"Mom, I'm back."
Yayoi carried the leftover food into the side room. The layout here was the same as the main house, only a bit smaller, and the earthen floor wasn't as clean, tidy, or polished as in the main house. In truth, this was where Jiulang's family mainly lived; the main house was mostly used to receive household retainers and important visitors from various places. Otherwise, at the very least, the doma would have a standing pillar-style spinning wheel like here.
There was no oil lamp lit in the room, only the fire pit burning. Yayoi's mother, Ahei, was sitting beside it, using the firelight to pick through barnyard millet grains—a kind of rice-field weed in modern terms. The seeds are black or purplish-blue and edible, though the taste is poor, and eating too much can easily cause indigestion, making it hard to defecate and leading to a miserable time.
Although Japanese farmers in the Middle Ages spent most of the year growing rice, they almost never ate white rice themselves. Rice was mainly for paying annual tribute, oxen tax, rice debts, or exchanging for cash to buy necessities like salt, ironware, or pottery. Their daily diet was based on buckwheat, various beans, turnips, wild greens, dried fruit, mixed with rice bran and barnyard millet.
In a few regions, wheat and millet were also grown, but due to climate, seed, and related agricultural technology, they were neither widely planted nor particularly productive.
Ahei was rubbing the millet grain in her hands, actually spacing out, but was startled awake by her daughter's voice. She quickly got up to greet her, also asking with concern, "How's the nobleman?"
"Everything's fine." As Yayoi answered, she glanced toward the dark, shadowy earthen floor. "Where's father? Is he feeling any better?"
"Much better. His fever hasn't come back, he's been sleeping the whole time, and should be well soon." Ahei answered with relief, also eyeing the dark spot on the floor, where her husband lay sleeping under his clothes, finally out of danger.
"That's good, that's good." Yayoi let out a long breath of relief. If her father died and only she and her mother were left, their whole life would change overnight—her mother would likely remarry, and she'd probably be sent to be a maid or hostess in the Whale House in the castle, unless her stepfather was willing to feed another mouth.
And usually, in rural Japan of the Middle Ages, few stepfathers would do that. Even if a girl was raised to adulthood, she couldn't be counted as labor, and with no bride price to collect when she married out, it was a total loss.
With her heart eased, Yayoi quickly lifted up the leftovers, saying excitedly to her mother, "Mom, Lord Nozawa left a lot of rice. You should have some!"
"Why is there so much left?!" Ahei was astonished. Only a small portion of the brown rice was eaten; all that was missing from the fish was the meat on the belly; the kelp and radish soup, as well as the sauce, were barely touched.
She began to worry again. "Was the meal too poor for a nobleman's taste?"
Yayoi hurried to comfort her. "No, Mom, Lord Nozawa has always been very kind. He didn't get angry."
"As long as he isn't angry, that's good, that's good." Ahei felt a little relieved, but was still worried. Mainly about the medicine money. She'd seen her husband on death's door, then recover quickly after a little dose of medicine. The stuff must be extremely precious, and if Harano asked for payment, she could never afford it, even if she sold the whole family.
As for not having agreed to buy it...
Samurai arguing reason—is there such a thing as a reasonable samurai? When have nobles ever reasoned with commoners?
If she tried to plead poverty, Harano, such a "high and noble Samurai," wouldn't need to do much—just write a letter to Hosokawa Castle seeking justice, and shout about it a bit. For the sake of appearances, the castle would definitely turn over her whole family—even paying for medicine was a matter of course, and nobody would speak up for them.
So for now, all she could do was hope Harano was in a good mood and generous-hearted, letting the matter of the medicine money drop.
Yayoi, though mature for her age, was still a child. She'd even chatted with Harano freely before, found him pleasant, not a harsh man like her mother imagined. Raising the leftovers again, she chirped, "Mom, you should eat some!"
In medieval Japan, farmers and minor samurai usually only had two meals a day: breakfast and lunch. Both morning and afternoon required hard physical labor, so skipping meals wasn't an option. But the evenings held little to do—hunger could be endured until sleep, so dinner wasn't seen as necessary.
That was for the men; women and children had even less to eat. Until the strong laborers had finished, women and children seldom made it to the table or touched a bowl of rice.
For Yayoi, dinner—and brown rice—were rare treats. The last time, Harano had even given her brown rice for dinner, with fish, eggs, sauce, and kelp. She'd held herself back from wolfing it down, just to save a bit for her mother.
Ahei hesitated, then took the leftovers but didn't eat them. She set them aside. "No, let's save it for your father. He needs to regain his strength now."
Yayoi licked her lips. She was still hungry, but knew the family would collapse without her father (only men could lease land; in ancient times, women farmed very poorly, struggled against wild animals, and were helpless against robbers), so she said nothing more.
Ahei put the food away, pulled her daughter down by the fire to warm up, held her small hand and asked, "Just now you called him Lord Nozawa?"
"Yes," Yayoi replied, "Lord Nohara Saburo Ieto. The other lord hasn't woken up, so I'm not sure of his name."