RAIK AND OTHERS:
TALES OF ARCHERY

BEFORE THE SWORD CAME TO be regarded as “the soul of the samurai,” the bow and arrow were the warrior’s primary weapons. Here are some stories about the virtuoso performances of some of the warriors in the earlier periods, including a man who deliberately chose to be a target. The first episode, from Konjaku Monogatari Shu (vol. 25, sec. 6), concerns Minamoto no Raik, who was evidently advanced in age at the time. His father, here referred to as Tada no Manju, was Minamoto no Mitsunaka (912-997). The great pomp that accompanied Mitsunaka’s Buddhist conversion is described in pp. 27-29. Sanj (976-1017) was emperor from 1011 to 1016.

One day when Emperor Sanj was Crown Prince and lived in Higashi Sanj, he was walking by the south front of the Shinden Building, where there were a couple of noblemen in the western colonnade. There he noticed a fox lying under the western eaves of the Buddha’s Hall to the southeast.

At the time the Crown Prince’s chief military aide was Minamoto no Raik. Tada no Manj’s son, Raik was such an accomplished warrior that the imperial court made him serve in a military capacity and the whole world regarded him as fearsome. This same man was among the noblemen there, so the Crown Prince gave him a bow and a hikime arrow and said, “Shoot that fox lying under the southeastern eaves.”

“Your Highness, I’m afraid I must excuse myself,” Raik replied. “If it were someone else, there should be no harm in his missing the target. But for me to miss the target would be profoundly embarrassing. Furthermore, Your Highness, it would not be possible for me to hit the target. When I was younger, if I happened to see a deer I would shoot at it even if it was far away and I couldn’t see it clearly. But I haven’t done anything like that for many years. Now, even in sports shooting, I can’t tell where my arrow drops.”

Raik’s hope was that if he didn’t shoot but talked awhile, the fox would trot away. Unfortunately, though, the fox not only did not trot away, but fell sound asleep facing west.

Meanwhile the Crown Prince earnestly kept urging him to shoot. In the end Raik was unable to excuse himself anymore. He took up the bow and put the hikime to it.

“I might make it if this bow were strong enough, Your Highness,” he said. “Besides, a hikime is too heavy to cover this much distance. A battle arrow might, but not a hikime. If the arrow didn’t reach the target but dropped on its way, that would be far more embarrassing to me than missing the target. I really don’t think I’ll make it.”

Still, he tucked his jacket in with a string and rolled up his sleeves. He then lowered the tip of his arrow somewhat, pulled the bowstring as far back as the length of the arrow permitted, and shot. He couldn’t even see where the arrow was going. But within a second the arrow hit the fox’s chest. The fox jerked up its head and tumbled headlong into the pond.

With a weak bow and a heavy arrow, even the most powerful archer’s shot wouldn’t have reached the target but dropped on its way, thought the Crown Prince and everyone else who was there. But Raik hit the fox. This is a wonder of wonders!

The fox drowned in the water and died, so a man was sent to pick it up and discard it elsewhere.

Later, to express his great admiration, the Crown Prince gave Raik a horse selected from the imperial stable. When he was given the horse in the courtyard, Raik turned to the Crown Prince seated inside the room and said, “That was not my doing, Your Highness. Not to shame my ancestors, my guardian deity helped me in the shooting.”

Afterward he would say the same thing to his brothers and relatives, “No, that wasn’t the arrow I shot. You must understand that.”

When Raik’s words became known, people praised him all the more for it.

Stories about the trick of deliberately becoming a shooting target and avoiding the shot must exist everywhere. The episode below, from Kokon Chomon J (sec. 347) and notable for its stark rationality, involves one of Minamoto no Raik’s “Four Guardian Kings.”

Among the soldiers who served Suetake, Raik’s warrior, was a fellow who excelled in bravery. Suetake himself was a first-class bowman who could shoot a needle hung from a thread.

The man in question one day said to Suetake, “You may be able to shoot a needle hung from a thread, sir, but I bet you won’t be able to shoot me if I stand in front of you but a dozen yards away.”

That’s a damned stupid thing to say, Suetake thought, and, succumbing to the urge to show up the man, he said, “If I miss you, I’ll give you anything you want. If I don’t miss you, what will you give me?”

“My life, of course, sir,” the man replied. That certainly was good enough.

So Suetake agreed to go ahead, and the man, as stated, stood a dozen yards away from him. Suetake knew he was sure to hit him. That would mean losing one of his own subordinates. But accepting that this was the way things had turned out, he stopped thinking about it and carefully shot at him. He missed. The arrow hit a spot under the man’s armpit, five inches away from his body. Having lost the bet, Suetake had no choice but to give the man whatever he wanted, as promised. And the man didn’t hesitate to accept anything given him.

Later, the man said, “Would you like to try once again, sir?”

This brazenness disquieted Suetake again, and he agreed. The first miss was mysterious, but this time I can’t possibly fail, he thought. He kept the string drawn for a while and, aiming at the man’s heart, released the arrow. He missed again. The arrow hit a spot under the man’s right armpit, five inches away from his body.

“Let me explain why you missed, sir,” the man said. “You are an excellent archer, but you don’t think enough, if I may say such a thing, sir. A man’s body is surely big, but it isn’t much larger than a foot in width. You shoot at it, aiming at its center. Suppose I, the target, jump aside as soon as I hear the sound of the string at the release of the arrow. I can miss the arrow by at least five inches. That’s how it happened. The next time around, you might shoot with that in mind, sir.”

The man’s reasoning was so perfect that Suetake had nothing to say.

The following episode, from Konjaku Monogatari Shu (vol. 25, sec.12), has to do with another relative of Raik: his nephew, Yoriyoshi (988-1075). As we will see, Yoriyoshi would go on to become the Governor of Mutsu and fight as commander in the so-called Former Nine-Year War.

Aside from showing an instance of divine skill in archery, this story is also an illustration of a father’s exemplary, unstinting generosity toward his son.

When Minamoto no Yorinobu, Governor of Kawachi and warrior, heard that someone in the East had a fine horse, he sent a message politely asking for it. Unable to decline the request, the owner of the horse sent it to Kyoto. On the way a horse thief saw it, desperately wanted it, and decided to steal it by any means. So he followed it secretly. But because the soldiers guarding it remained vigilant, the thief didn’t have a chance to steal it before they all reached Kyoto. Upon arriving in the Capital, the horse was first put in Yorinobu’s stable.

In no time someone told Yorinobu’s son, Yoriyoshi: “A fine horse has arrived at your father’s place today from the East.” When he heard this, Yoriyoshi thought: It’s certain that an unworthy fellow will ask my father for the horse and get it sooner or later. Before that happens I’ll go see it, and if it’s a really fine horse, I’ll ask for it and get it.

So, even though it was pouring that day and it was already evening, Yoriyoshi, dying to see the horse, went to visit his father through the downpour.

“Well, why haven’t you come to see me for such a long time?” the father said to his son. Even while saying this, he guessed that his son had heard about the arrival of the horse and came with the thought of asking for it. So, before Yoriyoshi opened his mouth, Yorinobu said, “I’ve heard that a horse has arrived from the East, but I haven’t seen it yet. The fellow who sent it to me says it’s a fine horse. It’s too dark to see anything now. If you look at it tomorrow morning and like it in any way, it’s yours.”

Told this before he made the request, Yoriyoshi was greatly pleased. “Well, then, sir,” he said, “may I stay overnight, so that I may look at the horse in the morning?”

The two of them spent the evening gossiping. When the night became late and the father retired to sleep in his bedroom, Yoriyoshi followed suit and lay in a room nearby to sleep.

Meanwhile, it continued to rain noisily. Around midnight the thief stole in, mingling with the noise of the rain, led the horse out, and left. Sometime later a cry went up from the direction of the stable: “A thief has taken the horse that arrived last night for the master!”

Yorinobu heard this, though faintly. Without even asking the sleeping Yoriyoshi, “Did you hear that?” he tucked in the hem of his robe, as a lady would, as he rose to his feet. He slung a quiver across his back and ran to the stable. He led out a horse himself and put on it a cheap saddle which was on hand. He then rode out, alone, toward the Osaka Barrier to give chase. As he did this, he thought, This thief must be a fellow from the East. He saw it was a fine horse and followed it with the thought of stealing it. But he couldn’t do it before reaching Kyoto. Last night he came in by the noise of the rain and got away with it.

Yoriyoshi also had heard the cry. He thought exactly as his father did, and didn’t tell him, either. He had gone to sleep in his clothes, so he simply got up, slung a quiver across his back, led out a horse from the stable, and rode out toward the Osaka Barrier to give chase, alone.

The father thought, My son is sure to come on this chase.

The son thought, My father is sure to be ahead of me, giving chase. He galloped on. By the time he passed the riverbed, the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared up. He rode on even faster, until he came near the Osaka Barrier.

The thief, riding the horse he had stolen, thought he’d gotten away with it. He slowed his hard gallop as he came to the Osaka Barrier and had his horse wade into the ample pool of water that had formed next to it. When he heard that wading noise, Yorinobu, as if he had planned it with his son beforehand, and even though it was still dark and he didn’t even know his son was there, cried out, “Shoot, he’s there!”

He had hardly finished saying this when he heard the sound of a flying arrow. He sensed something was hit. Then he heard the clanking of empty stirrups as the startled horse broke into a gallop without its rider. Yorinobu said, “You’ve shot the thief down! Run ahead and get hold of the horse!” Then, without waiting, he turned back and headed home.

Yoriyoshi ran ahead of the horse and got hold of it. By then some of Yorinobu’s soldiers had caught up, and these met Yoriyoshi on his way back, a few at a time. By the time he reached Kyoto there were twenty to thirty of them with him.

Yorinobu got back to his mansion and, without even thinking of saying this or that, walked to his bedroom and went back to sleep. Yoriyoshi, too, went back to sleep after putting the horse he had brought back in the care of the grooms.

The following morning, Yorinobu called out Yoriyoshi. But instead of evincing any knowledge of his son’s extraordinary exploits of shooting and bringing back the horse, he simply ordered that the horse be brought out. When it was, Yoriyoshi looked at it and saw it was a fine horse indeed. He simply said, “I accept your offer, sir,” and took the horse.

The only thing is that, though it hadn’t been promised the previous night, the horse came with a fine saddle. Yoriyoshi decided it was an award for shooting the thief down.

Mutsu Waki (The Story of Mutsu), an account of the Former Nine-Year War in which Yoriyoshi led the government’s forces, describes the man’s prowess in archery this way:

“Yoriyoshi invariably took any animal that ran across the field, be it a stag, deer, fox, or rabbit. By his own choice he carried a weak bow, but the arrow he shot never failed to bury itself up to its feathers. Even a furious beast would fall before the power of his string. That’s the way he surpassed the others in bowmanship.”

The last two episodes also have to do with Raik, though this time only indirectly: Mutsuru, the protagonist of one story and a bystander in the other–both from Kokon Chomon J (secs. 348 and 349)–is a brother of Watanabe no Tsuna, one of Raik’s “Four Guardian Kings.” Little else is known about him. Ichiin is Emperor Toba (1103-1156); his proscription against taking the lives of fish and fowl may derive from the fact that he had by then taken Buddhist vows.

When Ichiin resided in the Toba Palace, an osprey flew in and caught fish in the pond every day. One day he decided to have it shot, and asked if there was anyone suitable for the job in the Warriors’ Office. Mutsuru happened to be there. When summoned, he was given this imperial order:

“An osprey has attached itself to this pond and catches many fish. Shoot it. However, it would be cruel to kill it. His Majesty’s wish is to have neither the bird nor the fish killed. Find an appropriate scheme to do the work.”

There was no way Mutsuru could decline the order. He left at once and soon returned with a bow and an arrow. The arrow was fork-tipped. Standing near the edge of the pond, he waited for the osprey to come. As expected, it flew in. It caught a carp and was flying up when Mutsuru shot at it with a full-drawn bow. The arrow hit its target but the osprey flew away. The carp dropped to the pond and floated with its white belly up.

When Mutsuru tugged the fish in and offered it for an imperial inspection, it turned out that the osprey’s foot clutching the carp had been severed. Its foot was severed, but it didn’t die that instant. The fish, too, did not die even though it had been clawed by the bird. In accordance with the order that neither the bird nor the fish be killed, Mutsuru had worked out this scheme.

Lord Ichiin decided it was no ordinary man’s feat, and rewarded Mutsuru with a prize.

This same Mutsuru, a Lieutenant of the Outer Palace Guards, Left Division, once wanted to equip some battle arrows with feathers and sought ibis feathers. He couldn’t find enough of them, so asked his subordinates if they had any.

When Jroku Day, who was an excellent archer, heard this, he asked his attendants to go out and look for ibises. He soon received the report that some ibises were sighted in the paddies north of the river. When he came out with a bow and arrows, the ibises had risen and were flying south. Jroku readied his bow and arrow but didn’t shoot right or left. Instead, he asked Mutsuru which bird he especially wanted to have. Mutsuru replied that he wanted the last one in flight, but Jroku still didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Finally, when the birds flew away farther into the distance and seemed to be above the southern bank of the river, he drew the string to the full and shot. The arrow hit the bird.

Greatly impressed but also puzzled, Mutsuru asked Jroku, “Why did you neglect to shoot when the bird was up close? Why did you shoot it only when it flew farther away?”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Jroku. “If I had shot the bird when it was close, it would have dropped into the river and its feathers would have gotten wet and spoiled. I shot it when it reached the farther shore, not to damage its feathers.”

No doubt he was an accomplished archer who could shoot at will.