"It's nothing." Harano stood up from the earthen floor to greet them, deliberately slowing his speech, smiling politely. "Sorry to trouble you. How's your husband doing?"
"He's not running a fever at all anymore. He's resting in the side room." Aping strained to make out his words, repeatedly bowing, her tone exceedingly respectful and polite. "Thank you so much! Please, sit down."
Harano nodded with a smile, then turned around and returned to sit on the earthen seat. The little girl slipped off her straw sandals and came in barefoot, pulled over a lacquered wooden table from the side that resembled a small bench, then fetched a ceramic pot and tea bowl from a wooden tray, poured him a cup of hot tea, and spoke softly, "My lord, please have some tea."
"Thank you." Harano nodded at her and gave a warm smile. The little girl paused a moment, then managed a shy smile back, the tension on her little face visibly easing just a bit.
Inside the dirt-floor kitchen, Aping had already lit the hearth and stove. The little girl hurried down to the dirt floor and grabbed a long bamboo tube to help blow the fire. Once the flames were burning strong, Aping fetched rice to put in the pot and skewered the already-prepared fish onto bamboo branches to roast by sticking them on both sides of the hearth.
Most likely, the time she disappeared earlier was spent preparing ingredients for dinner. While she was busy with the meal, Jubei's bald head seemed to poke in at the doorway—apparently noticing nothing amiss—then instantly vanished, apparently not daring to come inside to chat idly.
Harano, with nothing else to do as he watched over his friend, glanced down at the flat, rough pottery tea bowl and took a whiff, figuring it was Genmaicha—brown rice a bit rougher than modern unpolished rice, pale yellow-green tinged, which was dry-roasted then stored, brewed with hot water when needed as a tea substitute. Even in later-day Japan, it's still used.
But Harano didn't drink, even though he was a little thirsty. Most of his attention stayed on Aping, Jiulang's wife, just watching her cook. Aping's movements were very efficient. Soon enough, the meal was ready, and the little girl used a wooden tray to bring the dishes to his seat.
A bowl of Genmai (brown rice), not at all like the tiny "cat bowls" the Japanese love in later ages—this one was reasonably sized, cooked similar to China's "dry rice," boiling first then steaming. Smelled pretty good, with a strong aroma of rice;
A big bowl of rice soup, basically the first round of water when cooking rice, with some rice grains floating inside, the color a bit pale yellow;
A plate of grilled fish, not a very big fish—could be grass carp or pike, but it's too grilled to tell. Still, getting fresh fish in winter is fortunate enough; mediocre skills don't really matter;
Lastly, a dish and a sauce: the dish was kelp-stewed radish, the sauce likely a mix of bean paste and ume plum paste, with a boiled egg on the side.
Besides, for Meng Ziqi the invalid, there was a pot of mushy rice porridge, probably also a byproduct of that first batch of boiled rice.
Now that the food was placed before Harano, Aping knelt on the earthen floor with her head down, saying very politely, "My lord, our poor house can only offer these plain dishes. Please forgive us."
Three dishes and a soup—by the standards of this age, this was a lavish meal, put together with everything she had. The fish, kelp, and plum sauce were borrowed goods. Still, Harano looked so distinguished—his build, skin, neat teeth, and aura all far above any rural Samurai she'd seen. She really wasn't sure how to treat him, fearful of offense and inwardly anxious.
Only after Harano nodded with a smile and thanked her did she breathe a little easier and withdraw, leaving her daughter alone to attend to him. From start to finish, she did not come off like your average farmwife.
Perhaps it was because the "Village Chief's Wife" had more experience—but whether a "Servant" was a rank or made her equal to the village chief, who knew.
Harano mused in his heart as he helped Meng Ziqi up to sit, planning to feed him a little rice soup first. The little girl, who had been kneeling demurely at the edge of the seat, was quick to catch on; she sprang up with rapid little steps to help.
Harano reckoned the rice porridge couldn't pose a problem, so he fed a little to his friend directly. Seeing he could slowly swallow and his color seemed to improve a bit, Harano relaxed a bit. When Meng was settled again, Harano turned his attention to the girl, who was preparing to retreat, and gently asked, "Are there more bowls and chopsticks?"
The girl looked up in surprise, not quite catching his words. He repeated it, and she finally realized, hurrying to fetch him a pottery bowl and a pair of bamboo chopsticks.
Harano put some rice, fish, vegetables, and sauce in the bowl and smiled, "I'm not used to eating alone. Why not eat a little with me?"
For the girl, this was the first time such a thing had happened. Harano's accent was also thick, so she only half-understood, her face puzzled. When she finally got his meaning, she was even more confused—during harvest or forced labor, Hosokawa Castle would sometimes send down Household Samurai, and as the only daughter, she couldn't refuse to act as a Maid. But those men were crude and violent, easy to anger, much less offering food to her.
To be honest, if Harano had slammed the bowl down, yelled about the lack of sake, or complained they didn't kill a chicken, she'd have accepted it more easily. Judging from his attire, those country Samurai didn't even come close to his grace.
Seeing her so flustered, Harano pushed the bowl closer and smiled, "It's all right, go on and eat!"
"Uh—yes, forgive me… Thank you, my lord."
Truthfully, the girl really wanted to eat. Her daily staples were buckwheat, beans, wild greens, radish, and turnip, mostly padded out with rice bran and millet. Genuine rice, she'd barely had since birth, let alone fish, veggies, and sauce—her family's diet was never this lavish. Seeing Harano insist, she finally swallowed hard, quietly uttered assent, and took the bowl, eating cautiously.
Harano watched in silence, only picking up his chopsticks after seeing her actually eat.
He tried a bite of Genmai rice—pretty hard, not a great mouth-feel, actually kind of lousy. If he could help it, he'd rather eat white rice, but clearly this household didn't have any.
The fish was all right—the flesh fresh and fairly fatty—but grilled a bit too burnt and rather bland. Never mind seasoning; they seemed stingy even with salt, so it tasted rather fishy—a waste of a good fish.
As for the vegetables—radish stewed with kelp—the so-called jade-black broth. That brought back memories of high school; back then, the miserable school cafeteria often made kelp and radish stew—though it was supposed to have a little meat, he never saw a single chunk and always wondered which dog got it.
The sauce—well, that was something else. Sour, astringent, and bitter, probably last year's bean paste and plum paste held over till now—there wasn't much savor, and it seemed a bit off besides.
In all, if this were modern times, three bites would have sent him to thrash the cook. But now, stranded and needing his strength, he could only wolf it down.
Forcing down a bit, he cracked open the boiled egg, ate the white and, not liking yolk, plopped it into the girl's bowl, smiling as he asked, "What's your name?"
The girl was savoring every bite; poor as this meal might be by modern standards, she looked almost blissful. Upon hearing him, she quickly put down her bowl and chopsticks, knelt with her hands on her lap, and answered respectfully, "Thank you for asking, my lord. My name is Yayoi."
"Nice name—born in March?" Harano made conversation. "Yayoi" was an old term for March, a common name in the Middle Ages or modern Japan, nothing rare—in the countryside, toss a rock and you might hit a Yayoi.
Yayoi perked up, ears alert, working hard to catch his words—this time she understood quickly and responded with an embarrassed, bashful smile.
Harano didn't mind; as a newcomer to this land, he just wanted to chat, fix his accent, and maybe fish for intel. He immediately continued, "How old are you this year?"
"I'm ten."
"Hmm, ten already?" Harano pretended to think. "So you were born in what year?"
He didn't expect the little girl before him could answer. At her age in a time when illiteracy was over 95%, not knowing your birth year was normal—completely understandable. But to his surprise, Yayoi answered readily, "Year Ten of Tenbun, my lord."
Year Ten of Tenbun?
So it's probably the twentieth year of Tenbun now?
And the twentieth year of Tenbun is which year AD?
Harano's mind spun. He remembered seeing that reign title in a museum—combined with his earlier guess of the Muromachi Shogunate era… Around Tenbun 4 or 5, there was the great Hokkeshu riot in Kyoto, and the famous Japanese tea caddy "Ninety-nine Shots of Eggplant" was lost for the first time—seemed like 1536 or so. Then now, this should be 1550 or 1551, near the end of the Muromachi Era?
The end of the Muromachi Era, also called the Azuchi-Momoyama period, which is Japan Warring States Period. So—I've time-traveled to an age of chaos with my dimwit friend in tow?
Damn it!