Kishiwada Castle and the Spirit of the Lotus
Kishiwada Castle does not rank highly on most destination lists and I must confess that even I have only visited the once. Nonetheless, despite being a modern, concrete reconstruction, it is still worthy of attention.
It was quite a miserable day when I made my way there. A steel grey sky and the kind of fine rain that makes a mockery of the umbrella. As strange as it may sound, I find this kind of weather favourable for exploration since fewer people dare to venture out. The damp air makes for interesting castle photography too; a subtle touch of intimidation that permeates the atmosphere in a way that a bright blue sky cannot match.
The castle is a few minutes’ walk from Takojizo Station and appears out of nowhere as you navigate this dense part of the city. It was once much larger than it is now. A keep with five floors was destroyed by fire after a lightning strike in 1827. And over the years, the extensive network of moats and canals were buried under urban sprawl.
A simple keep of three floors, rebuilt in 1954 and surrounded by a single moat and a small garden built over the ninomaru, or outer bailey, are all that remain today. Still, it is a pretty thing, with its pure white walls and curving roof and cuts quite an imposing figure even with its reduced size.
The side from which I approached had no entrance, so I decided to walk a full lap to get my bearings. The site is not especially large, perhaps 140m by 100m yet the moat is surprisingly wide. And the platform that the castle sits upon is also not especially high, certainly in comparison to its more northern cousin, Osaka Castle. When viewed from across the moat though, it does very much look like a heavily fortified island.
The main entrance to the castle is on the north west side, using the bridge that once connected the main keep to the buildings of the Ninomaru. The gatehouse is a wide and quite imposing two storey structure: a band of white separating a black slate roof and heavy black wooden gates. The path almost immediately winds left through quite a cramped space and up into the main courtyard.
Once inside the courtyard, it was surprisingly not the keep itself that first caught my attention, but several unusual collections of stones piled seemingly haphazardly around a dry sand garden. Before entering the keep, I wandered around the side of the dry garden and then followed a path flanked by pink and purple hydrangeas which took me all the way around the castle and back to the gate.
I climbed the short flight of steps up to the entrance of the keep and turned to get a better look at the garden. It comprised of three levels, though each was only a few inches higher than the one below. However; I still could not make any sense of the bizarre shapes or piles of stones.
Within the tower was a small museum which was quite interesting, containing a number of objects from throughout the history of the castle. These included such things from well preserved suits of armour to farming implements, historical documents and artworks. There was also a very nice model of the original layout of the castle which showed that it once covered really quite a huge area.
The view from the top however was not impressive but I did not consider that a disappointment. Indeed my expectations were tempered by the fact that it was a relatively small tower surrounded by dense cityscape. It did afford me with a top-down view of that unusual garden though, and an explanation.
The three levels of the garden represent the shape of the castle grounds during the Muromachi Period. The collections of stones were an artistic representation of the 8 Battle Formations of Koumei Shokatsu, the Japanese name given to Zhuge Liang, the Chancellor of Shu-Han during the Three Kingdoms period of Chinese history. Created by famous garden designer, Shigemori Mirei, the white sand was taken from Shirakawa in Kyoto and the blue-grey rocks from Okinoshima in Wakayama.
Had time been kinder to Kishiwada Castle and more of the original structure remained, I think this would have been an extremely impressive castle, particularly with what would have been its unhindered view out into Osaka Bay. However, this nice but unremarkable castle boasts a story that makes it worthy of far more attention than it currently receives.
The original castle was built in 1334 by Wada Takaie, a retainer of high-ranking samurai and epitome of the samurai ideal, Kusunoki Masashige. At the time, the area in which the castle was built was simply known as Kishi, or The Shore. Following construction of the original castle, in took on the name Kishi-no-Wada, in this case meaning Shore of Wada and this was eventually shortened to Kishiwada.
250 years later, considerable unrest was brewing in the land of Kishu, modern day Wakayama Prefecture. The powerful samurai lord Toyotomi Hideyoshi ordered one of his commanders, Koide Hidemasa to build a new castle upon the original fortifications of Kishiwada Castle.
The imposing new castle was to be used as a base from which Toyotomi could attack the Negoro-Gumi. These warrior monks, based out of the temple Negoro-ji, were thought to be extremely disciplined and very skilled, particularly in the use of firearms. They also had among them some of the best gunsmiths in the country.
However, they were also closely allied with Tokugawa Ieyasu, future shogun and rival to Toyotomi. Such was the ferocity of Toyotomi’s attack on Negoro-ji that of the 3,000 or so buildings that made up the temple, only the main pagoda and a scattering of other structures remained.
Following Toyotomi’s death in 1598 and that of his son Hideyori during the siege of Osaka Castle in 1615 ownership of Kishiwada Castle passed on to the Matsudaira Clan. They ruled it for two generations until it changed hands once again to the Okabe Clan who held it for 13 generations, all the way up to the Meiji Restoration in 1871.
There is one story about Kishiwada Castle though that is very rarely told. In fact, I haven’t found many references to it at all and the only English telling of it so far is in the 1918 book Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by British writer, anthropologist and traveler Richard Gordon Smith.
In his pre-amble to the story, Smith gets a little confused. Although he never visited Kishiwada as far as I can tell, he was searching for a story that involved lotus flowers. His friend Fukuga-san had found a story though he couldn’t speak English. Between Smith, Fukuga-san and their interpreter, they managed to mix up the geography a little.
The story takes place at a castle in the Kinai Region which Smith mistakes for being only Kyoto. It actually means capital region and includes Osaka, Nara, Kyoto and most of Hyogo Prefectures (historically Yamato, Yamashiro, Kawachi, Izumi and Settsu provinces and Heian-Kyo).
Aside from a few spelling mistakes, I have copied the original story here.
My interpreter made it very difficult for me to say that the story does not really belong to a castle in the province of Idzumi, for after starting it in Kyoto they suddenly brought me to Idzumi, making the hero of it the Lord of Koriyama. In any case, I was first told that disease and sickness broke out in Kinai (Kyoto). Thousands of people died of it. It spread to Idzumi, where the feudal Lord of Koriyama lived, and attacked him also. Doctors were called from all parts; but it was no use. The disease spread, and, to the dismay of all, not only the Lord of Koriyama but also his wife and child were stricken.
There was a panic terror in the country — not that the people feared for themselves, but because they were in dread that they might lose their lord and his wife and child. The Lord Koriyama was much beloved. People flocked to the castle. They camped round its high walls, and in its empty moats, which were dry, there having been no war for some time.
One day, during the illness of this great family, Tada Samon, the highest official in the castle (next to the Lord Koriyama himself), was sitting in his room, thinking what was best to be done on the various questions that were awaiting the Daimio’s recovery. While he was thus engaged, a servant announced that there was a visitor at the outer gate who requested an interview, saying that he thought he could cure the three sufferers.
Tada Samon would see the caller, whom the servant shortly after fetched. The visitor turned out to be a yamabushi (mountain recluse) in appearance, and on entering the room bowed low to Samon, saying.
‘Sir, it is an evil business — this illness of our lord and master — and it has been brought about by an evil spirit, who has entered the castle because you have put up no defence against impure and evil spirits.
“This castle is the centre of administration for the whole of the surrounding country, and it was unwise to allow it to remain un-fortified against impure and evil spirits. The saints of old have always told us to plant the lotus lily, not only in the one inner ditch surrounding a castle, but also in both ditches or in as many as there be, and, moreover, to plant them all around the ditches.”
“Surely, sir, you know that the lotus, being the most emblematic flower in our religion, must be the most pure and sacred; for this reason it drives away uncleanness, which cannot cross it. Be assured, sir, that if your lord had not neglected the northern ditches of his castle, but had kept them filled with water, clean, and had planted the sacred lotus, no such evil spirit would have come as the present sent by Heaven to warn him.”
“If I am allowed to do so, I shall enter the castle to-day and pray that the evil spirit of sickness leave; and I ask that I may be allowed to plant lotuses in the northern moats. Thus only can the Lord of Koriyama and his family be saved.”
Samon nodded in answer, for he now remembered that the northern moats had neither lotus nor water, and that this was partly his fault — a matter of economy in connection with the estates. He interviewed his master, who was more sick than ever. He called all the Court officials. It was decided that the yamabushi should have his way. He was told to carry out his ideas as he thought best. There was plenty of money, and there were hundreds of hands ready to help him — anything to save the master.
The yamabushi washed his body and prayed that the evil spirit of sickness should leave the castle. Subsequently he superintended the cleansing and repairing of the northern moats, directing the people to fill them with water and plant lotuses. Then he disappeared mysteriously — vanished almost before the men’s eyes.
Wonderingly, but with more energy than ever, the men worked to carry out the orders. In less than twenty-four hours the moats had been cleaned, repaired, filled, and planted. As was to be expected, the Lord Koriyama, his wife, and son became rapidly better. In a week all were able to be up, and in a fortnight they were as well as ever they had been.
Thanksgivings were held, and there were great rejoicings all over Idzumi. Later, people flocked to see the splendidly-kept moats of lotuses, and the villagers went so far as to rename among themselves the castle, calling it the Lotus Castle.
Some years passed before anything strange happened. The Lord Koriyama had died from natural causes, and had been succeeded by his son, who had neglected the lotus roots. A young samurai was passing along one of the moats. This was at the end of August, when the flowers of the lotus are strong and high. The samurai suddenly saw two beautiful boys, about six or seven years of age, playing at the edge of the moat.
‘Boys,’ said he, ‘it is not safe to play so near the edge of this moat. Come along with me.’ He was about to take them by the hand and lead them off to a safer place, when they sprang into the air a little way, smiling at him the while, and fell into the water, where they disappeared with a great splash that covered him with spray.
So astonished was the samurai, he hardly knew what to think, for they did not reappear. He made sure they must be two kappas (mythical animals), and with this idea in his mind he ran to the castle and gave information. The high officials held a meeting, and arranged to have the moats dragged and cleaned; they felt that this should have been done when the young lord had succeeded his father.
The moats were dragged accordingly from end to end; but no kappa was found. They came to the conclusion that the samurai had been indulging in fancies, and he was chaffed in consequence.
Some few weeks later another samurai, Murata Ippai, was returning in the evening from visiting his sweetheart, and his road led along the outer moat. The lotus blossoms were luxuriant; and Ippai sauntered slowly on, admiring them and thinking of his lady-love, when suddenly he espied a dozen or more of the beautiful little boys playing near the water’s edge. They had no clothing on, and were splashing one another with water.
‘Ah!’ reflected the samurai, ‘these, surely, are the kappas, of which we were told before. Having taken the form of human beings, they think to deceive me! A samurai is not frightened by such as they, and they will find it difficult to escape the keen edge of my sword.’
Ippai cast off his clogs, and, drawing his sword, proceeded stealthily to approach the supposed kappas. He approached until he was within some twenty yards; then he remained hidden behind a bush, and stood for a minute to observe. The children continued their play. They seemed to be perfectly natural children, except that they were all extremely beautiful, and from them was wafted a peculiar scent, almost powerful, but sweet, and resembling that of the lotus lily.
Ippai was puzzled, and was almost inclined to sheathe his sword on seeing how innocent and unsuspecting the children looked; but he thought that he would not be acting up to the determination of a samurai if he changed his mind. Gripping his sword with renewed vigour, therefore, he dashed out from his hiding-place and slashed right and left among the supposed kappas.
Ippai was convinced . that he had done much slaughter, for he had felt his sword strike over and over again and had heard the dull thuds of things falling; but when he looked about to see what he had killed there arose a peculiar vapour of all colours which almost blinded him by its brilliance. It fell in a watery spray all round him.
Ippai determined to wait until the morning, for he could not, as a samurai, leave such an adventure unfinished; nor, indeed, would he have liked to recount it to his friends unless he had seen the thing clean through.
It was a long and dreary wait; but Ippai was equal to it and never closed his eyes during the night. When morning dawned he found nothing but the stalks of lotus lilies sticking up out of the water in his vicinity.
‘But my sword struck more than lotus stalks,’ thought he. ‘If I have not killed the kappas which I saw myself in human form, they must have been the spirits of the lotus. What terrible sin have I committed? It was by the spirits of the lotus that our Lord of Koriyama and his family were saved from death! Alas, what have I done — I, a samurai, whose every drop of blood belongs to his master? I have drawn my sword on my master’s most faithful friends! I must appease the spirits by disembowelling myself.’
Ippai said a prayer, and then, sitting on a stone by the side of the fallen lotus flowers, did harakiri. The flowers continued to bloom; but after this no more lotus spirits were seen.
This story was taken from Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith.
Getting There
Take the Nankai Main Line from Nankai Namba Station to Takojizo and then walk for 5 minutes.
Opening Hours and Entrance Fees
10 a.m. to 5 p.m. (last entry at 4 p.m.). Entrance: Adults ¥300, children free.
