Hanashika 噺家

15.07.2026 - Kikuchi Tanto and Kikuchi Yari: Born of Cunning and Necessity.

In the early Nanbokucho era, around 1336, a battle loomed between the Kikuchi and Ashikaga. Kikuchi Takeshige, facing the numerically superior 3,000-strong army of Ashikaga Naoyoshi with only 1,000 men, had to devise a strategy to prevail against his opponent. According to records in the Taiheiki and Umematsu-ron, he commissioned smiths from the Enju school (Higo Province) to reforge yari (spear) blades into single-edged blades and mount them as tanto (dagger).

In the early morning of December 11, 1336, he launched a surprise attack on Naoyoshi’s advancing army within a bamboo grove. Because the use of long weapons was severely restricted in this environment and the massive yari blades were capable of piercing enemy armor, Takeshige ultimately won the battle.

During the Battle of the Chikugo River in 1359, Takeshige’s army ran out of arrows, and many of their swords had snapped. To continue fighting, the soldiers mounted their yari-tanto blades onto two-meter-long bamboo poles. This marked the origin of the Kikuchi-yari.

(You can find a Kikuchi Tanto in my nihonto collection)

17.07.2026 - Kita-no-Mandokoro 北政所 and the Shigure-tei 時雨亭 Tea House.

The fall of  the Toyotomi and and the love of a priestess in Kyoto, wich goes beyond death.

Fushimi Castle: in the late 16th century the rare two-story Shigure-tei Tea House was built  for Toyotomi Hideyoshi by Sen no Rikyū, arguably the most influential tea master of the Sengoku period.

After Hideyoshi's death in 1598, his wife Kita-no-Mandokoro became a nun, and dedicated her life to honoring her husband's memory.

She then went by the name Nene and founded Kōdai-ji Temple in 1606, arranging for the relocation of the valuable Shigure-tei and Kasatei Tea Houses from Fushimi Castle to the new temple hill.

On June 4, 1615, at the Battle of Tennoji, Sanada Yukimura and his men were unable to hold Osaka Castle.

The troops of Tokugawa Ieyasu managed to penetrate the castle and set it completely ablaze.

The story goes that Nene, from Shigure-tei, witnessed the devastating fire at Osaka Castle, in which Toyotomi Hideyori and his mother, Yodo-dono, perished by sepukku, thus ending the Toyotomi line.

Unlike most arranged aristocratic marriages of the Sengoku period, Nene and Hideyoshi married for love. Despite her family's objections to his low social status and scrawny appearance, she was his trusted confidante, political advisor, and equal partner.

Though she had no children with Hideyoshi, she became a powerful maternal and diplomatic figure, earning the deep respect of his retainers and even his rival, Tokugawa Ieyasu.

She died on October 17, 1624, in Kyoto.



The two-story building is highly unusual for a traditional teahouse. While tea was prepared on the ground floor, the upper floor, according to tradition, served Nene and her guests for moon-gazing, tea gatherings, and enjoying the view over Kyoto.

                          Shigure-tei 時雨亭 Tea House

20.07.2026 - The Invincibility Tsuba and the legend of Atsuta-jingû 熱田神宮

The "Makezu no Tsuba" まけずの鍔 – The Invincibility Tsuba.

The so-called "makezu no tsuba" まけずの鍔 (lit. "invincibility tsuba") is a plain iron tsuba in maru-gata shape, decorated all over with motifs of Eiraku-Tsûhô coins 永楽通寳, six on the front (omote), seven on the back (ura). In terms of craftsmanship and style, the piece can be attributed to a straightforward Shôami school and is, on its own, not particularly exciting. Its extraordinary significance, in 1920 it was even initially designated as Kokuhô (National Treasure), and today holds the status of Jûyô-Bunkazai, is owed entirely to its provenance and the historical narrative attached to it. The tsuba was once worn by the great warlord Oda Nobunaga 織田信長, (1534–1582) himself. It was later offered by his descendant Oda Noto no Kami Nobukado 織田能登守信門, (1662–1716) to the temple Sôken-ji 摠見寺. Nobunaga himself had donated this temple to Azuchi Castle 安土城 during the Tenshô era 天正, (1573–1592).

The legend of Atsuta-jingû 熱田神宮.

In the fifth month of the third year of the Eiroku era 永禄, (1560), Nobunaga was about to face Imagawa Yoshimoto 今川義元, (1536–1560) and his massive army of about 40,000 men (accounts range between 25,000 and 45,000) at the upcoming Battle of Okehazama 桶狭間の戦い. Nobunaga himself was only able to gather about 2,500 men. Before the battle, he went to the nearby Atsuta-jingû 熱田神宮 to pray for victory. He asked the gods for a sign: he took a handful of Eiraku-Tsûhô coins and tossed them into the air. When they landed, every single one showed heads. Nobunaga then told his men that their victory was assured – and indeed he won, going on to become one of the most influential warlords of his time.

From that point onward, Nobunaga used the Eiraku-Tsûhô coin motif on one of his banners and also had it inlaid on the tsuba of the sword he wore during the battle. This coin, too, was used as a family crest by several warrior clans. After the victory at Okehazama, Nobunaga won a series of further battles, which is why the tsuba came to be known as the "invincibility tsuba." It is likely that all these factors – the legend of the oracle before Okehazama, the symbolic significance of the coins for power and economics, and the direct connection to Oda Nobunaga – contributed to a craftsmanship-wise fairly unremarkable Shôami tsuba being designated Kokuhô in 1920.

Oda Nobunaga at Atsuta-jingû 熱田神宮

21.07.2026 - The Monk of Silver Fur.

A tale after the legend of Hakuzōsu 白蔵主.

In the mountains, where mist draped itself over the cedars like damp silk, there once lived a trapper named Yasaku. His trade was simple and cruel in equal measure: he strung snares of twisted hemp between the roots of ancient trees, and when morning came, he carried the pelts of foxes down into the valley to sell at market. Year after year the fox family that made its home in the upper forest grew thinner. First the kits, then the vixens, then the old males. In the end only one remained a kitsune whose fur was so silver it shimmered in the moonlight like freshly fallen frost. He had lost brother and sister, mother and mate, every one of them to Yasaku's snares, and in his old, clever heart a resolve took shape: this man needed a lesson not one that kills, but one that teaches.The kitsune knew the people of the valley well, as old foxes often do. He knew that Yasaku had an uncle, a Buddhist monk named Hakuzōsu, who lived in a temple at the foot of the mountain and was known as a kind, strict teacher. One evening, just as smoke began to rise from Yasaku's chimney, a man in priestly robes knocked at his door. It was the kitsune, transformed down to the folds of his garment, down to the very timbre of his voice."Nephew," he said, with all the sternness of an old monk, "the killing of sentient beings is among the gravest sins a person can carry. Do you not think of Tamamo no Mae, the fox-woman whose sins turned her to stone? Your own path leads to misfortune if you continue this way."He spoke long, with patience and gentleness, and at last laid down a bundle of coins on the floor  in exchange for every snare Yasaku still owned. The trapper, moved and ashamed at once, swore he would never trap a fox again.The kitsune left the house with light steps, almost skipping, and vanished among the trees, pleased with his own cunning. But coins are as fleeting as autumn leaves. Within a few months Yasaku's money was spent, and hunger knew no mercy for sworn oaths. He decided to travel to his uncle's temple to ask for further help.The old kitsune learned of this plan, as foxes do through a rustle in the wind, a whisper among the roots. He recognized the danger at once: should Yasaku meet the real Hakuzōsu, the deception would be exposed.So he hurried ahead of the trapper, reached the temple first, and found the real monk. With gentle words he lured Hakuzōsu away from the safety of the temple grounds and into the shadow of the forest. What happened there the legend does not tell in full only that the kitsune remained, and the monk did not return. When Yasaku arrived at the temple gate, he was received by his "uncle," who scolded him even more sharply than before and sent him away without a single coin. From that day on, the kitsune lived as Hakuzōsu. He wore the robe, rang the morning bell, recited the sutras in a voice no one could distinguish from the true monk's. The villagers came to him with their sorrows, their dead, their questions about the world beyond, and he answered them with a wisdom that strange as it sounds was not untrue. A fox who plays a priest for half a century may, in the end, become a little bit of a priest himself. Fifty years passed this way. The cherry trees before the temple gate bloomed and withered fifty times. Yasaku himself grew old and died, never learning the truth. Then, on a clear autumn day, a great deer hunt was held on a nearby farm. People from all around gathered to watch the spectacle, and the old priest Hakuzōsu, curious as ever, set out to see it as well. Among the hunters was a samurai with two dogs, powerful animals with sharp noses and sharper instincts. The moment they laid eyes on the priest, their fur bristled, and a low growl rose from their throats. They smelled what no human could: the fox beneath the robe. Before anyone could intervene, the dogs sprang forward, and the old monk fell beneath them. When the animals were finally called off, there was no priest lying there but the torn body of an ancient, silver-furred fox, its fur still shimmering even in death like frost in moonlight.The truth spread faster than the autumn wind: for fifty years they had confessed to a fox, entrusted him with their dead, held his sutras sacred. Fear seized the villagers, fear that the kitsune's spirit might return and curse them for what had befallen the two monks. So they buried the silver body in the shadow of the mountain, where the afternoon sun vanishes first, and raised a small shrine over the grave. Travelers who still pass that spot today say one should pause and offer a quiet prayer, not out of fear, but out of respect for a being who lived for fifty years between two worlds: that of the fox and that of the man, of deception and of truth, of sin and perhaps of a kind of redemption.

Hakuzōsu and Yasaku in front of Mount Atago

22.07.2026 - Yuki-onna 雪女, the Woman of the Snow.

An Otogizōshi from the Days of Muromachi.

It is told, and the old ones pass it on, that this happened in the Province of Musashi, in a time when people still knew that the walls between the mountains and the valley of mortals are thinner than one believes.

In a village at the edge of a great forest lived two woodcutters, master and apprentice: old Mosaku, whose hands bore the marks of forty winters, and Minokichi, a youth of eighteen years, whose heart was still soft as fresh snow. One must know: the path to their forest crossed a raging river, upon which lay a ferry, for no bridge, however often it was built, could withstand the river's fury when it swelled with flood. One evening, as the sky turned black and a storm fell down from the northern lands, as the gods sometimes send to remind people of their smallness, the two woodcutters came to the crossing and found the boat abandoned on the far bank. Nothing remained but to seek shelter in the ferryman's hut, a bare structure without windows and without a hearth, with only a single door to withstand the storm. They wrapped themselves in their straw cloaks and lay down. The old man soon slept, for his limbs were weary with years. But the youth lay awake, listening to the howling of the wind, which sounded as though ten thousand lost souls cried out together, and to the river, which roared like an enraged dragon. Then it happened that the door burst open, as though a hand from outside had touched it, and the snow blew in like fine white dust from another world. And in the glow of that snow, Minokichi beheld a figure: a woman clothed all in white, whose breath drifted like mother-of-pearl smoke over the sleeping Mosaku. And the old man, scarcely touched by that breath, grew still and moved no more. Then the woman turned to Minokichi, and the closer her face came, the more he recognized that no earthly beauty could equal hers — yet her eyes carried a coldness before which even the moon must have shuddered. She spoke in a voice soft as frost upon a leaf: "I had intended to do to you what I did to the other. But you are young, and the sight of you stirs in me a pity I do not myself understand. So let it be: I grant you this life. But hear me well — should you ever speak to a single soul, were it even your own mother, of what you have seen this night, I shall know it, wherever I may dwell. And then, Minokichi, I shall come again to take what was once already mine." With these words she dissolved like breath in cold air, and the door stood open once more to the raging storm. When morning broke and the ferryman returned home, he found Minokichi senseless beside the frozen body of old Mosaku. The youth was nursed back to health, yet he spoke to no one of the white woman, for the fear sat deeper in him than the fever of that night. A year passed, as years pass: counted in rice harvests and the growing of children, yet uncounted in the hearts that carry a secret within them. Then Minokichi, walking homeward one winter evening, met a girl upon the same path — slender as a young bamboo, with a voice bright as the first birdsong after snow. She called herself O-Yuki and said she was an orphan, seeking relatives in the distant city. They spoke as young people speak when something awakens between them for which there are yet no words, and before the road had ended, both had recognized what the proverb of the elders means: that the eyes can say more than the mouth. Minokichi's mother received the girl kindly, and from the brief stay grew a lifetime. O-Yuki became his wife, bore him ten children, all beautiful and fair of skin, and tended the old mother until her last breath with a kindness praised throughout the village. Yet the villagers wondered quietly that O-Yuki, though ten times a mother, never aged, but remained as she had been on the day of her arrival — a riddle which, as custom demanded, was never spoken aloud. So the years passed, until one evening, when the children already slept and O-Yuki sat sewing by a paper lamp, Minokichi, watching her face in the warm light, remembered that storm-night of his youth and said: "Your face in this light reminds me of a woman I once saw, when I was still a boy — white and beautiful as you, yet of another world." And without lifting her eyes from her sewing, O-Yuki asked: "Tell me of her." Then Minokichi told what he had kept silent for twenty years: of the hut, of the storm, of the white woman, and of old Mosaku's death. No sooner had he finished than O-Yuki cast down her sewing, rose, and her form seemed at once to grow taller, colder, more distant, as she cried out: "It was I. Yuki it was who spoke to you that night, and I swore your death should you ever tell of it! Only for the sake of the children sleeping there do I hold back my hand. But should they ever have cause to grieve because of you, I shall come again, as I once promised you." And even as she spoke, her voice grew thin as the wailing of wind, and her body dissolved into a white mist that rose through the smoke-vent into the night — and was never again seen by the people of that village.

Thus it is said, that one may learn from this: what is born of snow and cold returns thither also, and no human love holds the spirits of the mountains forever in the warm world of mortals. A vow once broken, even if broken out of love, weighs heavier upon those beyond the ordinary things than it does upon us.

Yuki-onna 雪女

26.07.2026 - Urashima Tarō 浦島 太郎

Long ago, in a small fishing village on the Japanese coast, there lived a young fisherman named Urashima Tarō. He was known for his kind heart and helped anyone who needed him.

One evening, as he walked along the beach with his boat, he saw a group of children tormenting a small turtle. They poked it with sticks and laughed. Tarō could not bear to watch.

"Leave that poor creature alone!" he called out, chasing the children away. He carefully picked up the turtle, carried it to the water, and let it swim free.

"Thank you for saving me," said the turtle, before disappearing into the waves. Tarō was astonished, but he thought nothing more of it and went home.

The next day, as Tarō went out to fish as usual, the very same turtle appeared beside his boat.

"Urashima Tarō," it said, "as thanks for your kindness, I would like to take you to Ryūgū-jō, the palace of the Dragon King beneath the sea. Climb onto my back."

Curious and unafraid, Tarō climbed onto the turtle's shell. Together they dove down, deeper and deeper, until a magnificent gate of coral opened before them. Beyond it stretched a palace of shimmering mother-of-pearl, surrounded by gardens of colorful seaweed and dancing fish.

Inside, he was greeted by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen: Otohime, princess of the sea and daughter of the Dragon King. She explained that the turtle he had rescued had in truth been one of her servants.

"You are most welcome here, Urashima Tarō," she said with a smile. "Stay as long as you wish."

Tarō stayed at Ryūgū-jō, and the days passed as if in a dream. There were festivals with music and dance, tables laden with delicacies from the sea, and Otohime herself kept him company. Fish of every color swam through the halls, and time seemed to stand still.

But after a while, Tarō began to think of his village and his old mother. The longing grew so strong that one day he said to Otohime:

"I am very happy here, but I must return home and see how my mother is doing."

Otohime was sad, but she did not hold him back. As a parting gift, she gave him a small, beautifully decorated box, the Tamatebako.

"Take this box with you," she said, "but promise me one thing: never open it, no matter what happens."

Tarō promised, climbed once more onto the turtle's back, and was carried back up to the surface and onto the shore of his homeland.

When Tarō stepped onto the shore, he barely recognized his village. The houses were different, the faces unfamiliar, and no one knew his name. Confused, he asked an old man about his family and his home.

"Urashima Tarō?" the old man repeated thoughtfully. "I heard that story when I was a child. They say he sailed out to sea three hundred years ago and never returned."

Tarō froze in shock. Three hundred years had passed, while for him only a few days seemed to have gone by in the palace. His mother, his home, everything he had known, was long gone.

Despairing and lost, he sat down on the beach, holding the Tamatebako in his hands. In his grief, he forgot his promise and lifted the lid.

A cloud of white smoke rose from the box and drifted into the wind. In that same instant, Tarō's black hair turned snow-white, his skin grew wrinkled, his back bent with age. The years he had not aged at sea caught up with him in a single moment.

It is said that in that moment, Urashima Tarō transformed into a crane and flew off into the sky above the sea, forever searching for the Dragon Palace and his princess.

To this day, this story is still told in Japan — a reminder that kindness is rewarded, that time is a precious thing, and that a promise, once made, should be kept, however hard that may be.

Urashima Tarō 浦島 太郎