Beneath the ground of Abuara Island lives a being known as Wiobadara.
By day, Wiobadara is seen in the form of a snake, moving unseen beneath the sand. By night, he sometimes emerges in human shape, revealing that his nature is not bound to a single form. His presence is known not by his appearance alone, but by the changes he leaves upon the land.
Wiobadara pushes the sand upward into small hills and ridges. At times, he alters the ground so thoroughly that women searching for crabs can no longer find the holes where they usually dig. Paths become unfamiliar, signs are erased, and the shore no longer responds as it should.
When this happens, the women do not confront him with force. Instead, they place food upon the ground for Wiobadara and speak to him respectfully, asking that he restore the land and allow them to find crabs again.
If properly appeased, Wiobadara relents. The sand settles, the hidden signs return, and the crabs once more reveal themselves. In this way, Wiobadara is understood as a powerful being of the earth—capable of withholding sustenance, but also of granting it when approached with respect.
Gallery
Sources
Landtman, G. (1970). The Kiwai Papuans of British New Guinea: A nature-born instance of Rousseau’s ideal community.
At Haemuba lives a being named Tube, one of the etengena—spirits connected to the land and its fertility.
Tube is closely bound to a particular man of the Mawata people. To him, Tube appears in dreams, teaching the knowledge of garden medicines and the proper ways to use them. The man, in turn, shares this knowledge with others, spreading what Tube has revealed.
At times, Tube does not remain unseen. He may appear in the garden or the bush in the form of a snake or an iguana. Though his shape is that of an animal, the man recognizes him by signs made with the creature’s head, subtle movements that reveal its true identity.
Once, the man encountered Tube in the bush in the form of an iguana. The animal held a small branch in its mouth—a branch that was itself a medicine. The man gently patted the creature on the head, and by this act received the medicine from Tube.
The bond between them is sealed through sharing. When the first taro is pulled from the ground, it is divided between the man and Tube, acknowledging the spirit’s role in the growth of the garden and honoring the partnership between human and land-being.
Thus Tube remains a quiet teacher and guardian of cultivated ground, passing knowledge through dreams, signs, and shared harvest, and ensuring that the wisdom of the land continues among the people.
Gallery
Sources
Landtman, G. (1970). The Kiwai Papuans of British New Guinea: A nature-born instance of Rousseau’s ideal community.
Umibake is a yōkai known only from monster picture scrolls drawn after the Edo period. It appears among collections of strange beings painted together, without a written tale to explain its origin or deeds.
The Umibake emerges upon the surface of the water. Its body is long and slender like that of a serpent, stretching across the waves as it rises. Though its form is aquatic and elongated, its face and the shape of its hands resemble those of a familiar kind of yōkai often seen in monster scrolls, giving it an oddly human presence despite its inhuman body.
No story tells what Umibake does when it appears, nor why it comes forth from the water. It is simply seen there, floating or rising, a quiet and unsettling shape upon the surface of the sea.
Like many yōkai preserved only in pictures, Umibake remains a vision without explanation—its meaning carried only in its form, suspended between water and imagination.
From the deepest darkness before the world was formed, Abyzou came forth. She rose from the primeval waters, from the abyss that existed before heaven and earth were divided. In that endless sea she was born barren, and from her barrenness grew envy without limit.
Abyzou wandered the world without rest or sleep. She moved silently through night and shadow, drawn to the cries of women in labor and the breath of newborn children. She was said to feel no mercy, for what she desired most had been denied her forever. Because she could not give life, she sought to take it.
When a woman lay ready to give birth, Abyzou would draw near. If she was not driven away, she strangled infants in their cradles, stole them in the night, or brought sickness upon them so that they wasted away. She whispered illness into bodies, closing throats, blinding eyes, twisting minds, and filling flesh with pain. Wherever she passed, suffering followed.
Abyzou did not walk openly among mortals. Her form was half-seen: a greenish, gleaming face framed by writhing, serpent-like hair, while the rest of her body dissolved into darkness. Sometimes she appeared with the scales or tail of a fish or serpent, for she belonged to the ancient waters. She claimed to possess countless names and shapes, changing them constantly so that none might easily command her.
In ancient times, King Solomon encountered her while binding demons to build the Temple. When she was brought before him in chains, she confessed her deeds freely, boasting that she never slept and that each night she sought children to destroy. Solomon ordered her bound by her own hair and displayed before the Temple, so that all might see the demon who preyed upon mothers and infants.
Yet Abyzou could never be destroyed. She could only be driven away.
Thus people learned to defend themselves through sacred names, seals, and charms. Her name was written on amulets, spoken aloud in childbirth, carved into metal and stone. When she was named correctly, she was forced to flee. When the names of her enemies—angels, saints, or divine protectors—were invoked, she recoiled in fury and envy.
In Egypt she was known as Alabasandria. In Byzantium she was Gylou or Gello. In each land she took a new name, but her hunger remained the same. Riders trampled her beneath their horses in sacred images. She was whipped, bound, cursed, and cast out in spells, yet always returned when vigilance failed.
Only one thing could stop her: knowledge of her names. When a woman about to give birth wore an amulet bearing those names, Abyzou was powerless. Forced by oath, she would turn away and retreat to the dark waters from which she had come.
And so Abyzou still wanders the edges of night, driven by envy, searching for life she can never possess—an ancient shadow born from the abyss, feared wherever children are born.
Tradition / Region: Japan (Ehime Prefecture and other regions) Alternate Names: — Category: Object/ yōkai
The Myth
The Jatai is said to appear at night as a living obi, a kimono sash that moves on its own like a great snake. By day it is nothing more than a length of cloth, but after night falls it slithers from its resting place, coiling and gliding through rooms in search of victims.
According to old folk belief, if a person lays an obi near their pillow while sleeping, they may dream of snakes. From this belief grew the story that the obi itself can transform. Because the word for a snake’s body sounds the same as the word for a wicked heart, the sash was believed to awaken as a murderous being. In this form it becomes the Jatai, a dangerous tsukumogami born from jealousy and malice.
The Jatai is especially associated with an obi once worn by a jealous woman. After long use, the resentment bound into the garment gives it life. When it hunts, it wraps itself around sleeping men and strangles them in their beds.
The creature is described as a poisonous snake, long enough to coil itself around a person seven times. This detail is remembered as part of its fearsome nature and its unnatural length. Once the Jatai has tightened its coils, escape is said to be impossible.
The Jatai is depicted in Toriyama Sekien’s Konjaku Hyakki Shūi, where it appears as a living sash transformed into a deadly serpent. Through these tales, the Jatai is remembered as a reminder that strong emotions can linger in objects, waiting for the moment when they take on a life of their own.
