Ninja by John Man

Author:John Man
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780062202666
Publisher: HarperCollins

Defeat brought a sudden end to the old ways of Iga and also an end to the commune system. Iga city was given to a lord named Todo Takatora, who had rendered good service during the invasion. He built a fine castle on top of the hill, which still dominates the town today. On a tidal wave of well-shaped stone, a place of overlapping gray roofs and glorious beams overlooks a large open space where, during festivals, schoolchildren practice their archery. It is, as Ieyasu himself said, a treasure. It is a focal point, a symbol of power, where there had been neither before, and a clear statement that the old days were over for good.

But the memories live on, and so do many of the families. By chance, I came across descendants of two of the families, Takino and Momochi.

Takino survived, not to fight another day but to negotiate a truce, settle back into farming, marry, and produce many children. So, said Tomimori as we left the woods that covered Takino’s earthworks, that’s why many people living in the village today are called Takino. “You see the man who is cutting the rice over there? He’s a Takino.” He looked up and called, “Takino! This man has come from England to see your ancestor’s fort!”

It was in the little village of Akame, where tourists enter the path leading up the Forty-Eight Waterfalls, that the cheerful old restaurant owner, Ueda Masaru, led me into his attic and showed me the suits of ninja armor inherited from his grandmother. And his grandmother, remember, had been a Momochi, a descendant of the Momochi Sandayu who had escaped from Takino’s fort when it was surrendered to Oda Nobunaga.

Names, shrines, temples, memorials—all recalled what happened here in the autumn of 1581. There is at least one enclave where life seems remarkably unchanged. A winding road led uphill through woodland and down into a secluded valley, where, among a patchwork of terraced rice fields and up a driveway, stood the house of my dreams, should I ever dream of living in Japan. A curly-tiled porch with heavy wooden doors led to a Zen-style courtyard: a little pond, fringed with sun-dappled, autumnal bushes, gravel, and rocks, on one of which lay a contemplative black cat. The house with its two wings held the garden as a setting holds a jewel. It was a jewel itself—all dark wood and blue-gray tiles, perfect in its plainness.

As with other works of art, its simple beauty was maintained by hard work, at the hands of the man who now appeared from a garage beside the driveway, dressed in dusty T-shirt, jeans, and muddy boots. He had one of the most strikingly beautiful—there’s no other word—faces I had seen in any man, let alone one in his fifties. This was Momochi Mikyo, another descendant of Momochi Sandayu.4 The Momochi family had owned this house then and still own it now. One of the larger stones in the garden recorded the link, and added: THIS WAS PUT UP IN MEMORY OF THE 350TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE IGA REVOLT, in 1931.

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