Graceful roofed corridors link the shrine buildings, set between mountain and sea.
A beloved icon: the grand gateway marks the entrance to the shrine.
According to tradition, no one was allowed to live on the island at one time
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About
the author
Born in Hiroshima
in 1929, the novelist and sociologist Hiroko Takenishi has published close to 70
books. She gained recognition with her short story entitled Gishiki (“The
Rite”) in 1969. As a literary critic, she is noted for her essays on classical Japanese
literature and her studies of the country’s medieval women poets. Her selected works
(Takenishi Hiroko chosakushu) were published in six volumes in 1995 by Sinchosha
(Tokyo). Her short stories are included in Fire from the Ashes, a prestigious
anthology edited by the Nobel laureate Kenzaburo Oe, as well as in Western Literature
in a World Context, edited by Paul Davis et al (New York, St. Martin’s Press,
1995).
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This
festival is an uncanny blend of boldness and grace, nonchalance and rigour
|
Itsukushima
Located in
the western part of the Seto Inland Sea, the island of Itsukushima is home to a magnificent
12th-century shrine, although its existence is thought to date back to 593 AD. Poised
between sea and mountain, the architectural ensemble of this Shinto sanctuary is
unique in Japan. A reflection of the deeply rooted spiritual culture of the Japanese
people, it is a perfect illustration of the country’s concept of scenic beauty.
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Bringing out
the shrine’s holiest object during the Kangensai festival. |
At
first sight, Itsukushima appears to be one island among many dotting Japan’s Seto
Inland Sea. Yet a novelist returns to the cherished site of a venerated shrine where
Shinto rituals set the skies and waters ablaze with music and the echo of bygone
rulers
The silhouettes of a
multitude of islands follow one another in close succession on the peaceful waves
of this inland sea, bordered by the coasts of Honshu, Shikoku and Kyushu. From Honshu,
their jagged outlines could be mistaken for an extension of the mainland. The horizon
line is barely perceptible. Fishing boats and ocean vessels ply back and forth in
an incessant ballet. From an aircraft window, the diversity of the islands’ shapes,
so clearly cut upon the ocean’s surface, is even more startling. At times they appear
like a flock of animals lying on their bellies with outstretched legs, at others,
like giant ink strokes etched by the forceful hand of some bold calligrapher.
The colours of the sky, the shapes and movements of the clouds, the shade of the
hills rising upon the islands: here, nothing remains the same for a single moment,
not least the tides of the inland sea. The harmony of the sky, islands and sea—forever
shifting over the course of the four seasons with the moods of dawn and dusk, of
night and day—creates vistas which seemingly reflect the very mystery of nature.
On days of soft rain, the distant sea becomes an ink wash drawing with infinite contrasts
of light and shade. On evenings when the skies are at their clearest, the reflections
of sun rays sparkle gold upon the sea, transforming the landscape into a dazzling
oil painting.
In this ocean landscape, Itsukushima is just one island among many. With a circumference
of about thirty kilometres, it stands at the southwest end of the bay of Hiroshima,
in the district of Saeki. Its culminating point is Mount Misen, rising 530 metres,
and harbouring ancient forests which belong to a protected natural site. The island
is also known as Miyajima (the Sanctuary Island), because several Shinto deities
are worshipped here. According to tradition, no one was allowed to live on the island
at one time, for its entire surface was considered an object of worship that could
only be venerated from afar. But Itsukushima is also distinguished by its main shrine,
built on a sandbar at the foot of a small mountain, and its vermillion Otorii gateway,
standing directly in the sea.
This grand gate marks the entrance to Itsukushima’s main shrine, designated a national
treasure in Japan and added to the World Heritage List in December 1996. Pine trees
and stone lanterns alternate on both sides of the path leading to the sanctuary.
The island’s deer can also be sighted on this walkway. The temples, with their graceful
roofs made with several layers of cypress bark, stand out elegantly against the dark
green of the hills. They are linked by vermillion roofed corridors. When the tide
rises, they look like the pavillions of some lavish edifice floating upon the sea.
As it ebbs, they are left to rest on the white sands.
The spectacle of tiny fish coming in with the tide to frolic under the pathways always
warms the heart. The sun’s rays streaming into crystal water fall upon the eyes,
spines or viscera of these fish darting in the waters, tracing straight lines and
circles. And during the short ferry crossing to Itsukushima, the shadows of passengers
are reflected on the white sands of the shoals.
I was born in 1929 in Hiroshima, where I lived until 1949. I cannot count the number
of times I boarded the ferry to Itsukushima over the course of these twenty years.
The emotion I felt as we approached the island which seemed to greet me, the sadness
that filled me when we departed, varied with my age and physical condition of the
moment. But it wasn’t until I became an adult and left my birthplace that I realized
on many occasions that these feelings were far from trivial. This experience of my
youth bore the seed of the exaltation or despondence that would sometimes seize me
in adulthood. Still today, the whistle of the day’s last ferry vibrates in the air
and the glow of lanterns suspended on the roofed corridors quiver on the water’s
surface. But thoughts of the island awaken more than nostalgia.
In the summer of 1945, the atomic bomb changed Hiroshima forever. Before, elementary
school teachers would take their classes on outings to the ruins of the city’s castle
or to the island of Itsukushima. What I remember best is the springtime beauty of
the cherry blossoms above the castle’s stone walls. The cherry trees of Itsukushima
also come back to me, but less so than its magnificent autumn leaves. Seen from the
sea, the island’s unique landscape stands out with unparalleled majesty and grace.
When you set foot there, the delicate refinement of the trees’ shapes and colours
is equally moving.
The fiery glow of autumn leaves, which is particularly striking at Momijidani Park
(Maple Valley), is a feast for the eyes across the island. The colours are at once
soft and vivid. The play of light and shade, incessantly changing with the sun’s
strength and position, the rustling of wind in the pines, the scent of the tide,
the crows’ cry and the wandering deer endow the island with a charm found nowhere
else. To prevent the deer from nibbling on fresh shoots, a growing number of trees
are protected by metallic hoops. It would be difficult to forget the light green
buds dotting the branches of maple trees like the pearls of the morning dew before
the first heat of summer. Even when the foliage thickens, this fresh green loses
none of its intensity. The sun casts its light upon the veins of the young leaves,
giving them the sudden appearance of a delicious summer treat.
A
shogun’s fervent quest for divine protection
There
are a number of ways to reach the top of Mount Misen, including a cable car which
offers a frightening glimpse at the depths of the forests. Such a feeling of fear
is impossible to imagine from the shore. I will always remember the thrill with which
I gazed at the tips of the young maples when I was a child. Their beauty is unmatched
by all those I have since seen throughout Japan.
Ituskushima Shrine is part of the city of Miyajima. Six buildings form the shrine,
all designated as national treasures: the main sanctuary, the four buildings of the
adjoining Marôdo Shrine (Sanctuary of the Visitor) as well as the East and
West stages. The main shrine is dedicated to Ichikishima Hime-no-Makoto, Tagori Hime-no-Makoto,
and Tagitsu Hime-no-Makoto, three female deities who protect seamen and their ships.
According to temple records, the main sanctuary was constructed in 593 AD, but it
was under the influence of Taira-no-Kiyomori (1118-1181) that the shrine underwent
extensive renovation to acquire its present dimensions and style.
Kiyomori was a shogun [military leader] at the end of the Heian era. In 1146, when
he was appointed governor of Aki province (the west of the current department of
Hiroshima), his faith in the deities of Itsukushima gained astonishing fervour. Seeking
their protection to give his clan lasting peace and prosperity, he multiplied offerings
to the island’s sanctuary, going as far as ordering the making of the Heike Sutra,
thirty-three ornamental scrolls. Designated as national treasures, these scrolls
reflect the quality of artefacts kept in the Itsukushima sanctuary. Due to Kiyomori’s
influence, Itsukushima Shrine became known to the Imperial Court. After the emperor
himself visited Itsukushima, pilgrimages started to thrive there. However, despite
Kiyomori’s wishes, the glory of the Heike household was short-lived and the clan’s
line extinguished.
The temple’s records make mention of repeated fires and occasional repairs after
Kiyomori’s death. The last large-scale works mentioned date back to 1571, with the
reconstruction of the main sanctuary in the Shindenzukuri architectural style characterizing
aristocratic palaces of the Heian period (794-1185).
Ancient music and Shinto priests to accompany a ritual at sea
I mentioned earlier that I have boarded the the ferry many times to Itsukushima.
Not only because the island is close to the city of Hiroshima, but also because my
family owned a small house on the island where we regularly spent the summer. Consequently,
I have probably seen the day rise and night fall upon the island more often than
most passersby. The year is marked by several festivals: the Seven Bay Temple Festival
(Nana Ura Jinja) in which a ritual is held dedicated to crows, the Tamatori Festival
during which young men fight in high tide to snatch a disc cut from a camphor tree,
or the Chinkasai Festival to prevent fires. But I would like to evoke one of the
island’s most popular festivals, the Kangensai (“the festival of wind and string
instruments”).
This ritual takes place at sea, once a year, beginning on the 17th day of the lunar
calendar’s sixth month and running late into the night. How the festival unfolds
is closely tied to the moon’s rise and the timing of the tides. The holiest object
from the Itsukushima shrine is placed in an imperial palanquin which is carried by
boat to all the nearby shrines. A Shinto priest accompanies this cortège.
The boat, decked with streamers and drapery, is towed by another in which athletic
young men work the paddles and oars. The priests charged with conducting the ceremonies
in each temple often take on the role of performers at sea when they interpret bugaku
pieces, ancient music of the Imperial court.
Shrouded in smoke and a blinding halo, the light of the torches sends crackling sparkles
raining into the waves like the branches of a weeping willow on fire. The sounds
of the bugaku instruments travel with the wind, leaving a trail of bewitching echoes.
This festival is an uncanny blend of boldness and grace, nonchalance and rigour.
At its heart stands the image of a shogun at the height of his power, faced with
a fading destiny and the yearning to perpetuate the golden age of the Heian.
When the barge has finished its rounds, it passes a last time through the grand Otorii
gateway at the cove’s entrance to proceed towards the main shrine of Itsukushima.
In the background, the moon is already high in the sky, above Mount Misen. Long after
I left my birthplace, in 1978, I published a novel called Kangensai. Once again,
I contemplated this island, its hills, tides and currents with trepidation, as if
I had been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep. I gazed at the water, the fire, the
deceased. I lived through a moment that I could not have envisioned in the days when
I still resided in Hiroshima. |
