thus the “Minister” part, but they were also a kind of priest. Hōsō was a religious concept related to divination, the four directions, and the barriers between our world and the spiritual world. East Asian temples often have important architectural features related to the geographical directions, and of course there is a lot of symbolism related to the directions (the directions are associated with colors, seasons, various gods and Buddhas, mythical creatures, body parts, medicine, and just about anything else you can think of). The concept of hōsō was related to creating directional boundaries and barriers. This could mean something like planting trees or placing stones in the four corners, or utilizing existing features like rivers, highways, etc. to serve as boundaries. It’s sort of a way of dividing a place into a square for spiritual reasons.

The concept originated in ancient Chinese folk religion, and the hōsōshi is the Japanese equivalent of the Chinese fangxiangshi, a sort of exorcist. Folk religion eventually became mixed with Buddhism and Taosim, and then made its way to Japan. In Heian period Japan, the Hōsōshi was a priest in the imperial court whose duties included leading the coffins during funeral processions, officiated at burial ceremonies, and keeping yokai (like the corpse-eating mōryō) away from burial mounds. The Hōsōshi’s most famous duty is a specific ritual related to the end of the year purification ceremonies.

A Tsuina ceremony

Tsuina was an important purification ritual held every year on the last day of the year. This day was called Ōmisoka. The Hōsōshi performed the ritual with one servant, and a number of government officials. In China, the Hōsōshi  wore a bearskin with four eyes. In Japan, the Hōsōshi’s costume consisted of an oni mask with four golden eyes. The mask was to scare away demons, and the four eyes were so he could see in all four directions. He also wore special robes, and carried a spear in his right hand and a shield in his left hand. The Hōsōshi and his servant would chant and run around the imperial palace grounds (i.e. “the four directions”), warding the area against oni, yokai, and other evil spirits. Meanwhile the attending officials would shoot arrows into the courtyard around the Hōsōshi from the palace buildings, defending the palace against evil spirits. Other observers would play hand drums which also had ritualistic cleansing significance.

Over time, the ritual evolved even further away from its Chinese roots. The Hōsōshi became associated not with the imperial side, keeping the oni at bay, but with the oni itself. Rather than exorcising the oni, the Hōsōshi became the oni, and it was the other officials who chased away and exorcised the Hōsōshi (thus symbolically chasing the demons away too). Religious scholars believe this may have been because of changing perceptions during the Heian period about the concept of ritual purity and uncleanliness. The Hōsōshi, who was associated with funerals and dead bodies, changed from being a purifier into one who was ritually unclean. It would be inappropriate for such a person to be on the same “side” as the emperor, so he became the oni instead.

mamemaki at the Fushimi Inari shrine in Kyoto; the descendant of the Tsuina ritual

If you’re familiar with Japanese holidays, you may be thinking “A winter holiday that involves chasing demons away and is tied to the four directions? That sounds like Setsubun.” And you’d be right! That ritual is the descendant of the Tsuina ritual. Today, Setsubun is celebrated in February, but in the old lunar calendar system Setsubun marked the beginning of the new year. That is why it falls so close to Chinese New Year—it used to be the same holiday! As the start of the new year, Setsubun was a very important holiday for purification rituals. Setsubun was the beginning of the year, and Ōmisoka was the last day of the year; so these holidays used to be right next to each other. With the adoption of the Gregorian calendar, New Year’s Day was observed on January first. Since Ōmisoka is last day of the year, it naturally came to be observed on December 31st. Setsubun remained attached to the traditional start of Spring in East Asia, aka Chinese New Year, which takes place around February. Today there is an entire month separating these two holidays which used to be right next to each other!

Hososhi