Webs of deceit: Tsuchigumo

Content warning: spidey bois.

Let me take you back to somewhere around the year 1000 in Classical Japan. Minamoto no Raikō, legendary commander and warrior, lies suffering from a fever, preparing to die. Noh theatre performances still capture the moment to this day. From Raikō (in translation)

“Oh, life is so fragile. Looking back, it is like a bubble that disappears here and appears there. I float and reincarnate in this world. No one can understand my serious illness, just as heavy as this duvet. There is no one to be blamed for this illness, so I can hold no grudge over it. I have to remain in bed by myself and continue to agonize even while resting.”

Various cures are tried, but nothing seems to help. Then, in the dead of night, a Buddhist monk appears abruptly at Raikō’s door. 

“Though it is a beautiful night with the clear moon, misty clouds suddenly rise in the middle of the night and hide the moon.”

According to legend, the monk is strange-looking and large, almost 7 feet tall. Taken aback, still feverish, Raikō demands to know who he is and what he’s doing there. In response, the monk berates him, and quotes an old poem:

“My husband will come tonight as the spider’s behavior tells me so…”

It’s the only clue Raikō needs.

“Did you say the spider’s behavior? I see. I did not identify you and now understand that your behavior is like that of a spider, which rudely approaches me.” 

The monk acts fast, throwing out his hands and shooting out thousands of strands of web. Raikō would be captured and doomed, if it were not for the sword he has hidden under his pillow. He slashes at the monk, and the monster disappears, leaving puddles of blood in his wake.

Familiar foes 

From here, the Noh play and the legends diverge a bit, though the core arc of the story remains. Either Raikō or his retainers follow the trail of blood to a cave deep in the mountains, where they find, to their horror, tunnels made of spider silk big enough for a man to walk through. Deep in these tunnels lies the tsuchigumo, the enormous arachnid yōkai, with the face of an oni (demon) and the body of a tiger. 

Yorimitsu killing Tsuchigumo
Like so.

A battle ensues. The tsuchigumo offers a fearsome fight, trying to ensare its attackers with silk. When its its abdomen is finally split, an explosion of human skulls (1,990, according to one tale) precipitates thousands of baby spiders. These scurry at the humans and up the cave walls, and the warriors must kill every last one before they can finally declare victory. Once they do, Raikō’s mysterious illness is cured, and everything is well again.

But this will not be the last time (and is maybe not the first) that Raikō faces down the hideous spider. The showdowns happen again and again with similar scripts, but different details. In one version, Raikō’s servant boy turns out to be secretly poisoning him. When Raikō cuts him open, the illusion breaks, and he finds that the boy has covered him in spiderwebs. They follow the boy’s trail of blood and discover a tsuchigumo, dead from the wound Raikō inflicted.  In another version, Raikō and his retainers face down an entire yōkai army, headed by a beautiful and mysterious woman. Suspecting trickery, Raikō targets the woman, and when he cuts her the army vanishes and she flees into the mountains. They hunt her down to a cave, where she morphs into a giant spider, rearing back and ready to fight Raikō in her true form.  

Raiko tormented by the earth spider
Less stripe-y, but you get the idea.

Hairy inspiration

So where did the tsuchigumo stories come from? There are no native tarantula species to Japan, though there are plenty of other frightening-looking spiders, and neighboring China and Vietnam have some bad boys that look like this:

Aphonopelma catalina tarantula

…which might have provided some inspiration. These tarantulas do burrow in the ground with silk tunnels like the ones described in the stories. And “tsuchigumo” does translate roughly to “ground spider.”

It’s not a big leap for any anyone to look at one of those and go “hey, that’s heinous. Sure glad it’s not car-sized, amirite?” Humans have done just that all around the world. Giant spider monsters are, after all, not unique to Japan, nor are tsuchigumo even the only spider yōkai

Tangled web of history

But the name “tsuchigumo” happens to have some historical context that casts these stories in a new light. It turns out that back in the day, “tsuchigumo” was used less to describe a literal tarantula monster and more as a derogatory term for the indigenous, earthen-mound-dwelling rebels who dared to fight back against the power of the Yamato court. 

Tsuchigumo
Who’s the real monster?

One can see evidence of this still even in that Noh play I quoted above. When getting ready for the final tsuchigumo standoff, one warrior comments: “Even a handful of soil and a branch of tree in this land belong to the Emperor [emphasis mine]. So, there is no room for a demon to live.” When you look into the history, a lot of the pieces start to make sense. Those that fought against royalty had to resort to underhand tactics such as guerilla warfare, just as tsuchigumo resort to trickery in order to try to best the military might of Raikō and his ilk. 

Of course, that hardly makes the tsuchigumo less affecting. It’s said that some human tsuchigumo were cut up and buried in separate pieces at Mount Yamato Katsuagi shrine to prevent their grudges from coming back and harming the living. To me, this sounds like precisely the recipe to encourage grudges to come back and harm the living. 

So which is worse: vengeful ghosts or spiders with fangs the size of your arm? Some dilemmas are too dark for even a monster blog to decide.

Would a tarantula look better or worse with frosted tips? Share your opinions in the comments below. 

IMAGE CRED: Tokyo National Museum for the OG; Utagawa Kuniyoshi for the leopard-y guy; Chris A. Hamilton, Brent E. Hendrixson, and Jason E. Bond for the very detailed tarantula; Brigham Young University for the 3-eyed guy.

Hungry eyes: the Tenome

Did you know that Stephen King himself squirmed when he saw the Pale Man scene in Pan’s Labryrinth? Hard same, Steve. When I first saw that movie, that scene disturbed me so much that it came back around and left me grinning ear to ear. The Pale Man is geniusly weird, with his sagging skin and eyes on his palms. Who could have thought him up?

Pale Man from Pan's Labyrinth (Guillermo del Toro)
The Pale Man (in case you need me to jog your memory).

It turns out the answer is the Japanese, some 250 years ago. The original monster was not a naked dude with skin folds conveniently covering his private bits, but a yokai that appears at first glance to be a zato (a member of a blind man’s guild). This not-zato can be found lurking in cemeteries, hands outstretched, as if he has only recently lost his vision and is searching for something. Get close enough, and you’ll find out in quick succession that a) he’s not blind, but looking with eyes embedded in his hands, and b) what he’s looking for is a snack like you. 

Once the tenome (pronounced teh-no-may, not teh-gnome) has caught your scent, you’re finished. He moves fast, and even if he doesn’t catch you right away, he’s likely to find you later.

Eye have a bad feeling about this 

Take the story of a bold youth who went to spend the night in a graveyard on a dare. The youth was getting settled in when he noticed an elderly blind man wandering around some distance away. Scoffing to himself–this was supposed to be a night of horror, not charity–he went to see if the zato needed help. The youth got close, calling out to him, and then the zato turned around. The youth froze–there were nothing but empty patches of skin where the zato’s eyes were supposed to be, and on his withered palms, reaching toward the youth’s face, where two bare, unblinking eyes.

The tenome lunged, and the youth ran. There was a temple nearby, and he ducked inside, crying out for help. 

A monk answered his call. Alarmed, he listened to the young man’s account and realized at once that that they both had to hide, and fast. The monk hurried the youth into a large chest, and then hid himself. He knew his temple and its constituents well, so when a soft shuffle of feet appeared at the entryway, he knew that they belonged to a stranger. 

The monk held his breath and begged his heart to beat more quietly. The shuffling neared, and then slowed to a stop. There was silence, then a long, breathy slurping sound, like a dog sucking the flesh off a bone. 

The monk squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the touch of dry fingers, the soft, wet give of an eye. Instead, the shuffling resumed, moved back to the entrance, and faded away. The monk hesitated for a long time before coming out of his hiding place, unable to believe his luck. He and the youth had survived an encounter with a fearsome yokai! He hurried to lift the lid of the box, knowing that the young man would be anxious to get out. 

His greeting died on his lips. The chest was empty save for a blubbery pile of skin–the only thing the tenome had left of the would-be adventurer. 

That is the first commonly circulated story about the tenome. The second is more of an origin story, where a blind man is attacked by brigands and dies cursing them, wishing that he could see their faces, if only with his hands. He was granted his wish too literally and came back as a yokai. You can guess the rest. 

A jest gets out of hand

The Tenome, by Toriyama Seiken
Sekien’s illustration.

The tenome first appeared in a 1776 yokai encyclopedia written by Toriyama Sekien. Sekien gave the tenome its name as a multi-layered wordplay joke at the expense of gamblers and priests. His accompanying illustration is also (via complex allusions) humorous, poking fun at cheaters and people who are so jumpy that they see ghosts everywhere. A good breakdown of the joke (such as it can be understood by people who only know English) can be found here; I am not able to do it justice.  

Beyond that, Sekien gives us no other information–no context for where the tenome comes from or what it is. Perhaps he meant for it to be nothing more than a joke. But as is the danger with all jokes, some people didn’t get it. They took the tenome seriously. I’m glad that they did, because they gave the tenome a life of its own, and have created some wonderful things.

A hand-some legacy

Pan’s Labyrinth (and all the artwork spinoffs it created) is not the only modern place the tenome has appeared. The yokai also inspired one of the bosses from Cuphead (a video game featuring  surrealist 1930’s rubber hose-style animation), and appears in the popular Pathfinder roleplaying game. Search “tenome” in Youtube, and you’ll come up several gameplay videos for an indie horror piece that came out a few years back (developed in a whopping 2 days!). You can play it for yourself here if you’d like to get some modern-day tenome action

The Pale Man will always have a special place in my heart, but with so many versions of the tenome out there, it’s hard to pick a favorite. Maybe I should ask the universe for a guiding hand. 

Oda Teme bozu, or tenome
Get it????

What would the incidence of bacterial conjunctivitis be in a population whose eyes are embedded in their hands? Share your estimates in the comments below. 

IMAGE CRED: Ryan on Flickr for the Pale Man; Toriyama Sekien 300 years late for his clever tenome image; and 尾田淑 for the tenome image in color.