A man who was all but doomed by serious illness was miraculously saved. All the villagers were extremely excited, their chattering never stopped—even carrying the stretcher couldn't keep them from endlessly discussing it.
Hibi Village—that was the name Harano managed to get out of them. He'd realized his wish, but before he could even ask for lodging, merely mentioning that his friend was injured, Jūbei and the woman who'd earlier thanked him excitedly both eagerly invited him to rest overnight in the village.
Harano didn't even dare utter a single polite refusal—he quickly followed the villagers. Dozens of people, torches flaring, bamboo spears hefted on shoulders, carrying Jiulang and Meng Ziqi on a stretcher, made their way down the mountain, traveling another three or four li, and finally arrived at a riverbank.
The river was called the Otai-gawa. The group walked alongside it for a while longer, crossed a crude wooden bridge, and then reached Hibi Village. The outskirts of the village were surrounded by rough wooden fences, giving some basic defense, but it was hard to tell how big the village actually was—it was too dark, and the torches barely illuminated anything.
Once inside the village, the crowd swelled. Plenty of women and children came out to gawk, and when they saw Jiulang being carried back again, they were all shocked, whispering and discussing amongst themselves. Still, not a soul dared approach Harano, this "nobleman" whose clothes shone so brilliantly—his outer jacket was made of waterproof, dustproof material, and under the torchlight, it gleamed with an expensive luster, obviously something only the truly wealthy could afford.
Harano silently observed his surroundings, his mood growing heavy all over again.
The village before him was filled with dingy, large-roofed thatch huts. From his meager knowledge of Japanese history, these were a type of flat-ground, pillar-planted thatched architecture—ancient dwellings found nowadays only in written records, lost to physical history. So now, even the last trace of wishful thinking was gone: he had really crossed through time and space.
He didn't know if he could ever get back to the modern world. And his "foolish son" had been out cold for nearly a day, impossible to wake—the kid's head might really be broken. Without modern medicine to help, then...
Weighed down by worry, he was escorted by Jūbei and others to a fenced courtyard, then invited into a thatched hut. They lit an oil lamp for him, helped settle Meng Ziqi, and then all quietly withdrew—as if reluctant to stay in the presence of this illustrious figure, afraid perhaps of causing him offense.
Harano took it as it came. He gave his friend a little water, saw that he could swallow but still wouldn't wake, and felt his headache intensify.
He honestly had no idea what to do. He could only hope his friend simply had a severe concussion and would recover after a long sleep. But if it was something else—like intracranial bleeding pressing on the brain, turning him into a vegetable—then he truly had no idea what to do.
With ancient medical resources, there's no way to treat this sort of thing, right?
He sat with his friend for a while, shook his head, and then turned to examine this dwelling from the Japanese Middle Ages.
The door... there was no door—the "house door" was a thick curtain woven from rice straw; you just had to lift it and walk in. As for layout, it seemed to be divided into two rooms.
Once inside, the first room had a packed earth floor. On the inner side was a fire pit encircled by stones, with an earthenware pot hanging above it; beside that was a mud-built stove connected to it. According to what he'd seen from reconstructed flat-ground, pillar-planted thatched houses in museums, this part was called the "doma": both kitchen and storage for farm tools, grain, various odds and ends, and, when the weather was harsh, even a place to keep livestock and poultry temporarily.
The other room was the "doza," used for receiving guests and sleeping—exactly where he was sitting now.
This area's floor had a raised layer of gravel for damp-proofing—strip stone would be better, but in a village this poor, no one had the energy or strength to quarry stone, so gravel it had to be. On top of the gravel was a layer of rice hulls or bran to prevent any sharp pressure on the feet, and above that, straw mats woven from rice stalks, all laid flat and tidy.
Harano reached out and tested it. Pressing down, it felt fairly soft—a sort of poor man's tatami.
The uniquely Japanese term "dogeza" probably originated from "doza" and "doma."
The highborn would sit up on the doza, while those of humble background had to kneel on the dirt floor of the doma. That was probably how it later came to mean apologizing or expressing deep sincerity.
Finished looking over the doza, Harano turned to examine the main supporting pillars, present in both the doma and doza alike.
This type of dwelling was known as "flat-ground, pillar-planted thatch architecture" precisely because of those two rows of main pillars. One end of each pillar supported the roof beam, the other was planted in the ground—hence the name. But what really mattered was the spacing between the pillars.
The distance between two pillars, in Japan, was called a "ken," a unit of length, which changed from era to era. Based on what he'd seen in museum exhibits, he could use this to estimate the time period: in the Kamakura Shogunate era, one ken was about eight shaku; in the Muromachi Shogunate era, about seven shaku two sun; in the Edo Shogunate era, about six shaku six sun.
Here, "shaku" referred to the "Koguryeo shaku," roughly equivalent to 0.269 meters in modern units—a Japanese Middle Ages specific measurement.
Harano estimated by eye: the space between two pillars here was a little over 1.9 meters—so, about seven shaku two sun. So... had he traveled through time with his "idiot son" to the Muromachi Era?
If only he could find someone to ask directly. But would it be stupid to just ask the villagers what era this was?
The sudden time-travel put huge psychological pressure on Harano. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but didn't know how or whom to ask. He was tangled up in his thoughts when the straw curtain was suddenly lifted and that same middle-aged woman—Jiulang's wife, Ah Ping—entered with a little girl carrying a wooden tray. Bowing her head respectfully, she said, "Forgive me, sir, for making you wait so long."