1 — A Wild Cub in the Imperial Litter
Long after Jimmu’s sun-bound march, the Yamato court has thickened into lineage after lineage of princely timber. From one such branch comes Prince Ōusu, second son of Emperor Keikō. Where elder brother Prince Ōusu-no-Miko is measured and courtly, Ōusu himself is volcanic: wrestling palace guards for sport, snapping armour straps for the clang of metal, answering reprimands with brooding silence.
When the brothers enter manhood their father warns them to honour the women’s chambers. Ōusu, resentful of any leash, slays his brother—hands alone, swift as a stoat—claiming he smelled treachery. Keikō, aghast yet unwilling to spill imperial blood twice, exiles the younger prince to the fog-soaked mountains of Kibitsu. That errand will be the first of many: the court’s most dangerous beast turned loose against Japan’s most dangerous frontiers.
2 — The Kumaso Blood-Feast
Keikō soon hears of two renegade brothers in Kumaso (south Kyūshū) styling themselves Kumaso-Takeru—“Braves of the Bearlands.” They raid rice convoys and demand maiden tribute. The emperor sends Ōusu with a token spear and scant escort: if the son dies, peril is solved; if he wins, peril is solved—and the court need not dirty its own sleeves.
Ōusu studies his prey. The Kumaso boors are to host a mid-winter feast praising their invincibility. On the eve of the revel he steals woven reed skirts and a red wisteria wig from his female attendants. Stalking through cedar darkness, he slips among the guests disguised as a dancer.
At the feast’s crescendo, when cedar torches gutter and wine slops over lacquer, the taller Kumaso brother leans down to admire the “girl’s” beauty. Ōusu’s left hand snakes behind the man’s nape, yanks back his head; his right thrusts the spearhead into the bronzed throat. Blood hisses on oak boards. In the same heartbeat he springs on the second brother, pinning him against a post. The dying bandit gurgles:
“Who are you, maiden who kills with thunder?”
Ōusu slips off wig and skirt.
“I am a son of Yamato. Remember that name.”
The bandit, choking, gasps:
“No warrior under Heaven matches this deed. From this day be called Yamato-Takeru-no-Mikoto—‘Valiant of Yamato.’”
With those words he slumps. The title sticks; chronicles will know the prince only by it henceforth.
3 — The Sword of Ise and the Bride of Owari
Returning north, Takeru pauses at Ise Grand Shrine. The high priestess Yamatohime-no-Mikoto, aunt to the emperor and living oracle of Amaterasu, welcomes him. Reading fate in the tremor of sakaki leaves, she gifts him the mirror-born sword Ame-no-Murakumo-no-Tsurugi—the very blade Susanoo drew from Orochi’s tail, now kept beneath triple doors of cypress. She counsels: “A hero’s strength lies equally in blade and breath; carry both in balance.” That sword will later gain a second name, Kusanagi—“Grass-Mower.”
Heading eastward along the Tōkai littoral, Takeru shelters in Owari (modern Aichi) with Princess Miyazu-hime. Thunder clouds roll as they speak; sparks arc invisible between their voices. Before resuming campaign he knots a silk sash about her waist, promising marriage on safe return.
4 — The Fire in the Fields of Sagami
Takeru’s Imperial commission is to pacify the Emishi tribes of the east. These peoples, wary of Yamato taxes, wield flint-edged spears and guerilla cunning. Near Sagami Plain, chieftains feign submission, then invite the prince to hunt on what they call the “Plain of Rolling Smoke.” Armed only with a matching lack of suspicion, he sets out.
Hidden hands spark flint to dried susuki grass. Flames leap in four directions; wind slams heat against armour. Takeru’s escorts scatter; the prince stands ringed by crackling reed, cloak already smouldering. In that roar he remembers the sword’s unused magic. Drawing the blade, he sweeps an arc at knee height; grass folds in a gleaming swathe. With the free hand he snatches the flint set from ambushers’ dropped kit and kindles a counter-fire along the freshly cut corridor. Flames race toward the first blaze; both consume each other, guttering in ash at his feet. By such mowing the sword earns its new epithet.
Taking the tide-jewel bag lent by his ancestors, Takeru calls wind; cinders whirl into the ambush party’s faces. Survivors flee to mountains, spreading rumours of a demi-god whose sword commands grass and gale alike.
5 — The Boar of Mount Ibuki
With Sagami quelled, orders redirect Takeru west toward home. Yet pride, that shadow twin of glory, prickles. He detours north, intent on slaying the white guardian of Mount Ibuki (near Lake Biwa) to garnish reputation. Ignoring augury he climbs in summer drizzle. Half-way up, a colossal white boar blocks the trail, eyes amber as torch coals. Takeru hefts spear, but the boar snorts vapour that chills marrow. The prince staggers; the boar vanishes. Snow begins to fall—out of season, impossibly heavy. Each step down-mountain saps warmth from limbs.
He stumbles into Tarui marsh, fevered, ribs rattling. Courtiers fetch him flax cloak, but even Kusanagi feels cold in his palm. Some say the white boar was the mountain-kami himself, offended at reckless challenge; others whisper Susanoo’s aramitama, still jealous of sword. Either way, poison reigns in his blood.
6 — Death at Nobono and the Flight of the Swan
Dragged by stretcher to Nobono moor (Mie Prefecture), Takeru senses end. He asks for water; attendants run but return too late. The hero gazes westward, murmuring:
“Alas, my home is far… and these legs are weary.”
Blood flecks lips. Breath stops. Legend says a white swan bursts through the thatch, circles thrice, then wheels toward the coast—Takeru’s spirit released. The body lies regal yet shrunken, armour dulled like peat.
Court astronomers track the swan’s glide; it lands at Owari, alighting on Princess Miyazu-hime’s roof. She builds a mound and buries a wooden effigy within. The bird lifts again, resting next on the heights of Izumo; villagers there raise a second tomb. Finally it vanishes into sunrise. Thus the misasagi (imperial mausolea) of Yamato-Takeru dot three provinces, each claiming a breath of his soul.
7 — Echoes Through Time
Heroic Duality
Takeru wins battles with disguise, dance, cunning—as much art as arms. His legend teaches Japanese warriors to value strategy over brute force, an ethos refined later as heiho.
Impermanence (mujo)
At triumph’s zenith he is felled by unseen curse. Blossoming glory and swift decay mirror cherry petals; greatness must bow to impermanence. Samurai poets quote his dying sigh before charging into hopeless fights.
Sword as Covenant
Kusanagi, once wielded by a storm-god, passes through Takeru’s hand to Atsuta Shrine, where it remains (shielded from human sight). Its journey ties regalia to mortal sacrifice: authority is sharpened, but also burdened, by blood.
Shapeshift and Boundary
Takeru crosses gender (maiden disguise), crosses nature (swan spirit), crosses geography (grass plains, volcano cones). Each crossing illuminates the porous borders between form and essence, a favourite theme in Noh and modern fantasy alike.
8 — Cultural, Historical, Modern Significance
Shrines and Festivals
The Owari Tsushima Tenno Matsuri launches boat lanterns for the swan-spirit. At Atsuta Jingu priests intone ancient Norito on the anniversary of Sagami’s fire, waving reed torches that hiss like the hero’s counter-blaze.
Performing Arts
Yamato-Takeru’s exploits anchor Noh play “Kokaji” (The Sword-Smith) and Kabuki super-spectacle “Yamato Takeru” by Tsuruya Nanboku. Modern choreographer Bando Tamasaburō melds both forms, wielding a fan as invisible Kusanagi that slices light itself.
Literature & Media
Mishima Yukio’s novel “The Sea of Fertility” cycles reincarnations of Takeru’s restless soul; manga “Fire Emblem” redesigns him as shapeshifting falcon knight. Military history texts invoke his eastern march as ideological precursor to Meiji expansion—cautionary and inspirational by turns.
Martial Codes
The boy who slew his brother yet protected farmers embodies contradictory virtues subsequently codified into bushidō: fierce loyalty, self-sacrifice, cultivated grace, and fatal pride.
9 — Philosophical Overtones
Zen interpreters say Mount Ibuki’s boar was not a beast but Takeru’s own untamed ego: strike at it and the self freezes. Shintō priests counter that the mountain-kami reaffirmed natural sovereignty over heroics: humility answers what steel cannot. Both agree that greatness demands inward as well as outward conquest.
Confucian scholars, editing the Nihon Shoki, highlighted the prince’s initial fratricide as a caution: talent unguided by virtue devours kin. Education, ceremony, and righteous governance are the emperor’s duties lest more Ōusu rise uncontrolled.
10 — Coda: From Myth to Memory
With Yamato-Takeru the eight-paper arc closes. We have travelled from cosmic formlessness, through sunlit caves and dragon guts, across tides, mountains, and burning grass, to a lone swan fading into the dawn. Japan’s oldest stories bind gods, warriors, tricksters, and crops into one long skein: each deed thuds in the earth, becomes shrine flagstone, festival drum, poem syllable, or policy preamble.
Even today a traveller on the Mie coast may see a lone egret skim reeds and recall a prince who bore too much fire in his chest. The mirror still glints at Ise, the beads still curve in Imperial regalia, and somewhere deep in a cedar casket the Grass-Mower sleeps, edge turned inward, waiting for the next myth to summon its name.
Leave a Reply