Koka Districtこうかぐん

The fascination of the Koga Saburo legend lies not merely in its heroic epic, but in how it explains the origins of Suwa Myojin as "the return of a mortal who fell underground." Unlike Takeminakata-no-Kami from the Kojiki, who retreats to Suwa as the defeated figure in the myth of the transfer of the land, Koga Saburo travels from Omi to Shinano, falls into the underworld through a cave on Mount Tateshina, and returns as a serpent. The deity of Suwa does not simply descend from the heavens, nor does it merely arrive from central mythology; it manifests by passing through mountain caves, subterranean kingdoms, and the body of a snake. This narrative beautifully weaves together the elements of Suwa worship—water, mountains, dragons, serpents, hunting, and the syncretism of Shinto and Buddhism—into a single tale. This is precisely why it is meaningful to establish Koga Saburo as a distinct figure alongside the official enshrined deity Takeminakata.

A variant of the Katakuruma said to haunt Kyoto’s Higashi-no-Toin, marked by a strong urge to chasten with words. In the Enpo era, disliking the city’s taste for night roaming and nosy tongues, it rolled through the streets as a single ring of fire. It appears as one lone ox-cart wheel, cypress spokes sooted and red-hot, with a broad-jawed man’s face set in the hub. Its eyes flicker like lantern flames, its teeth gleam like a comb, and it often arrives biting a child’s single foot. Its first cry is always “Look to your child before you look at me,” both a threat and a plain command to tend the home; those who rush inside sometimes avert harm. But peep out of curiosity and, before rumor can spread, calamity befalls the household’s child. The foot it holds is not some stranger’s far away but is bound to the onlooker’s own child—the terror of this type—its fire slipping thinly through the door crack, drawing blood like beriberi in the sleeping room, leaving a tear. This speech-making Katakuruma is often confused with the Wheel Monk, yet it prefers admonition to mockery, and a single line of speech sets both the cause and the end. When a housewife once peered through a slit on Higashi-no-Toin, the wheel halted before the home, pressed its nose to the door, uttered a verse, and left; she ran to the parlor and found the child only lightly harmed, cured by prayer and decoctions. Thereafter, from the bell at sunset, households barred lattices tight, hung dim lamps within, and vowed not to speak of the strange at their lips. Sightings waned, yet during festivals and pilgrimages it returns, rolling as if stepping on the shadows of paper lanterns. It feeds above all on named gossip; if one whispers “katawa-guruma” thrice, its flame licks the eaves and seeks the lattice gap. Elders avoided the name, saying “the one-wheeled fire” or “the wheel’s voice.” Still, a gate warded with waka or votive words can halt it; honoring the power of speech, it eases if the text is orderly and heartfelt for the child. In towns thick with rumor it grows strong, in towns that mind their words and households it wanes, a monster mirroring Kyoto’s temperament.