Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

During the Keichō era, in Yamakawa Port of Ibusuki District, Kagoshima, there was a maritime merchant named Ōsako Kichinō who managed the Satsuma Domain’s Vermilion-sealed ships and served in the Nanban trade. In June of Keichō 16, under orders from Shimazu Yoshihiro—who had retired and taken the name Ishin—he journeyed all the way to Luzon (Philippines) in search of tea jars. At that time, Lord Ishin said that since it would be advantageous in various ways, he should become a Christian. Kichinō received baptism in Nagasaki and became a believer without true faith in his heart, then spent seven years searching through towns from Luzon to Cambodia—but the outcome was far from satisfactory. Worse still, upon returning home, he nearly faced execution by burning during a religious inquisition. In the petition dated the eleventh year of Kan’ei, Kichinō’s futile bitterness and resentment lay bare.

Lord Ishin commanded thus: “Journey to Luzon and by all means acquire either a Clear Fragrance or Lotus King tea jar.” As the land called Luzon was inhabited by Christian followers, I was ordered to become a Christian at this time, extend courtesies, and thereby fulfill my duties. Though I stated, “While this accords with Your Lordship’s will, it is a faith I hold no fondness for,” I accepted that all matters pertained to loyal service, and thus resolved to become a Christian in accordance with Your Lordship’s decree. …and so on and so forth.

Kichinō’s father, Yoshitsugu, had been a retainer of Matsunaga Hisahide; after his lord’s house fell into ruin and he became a masterless samurai, Shimazu Takahisa discovered him and, under Takahisa’s orders, he established a shipyard in Nagasaki and began overseas trade. Like Koya Yasaburo of Sakai and Nishirui Kojirobe, he was what they called a retired townsman—one who had transitioned from samurai to merchant—and until the autumn of the year he died at seventy, he stood firm at the helm’s steering oar, scolding sailors and cargo masters while navigating the vast southern seas with the ease of strolling through his own garden.

Ōsako Kichinō was taken aboard ships before he even turned fifteen, performed duties as a deckhand and clerk until his twentieth year, learned Portuguese in Amoy and Spanish in Luzon through immersion, and was promoted to vice-financier once he could communicate in broken phrases. The term “vice-financier” referred to the role of acting as the shipowner’s proxy, managing all aspects of ship operations and cargo trade transactions. In Keichō 2, when his father Yoshitsugu died and Kichinō assumed control, he accompanied Yoshihiro on the second Korean campaign to Sacheon, serving concurrently as grain cargo chief and small baggage officer while dashing through arrow fire. He did not participate in the Battle of Sekigahara in autumn of the fifth year, but waited in Sakai for Yoshihiro—who had fought the Eastern Army, suffered a crushing defeat, and narrowly escaped—then seized the critical moment to put him aboard a ship and spirit him away to Kagoshima.

Sakuraya Sukemasa of Sakai—who also served the Shimazu—was in a panic, unable to focus on anything as he fretted over whether the clan was finally facing ruin, but Kichinō,

"The roof of Osaka Castle's in disrepair—rain's leaking through," he said, then loaded every last piece of military equipment from the Satsuma residence in Osaka—bows, arrows, guns, ammunition—onto the ship and returned. Kichinō had naturally surmised that he would barricade himself in Osaka Castle and engage in a glorious battle against the Eastern Army, but as nothing of the sort occurred, he was struck by an unexpected sense of astonishment. Upon making inquiries, he learned that when Lord Yoshihiro urged Lord Hideyori to prepare for a siege at this juncture, Lord Hideyori stated there was no need to fight to the point of barricading themselves. It was said that Shimazu too had received a curt reply instructing him to promptly withdraw to his province.

This revealed the true measure of Lord Hideyori. If one’s back gives out after a single skirmish, then what was the point of waging war against Tokugawa in the first place? Kichinō had hastily arranged arms transport under the snap judgment that Lord Yoshihiro’s swift return to his domain meant Yoshihiro had lost patience with Lord Hideyori and intended to wage one decisive battle in Satsuma—but this proved a grave miscalculation, for Lord Yoshihiro shaved his head, retired, and sent Tokugawa Ieyasu a written oath, demonstrating nothing but subservience. Far from any talk of war, the entire domain lay damp and stagnant, even the dew seeming listless.

Afterward, an amnesty was granted, and with Iehisa, his third son, having his ancestral lands confirmed, out of deference to Lord Ieyasu, all matters were conducted with restraint. The patronage of Nanban trade that had continued since his father’s time naturally ceased, so Kichinō returned to his hometown port of Yamakawa and engaged in shipping goods between Tokara and Ryukyu.

In May of Keichō 16 (1611), Ōsako Kichinō received an abrupt summons from Lord Ishin. When he presented himself at the Tamazato retirement residence, Lord Ishin— “Kichinō, go to Luzon and return,” he said abruptly. Ōsako Kichinō, believing that permission for Nanban trade had been granted, straightened his posture and inquired eagerly: “Is it for a trade venture we are to undertake?” “No—retrieve the jars.” “Since that’ll give you certain advantages along the way, you should become a Christian…… I’ve already told Reverend Sessai the particulars.” “Go to Ōkuchi and ask.” “You may withdraw.”

He took the tonsure and became Sessai. The castle of Niino Musashi—known as Oni Musashi—was located ten ri north of Kagoshima, in Ōkuchi Village of Isa District. After leaving the retirement residence, Kichinō set out immediately for Ōkuchi Village. He climbed up to the castle, had his greetings conveyed through an intermediary, and was immediately shown to the parlor. “Well, as His Lordship instructed me to inquire with you regarding the details, I have come.” Sessai—a man of martial prowess yet also an accomplished poet—ran his hand over his smoothly shaved monk’s head while,

“The retired lord does enjoy posing difficult challenges now and then,” he said and laughed loudly. “Very well—I shall undertake to solve the riddle.” “Now listen—this is how it stands.” Leaf tea jars were indispensable for the kuchikiri tea ceremony, and among these, Luzon-fired jars were considered exemplary pieces. Hideyoshi had acquired and boasted of a Luzon leaf tea jar called Clear Fragrance—one that Sen no Rikyū had appraised as being worth one province and two castles—but in the second month of Tenshō 19 (1591), Rikyū was reprimanded over alleged improprieties in utensil transactions and took his own life.

When Rikyū died, Hideyoshi despaired that the path to acquiring Luzon jars had been severed, but in July of Bunroku 3, Ruson Sukezaemon of Sakai unexpectedly brought back around fifty exemplary Luzon jars and presented them for inspection. Hideyoshi, “Well done, well done! “You’ve seized fifty provinces and two hundred castles from Luzon and returned!” he reportedly clapped his hands in delight. Hideyoshi first took three for himself, displayed the remainder in the Great Hall of Osaka Castle’s Nishi-no-Maru, and distributed the jars to the various daimyō at a rate of one kanme of silver per momme of the jars’ weight.

No one knew what purpose the jars served in Luzon. Sen no Rikyū was a man who became wealthy by appraising the authenticity and value of tea utensils, but depending on his personal relationships, he would stubbornly declare counterfeits as genuine and new items as old, often deceiving people—or so it was said. Be that as it may, thanks to the exorbitant prices set for Luzon jars, these innocent-looking ceramic jars—standing just eight or nine *sun* (approximately 24–27 cm) to about one *shaku* (30 cm) tall—sold for between 1,000 and 2,000 *kanme* of silver (37.5–75 tons) apiece. Thus, in a mere four or five days, Ruson Sukezaemon reaped an unexpected fortune.

“If that had settled matters, such circumstances might never have arisen, but since he absconded to Luzon, achieving resolution became fraught with difficulty.” Ruson Sukezaemon—who had adopted Luzon as his surname—provoked Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s wrath by indulging in extravagance: commissioning Kano Eitoku to paint his mansion’s sliding doors and ceilings, inlaying them with cloisonné, and embellishing them with gold and silver appliqués—resulting in the confiscation of his household assets. Without showing a trace of surprise, Ruson Sukezaemon donated his mansion to Daian-ji Temple as if accepting his fate, then gathered his clan and departed nonchalantly from Sakai Port. This too was something Kichinō had heard and knew well.

“That was in the summer of Keichō 2, the year before Lord Taikō passed away.” “It must be fourteen or fifteen years now.” “Fourteen or fifteen years... To think you’re being sent to search for some wretch whose whereabouts in those southern barbarian lands are anyone’s guess—it does strike me as rather pitiful.” “For someone like me to seek out Sukezaemon...”

That year, when Lord Ishin visited Sunpu Castle to present New Year's greetings, Ieyasu remarked that leaf tea jars had become scarce—there were none to be had at present. If one couldn't even perform the kuchikiri tea ceremony, he added, then tea's divine blessings must have truly run dry. "You who engage in Nanban trade must have stockpiled Luzon jars enough to use as water vessels," he proposed pointedly. This amounted to a demand for two or three Luzon jars as tribute. The Shimazu stood in such precarious circumstances that they had no choice but to comply with any unreasonable request—they would have gladly offered the jars if possessed any, but unfortunately held none. They made earnest entreaties with full courtesy to all known collectors—the Matsuura, the Makino, even the Matsudaira of Izumo—but when it came to this particular matter, none would entertain their plea.

If only Sukezaemon were still in Sakai, matters would proceed smoothly—but there’s no use wishing for what cannot be. You have spent many years traversing the South Seas and are well-versed in various countries’ affairs—though it’s burdensome—so he has decided to have you go all the way to Luzon to retrieve jars. “Regarding that—there’s something I must show you.” Sessai removed the lid of a wooden box in the tokonoma, took out something resembling a tea jar, and placed it on the desk near the shoin window.

The height was about one shaku, and the shape was somewhat flat. It had a thin scattering of quail-like spots in its tea-colored glaze, crafted with a simple, lightweight form, the base slightly concave. It was a familiar-looking jar that seemed to straddle the line between unglazed earthenware and glazed pottery.

“This is a genuine jar borrowed from Kamiya Sōtan of Hakata. It’s well imitated, but it’s not from Luzon. A genuine Luzon jar has a deeper tea-colored glaze, is entirely covered in quail-like spots, and features a raised base. The finest Luzon jars are the Lotus King and Clear Fragrance genuine jars... The Lotus King has the character for ‘king’ within the lotus flowers on the jar’s shoulder. As for the Clear Fragrance genuine jar—this one too bears the characters ‘Clear Fragrance’ on its shoulder. If it were genuine Luzon, even a standard jar would suffice—but since it isn’t, find either a Lotus King or Clear Fragrance.”

He understood the task of going to Luzon to retrieve jars, but when he asked what exactly locating Sukezaemon entailed—given that both Rikyū and Sukezaemon had called them “Luzon jars”—it seemed there had been some tacit understanding between the two men. In his view, they could only be products from Guangdong or Siam. He said that if genuine jars were available in Luzon, there would be no issue; otherwise, there was no choice but to meet Sukezaemon and ascertain from him in which country and how he had obtained them.

“We have prepared one thousand kanme of cupellation silver from Tsushima, twenty kanme of peseta silver coins, along with ingot silver and Kangxi coins.” “Regarding the ship—Miura Anjin’s fregata ship (a frigate; an armed merchant vessel) was put up for sale with its vermilion-sealed license attached. A Chinese headman named Andrea Li Dan purchased and refitted it, and it will depart from Ōbato at the beginning of next month.” “They say they only take Kirishitan on board, so unless you become one yourself, it simply won’t do.” “But that’s precisely the issue…”

Even if Kichinō became a nominal believer, he knew nothing of Kirishitan customs and could not conceive of upholding the Ten Commandments. He said he would endure any hardship but wished to decline becoming Kirishitan, yet Sessai—insisting that Li Dan’s ship was the only way to Luzon—would not listen no matter what.

II

Andrea Li Dan’s ship was a three-masted fregata with two-tiered sails—a Dutch-built black ship—mounting two brass culverins of approximately eight shaku barrel length where a Japanese vessel’s foredeck would be. The ship’s name was *Santiago*… *Santiago* being the Spanish equivalent of Hachiman Daibosatsu, for they shout “Santiago!” when raising their battle cry—or so it was said.

The ship measured twelve ken in length and four ken in width. Beyond the cargo master Luis Shinkurō and helmsman Jeriko Shōbei, the crew consisted of Fujianese, Sumatrans, and Malaccans numbering around one hundred in total. Neither the ship's size nor crew complement reached even one-third that of Vermilion-sealed ships. Though bearing a valiant name, it was by no means a dependable vessel. When he thought of crossing fourteen hundred ri of ocean—six hundred fifty ri from Nagasaki to Takasago's harbor in Taiwan, then another eight hundred ri from Takasago to Manila in Luzon—in such a small boat, Kichinō couldn't help but feel despondent.

At the helm’s oar, Kichinō watched Ryukyu’s silhouette grow fainter with each wave when he recalled Li Dan’s warnings about pirate ships. The golden boxes of cupellation silver stored in the cabin abruptly felt like an oppressive weight. At this time, Li Dan found no reconciliation between Holland, Spain, and Portugal; whenever ships from opposing sides crossed paths, one would invariably open fire, plunder the cargo, then sink the vessel as customary—peaceful voyages remained vanishingly scarce.

“Since you appear to possess considerable silver, I shall offer this counsel: should a frigate pursue and seize your ship, resistance would prove futile.” “If you resign yourself and let them take what they want, you can at least avoid losing your life.” “From what I observe, you seem a man of courage, but those who rely on strength often end up gravely injured—do not forget my counsel,” he said.

The hardship of journeying to Luzon's farthest reaches just to search for jars was already more than enough—to endure such an ordeal on top of that would be unbearable. Even so, I couldn't comprehend why buying an unremarkable ceramic jar required a thousand kanme of silver. At sixty momme per ryō, a thousand kanme amounted to seventeen thousand ryō... Building a new Vermilion-sealed ship carrying three hundred ninety crew wouldn't even cost fifteen kanme. That a great vessel measuring twenty ken long and nine ken wide cost two hundred fifty ryō, while a leaf tea jar—small enough to cradle in one's palm—priced at seventeen thousand ryō... There had to be some mistake here.

“This way, it all feels so futile.” “The things daimyō do are beyond the likes of us to comprehend.” Kichinō muttered to himself, then shook his head vigorously—as if to dispel distracting thoughts—resolving not to dwell on matters beyond understanding. On the evening of June 10th, after completing the Christian evening prayers and while having dinner in the stern cabin, cargo master Shinkurō came rushing in.

“Just now, a black ship crossed astern and has approached from the leeward side,” he reported to Li Dan in a vehement tone. Li Dan paused his ivory chopsticks in thought but, as if struck by an idea, asked in return, “So, have we passed Dongsha Island yet?” “Yes, we’ve just set the compass needle toward the tip of Luzon.” “We’ve hit a bad shipping lane. It might be a fregata ship. We must stay alert.” “That’s right,” he acknowledged. “We’ll post lookouts before dawn tomorrow.”

The next morning, on the still-dark sea, a black ship crossed the bow and sailed away like a shadow toward windward. When dawn broke, a two-masted black ship with three-tiered sails could be seen running alongside the Santiago about four leagues ahead. Helmsman Shōbei, “Hey! Quit dawdling!” [He] yelled at the Malaccan sailors and, making them take a spyglass, forced them up to the main mast’s crow’s nest. “What’s taking so long?” “Hurry up and get it done!” The Malaccan sailor in the crow’s nest,

“It’s terrible!” he shouted, then reported, “People have climbed into their crow’s nest too and are watching us through a spyglass.” Li Dan, a Hakata-born Fujianese who seemed thoroughly accustomed to such situations, made his way up to the helm without haste. “Mr. Shōbei, how’s their ship’s speed? Do you think we can outrun them?” Shōbei measured the other vessel’s pace while shielding his eyes from the sun. “Nothing to fret over. Shall we make a dash for it?”

Having said that, he issued a command to the lead sail handler: “Raise all sails!” When the Santiago began surging forward powerfully, the opposing black ship suddenly increased its speed too, zigzagging across the sea like lightning as it charged toward them. Their sails bent sharply—it became clear they’d been hiding their true speed all along, now revealing this through their relentless pursuit. “They’ve really picked up speed!” “If we’re not careful, they’ll overtake us.” Li Dan said this just as Shinkurō declared, “I’ve brought out the ammo boxes—shall we give them a volley?”

When Shinkurō spoke with a determined expression, Li Dan gave a firm nod.

“Can you fire the culverins? If you can fire them, then fire away and show me.” Shinkurō gathered the Sumatran sailors and rushed to the forward culverin to load the cannonball, but unfortunately, the ammunition proved too large for the barrel, rendering it useless in this emergency. “These damn cannonballs—which idiot loaded them?! The cannonballs are too big—they don’t fit the barrels!” He scratched his head and reported to Li Dan. Li Dan laughed and,

“We’re definitely going to be cornered now, so remove the compass and quadrant and hide them somewhere they won’t find them.” He ordered. While they were occupied with such tasks, the black ship closed in to within half a ri. It was clearly visible as a Portuguese courier ship they called a kobayabune, equipped with four culverins. “It’s a kobayabune—we can’t win against this!” Shōbei cried out, but seemingly intent on escaping no matter what, he persistently changed the sail shapes and began tacking.

No sooner had the Portuguese national flag been raised on the kobayabune's mast than its culverins spat fire, and cannonballs roared past, grazing the Santiago's bow. Li Dan tapped Shōbei's shoulder.

“It’s no use. No stopping! No stopping!” When the Santiago lowered its sails, about ten Portuguese men—pistols and unsheathed swords tucked into their sashes—came in a small boat as if they had been waiting. When they gathered the Santiago’s crew at the aft deck, the leader,

“Who’s the shipowner? What cargo are you carrying, and where are you bound?” he interrogated. Kichinō vented his anger and shouted something to the effect of, “I have no obligation to answer your questions.”

When Kichinō shouted something to that effect, a Portuguese man rushed over and stabbed him in the abdomen with a sword. Kichinō had wrapped cupellation silver into a belly band around his waist, so though stabbed repeatedly, he showed no reaction.

There was no benefit in fighting. He had considered it a burden from the start, but silver weighing 1,000 kanme was not something that could be completely hidden, no matter how one tried. Kichinō was about to resign himself to this as fate, but the thought of all that silver being taken away so easily filled him with unbearable frustration. Though he didn't say "all of it," he went down to the hold with an inconspicuous air, intent on hiding as much as he could. Kichinō had handled overseas vessels before, so he knew the structure of Western-style ships. In Japanese ships, beams run through where there would abruptly be shelf planking, creating a gap between the outer hull and inner lining that continues down to the bilge. If he removed one of the hull's inner lining boards, he could drop as much silver as possible into the bilge. Though it was a laborious task for something done in haste, it wasn't impossible to manage.

The inner lining boards at the hull's waist were thick-cut zelkova; even prying with a short sword wouldn't make them budge. Nevertheless, as he kept working patiently, the seam between the boards began lifting until an opening wide enough for a hand had formed.

Footsteps could be heard busily moving about overhead. It seemed the pirates had set to work. He couldn’t afford to dawdle. He grabbed silver ingots from the metal box and, sparing no time to breathe, dropped them one after another into the bilge. The commotion overhead reached its peak, and with the dry, scolding sounds of the Portuguese men, acrid smoke began to flow into the hold.

“This ain’t good!”

The pirates seemed to have destroyed the ship and set it ablaze. The Portuguese's intentions had now become clear. He had thought it strange that pirates showed no interest in gold or cargo, but now he understood: those who had boarded the Santiago hadn't come for plunder—their goal from the start had been to burn the ship. Kichinō had been working up a sweat, but if the ship was to be burned, hiding silver here would be futile—he lost all motivation and stopped.

Yesterday morning, they had passed near Dongsha Island. They were now in the very middle of the open ocean, with no island in sight no matter which direction they looked—but if they were cast adrift here, there would be no hope of survival. He had to negotiate with the Portuguese and stop them from burning the ship—climbing up the hatch ladder—but the hatch door had been nailed shut, making it impossible to get out. He rushed to the stern compartment to check its hatch entrance—only to find all hundred crew members lying bound hand and foot, not a single one spared. When he looked over at Li Dan, Li Dan was kneeling before the cross and praying fervently.

“Those bastards set fire to the ship! If we stay cooped up like this, we’ll burn to death!” Li Dan replied that he knew this perfectly well, but since he was presently engaged in his devotions, he wished to be left undisturbed.

Kichinō, also haggard, wordlessly sat down beside Shōbei, whereupon Shōbei, with a comforting expression, “...Black ships that have sailed from ages past—when their time comes, they become food for sharks, Santa Maria.” and hummed a nasal tune for him to hear. After about half an hour, as if the wind had died down and the sea grown calm, the commotion above suddenly subsided, and the sound of waves lapping against the hull could be heard. When Kichinō stood up, everyone also rose and rushed en masse to the hatch.

When they went up and looked around, they found the small mast knocked over onto the helm platform, the sails torn to shreds, the rudder handle ripped off—every tool for sailing had been utterly destroyed in an unbearable scene of wanton destruction. The fire had been set in the foredeck sailors' galley—apparently with oil spread to fuel it—and now burned fiercely, sending up dull black plumes of smoke. The small fast boat had moved far away into the distance, but they could still see its sail. If they put it out too quickly, the pirates might come back to burn it again. Once the sail of the small boat had sunk beneath the waves, they set about extinguishing the fire.

III On June 18th, the Santiago entered Manila's port and moored south of the river mouth.

Kichinō had the land messenger carry the metal cash box and, after being seen off by everyone as he disembarked from the ship, took lodging at an inn just across the road from the landing pier. Manila was a place with a two-generation connection for his family, and the inn’s proprietor was a close friend. After sleeping through the night, the next day he set out early in the morning to search for jars. He had a rough idea of where to find both shops dealing in antique pottery and market stalls peddling earthenware. He carried a diagram of a genuine jar copied by Nagafuji Asaharu. Even without exchanging words, simply showing it in silence would settle the matter.

And so, after spending three days visiting every shop in Manila, he was unable to find a single childlike leaf tea jar adorned with quail-like mottling. The Luzon people preferred to use narrow-mouthed jars, but the kiln producing them was located in a village called Tondo. The next day, he went there to see. When he showed them a drawing of a genuine jar and asked if they had ever handled such pieces, the kiln master declared with finality that while he believed himself to know every jar in Luzon—past and present—he had neither seen nor laid hands on anything like this.

The explanation sounded plausible, but he couldn’t take it at face value. There were other kilns that produced ceramic ware. Having heard there was a Ming-operated kiln in Parián outside the city, he went there the next day, but they only said the pieces seemed to be from Annam or thereabouts, offering no particular opinions.

Upon thorough investigation, he had determined that what Sukezaemon had brought back was apparently not from Luzon—but the frustration lay in having no one who could declare which country’s ceramic ware this was or what it should be called. Moreover, he couldn’t comprehend why something that wasn’t even Luzon ware had been proclaimed as such. To resolve the question of why—as Reverend Sessai had said—there was no method other than locating Sukezaemon and hearing his account.

Manila’s Japantown was located in a quarter behind Candelaria Cathedral, at Manila’s port entrance, and in Dilao’s outskirts. A man of Sukezaemon’s stature wouldn’t be holed up in some Japantown. If he were here, I would have heard word by my arrival day. The absence of even rumors likely meant his absence, but accounting for contingencies, I went to Dilao and questioned the town elder. Town elder Asai Kurōemon replied with a pinched expression: “That man turned pirate in Cagayan on Mindanao Island in Keichō 8—then with Spanish troops backing him, slaughtered over twenty thousand Ming Chinese. With that history, he’d never come to Luzon.” “Thanks to that bastard, we’re left bearing the brunt.” “If he ever shows up here, we won’t let him off easy.”

he cursed vehemently.

It was unexpected that Sukezaemon had been a pirate. If that were true, there would be no reason for him to settle in a Japantown with clear population registries. Even if he were in Luzon, he must be living under an assumed name in some remote village unknown to others. The logic was sound, but that left no way to find him. In late September, he heard a rumor that a man who appeared to be Japanese was living in a town called San Miguel in southern Luzon. San Miguel was a modest fishing village located on a peninsula extending southeast from Luzon Island; though connected by land, travel overland was impossible due to the Moro barbarian tribe inhabiting the intervening area. He traveled to a place called Mauban and hired a native boat from there. As they had to camp on shore each night, the journey became a grueling half-month ordeal.

Kichinō departed Mauban on October 12th and arrived in San Miguel on November 2nd. Indeed, there were Japanese living there—fishermen who had been blown off course from the waters off Settsu and drifted ashore—but they were men with no connection whatsoever to Sukezaemon.

Having come as far as San Miguel, he took the opportunity to head further south to Mindanao Island and inquire about Sukezaemon’s whereabouts in the town of Cagayan, but gained nothing from it. While engaged in such tasks, the year came to an end. By around May of the following year, he had idled away his days at a Manila inn with nothing to accomplish—yet this was neither abandoning nor ceasing his search for Sukezaemon. This inn had become something of a regular lodging for Japanese travelers; he had thought that by remaining here, he could take advantage of the convenience of extracting information about Sukezaemon’s whereabouts from newly arrived Japanese.

In late June, Suminokura’s vermilion-sealed ship arrived but remained anchored offshore, unloading neither people nor cargo. When I asked the innkeeper, he said that because there were as many as 130 Japanese Christian lepers aboard, they were locked in difficult negotiations over whether to permit the ship to enter port.

Suminokura’s ship was not permitted to enter port, and the next evening, only two passengers were sent over by sampan. They were unmistakably siblings—the sister appeared to be seventeen or eighteen, while the brother must have been around thirteen. Both bore faces of such dignified gallantry that they exuded an imposing air, making one hesitate to approach them readily. The sister wore figured satin wide-legged hakama trousers, while the brother was clad in stiff field hakama; but with his somewhat effeminate demeanor, they gave less the impression of an older sister and younger brother than of sisters—a pairing that seemed more fitting.

Due to the innkeeper's thorough investigation, the two siblings' background soon became known. They were children of Ōtani Yoshitsugu, Assistant Director of the Ministry of Justice—whose eyes had been destroyed by leprosy and who had commanded forces from a palanquin during the Battle of Sekigahara—the elder sister being Monika Mayumi and the younger brother Jeriko Kikumaru. Monika, seemingly of proud disposition, had protested to the boat officials during their sampan transport: "Though we siblings too carry leprous lineage, why are only we two being treated specially?"

I had heard that Ruson Sukezaemon’s wife was from Ōtani of Tsuruga. He began to feel something like hope that if he asked those siblings, he might learn Sukezaemon's whereabouts, but the Ōtani siblings were living quietly in the sweltering heat of Manila without even leaving their room. He had never had the chance to see her face, but one day when he encountered her in the inn’s cool corridor and stopped her to pour out his tale of struggling to track down Sukezaemon, Monika looked back at Kichinō with her large, glistening eyes and said, “Sukezaemon should be in Annam. “Since I have a letter entrusted to me by a certain person, there is someone I too must meet—but you, who go to such lengths to seek out Sukezaemon, what manner of person are you?”

Kichinō recounted everything from the reason he had come to Luzon in search of the jars up to the present day. Monika—what had happened?—suddenly took on a relaxed demeanor,

“I’ve heard a most enlightening tale,” she said with a laugh. “I too have a task I must accomplish.” “Mine isn’t jars but a cathedral… Both my brother and I are of leprous lineage.” “Since I am well acquainted with this disease’s unfortunate predispositions, I intend to devote myself until death to building a cathedral in Feifo, Annam’s Japantown for the repose of those who perished from leprosy.”

Now that Sukezaemon was confirmed to be in Annam, I needed to reach there without delay. When I asked about Monika's situation, she explained she had intended to travel to Annam aboard the Suminokura vessel with the lepers but found herself stranded here in confusion. I had already petitioned the innkeeper as well, urging him to employ his connections for expedited passage to Annam. Through the innkeeper's mediation, we secured passage on an Annam-bound ship—a weathered two-masted junk from Zhangzhou (Singapore), its cramped hold overflowing with a hundred Vietnamese returnees. Though fully aware of the treacherous monsoon season, we nevertheless set sail from Manila on the morning of July second.

The voyage had been unexpectedly calm, but on the tenth night, a strong northeastern wind began to blow and violently rocked the ship. On the morning of the eleventh day, though dawn had yet to break, the Malay sailors were rushing about in a flurry. When Kichinō grabbed a sailor and asked what was happening, the sailor replied that due to the violent rocking, the outer hull planks had loosened, and water was rushing in from there. He thought they should stop the ship for repairs, but they were recklessly driving onward against the gale. When Kichinō went up to check, the main sail and fore sail were fully spread, and even the small fore sail was out. It seemed they were racing against time—whether the ship would flood from the leak first or whether they could reach Feifo in Annam first.

The logic was clear—the harder they pushed the ship, the worse the damage would become—so this was bound to end in disaster. Kichinō let out an involuntary sigh. On the morning of the thirteenth day, as expected, all sails had been completely torn away, leaving them no choice but to stop the ship and leave their fate to the waves and wind. The Zhangzhou ship was pushed and driven back by the long swells following the gale, drifting aimlessly until eventually the flooding accelerated and water rose to the ceiling of the hold.

Kichinō and the Ōtani siblings had left the hold during the previous night and moved their sleeping quarters to a corner of the deck, thus avoiding commotion, but the Malay sailors who had been sleeping unaware in the hold were startled by the flooding and came scrambling up to the deck in a panic.

By afternoon, the water had risen up to the deck, and it became clear to every eye that sooner or later, the ship was doomed to sink.

Around eight o'clock at night, the ship's hull trembled faintly, and an eerie groan that seemed to constrict the heart echoed from nowhere.

The compressed air between the water and deck strained to burst through the planking. “We’ll be blown sky-high,” Kichinō warned. “Up with you now!” As he seized the Ōtani siblings’ hands and forced them onto the mizzenmast’s rope ladder, a thunderclap explosion tore open a gaping hole amidships. “No staying here,” he barked. “To the crow’s nest!” When the three reached the masthead platform, every soul left on deck stampeded toward the ladder. They climbed over each other in desperation, packing the six-foot-square platform until latecomers clustered like grapes on the ropes below. One Annamese youth—twenty at most—glowered upward before retreating to scale the foremast’s distant perch.

The ship was still sinking little by little, but when it went down to about ten feet below the mast, somehow it stopped sinking any further. Upon the raging sea that raised whitecaps, two masts jutted out pitifully, densely covered with people clinging like flies caught on flypaper. Perhaps due to tidal currents, as the submerged hull listed in the water, the masts tilted greatly. Each time, several people tumbled into the sea, flailing two or three times before being effortlessly swallowed by the waves.

The moonlight passed over, but this too proved only a fleeting comfort. As midnight approached, the wind intensified, and ten-foot-high waves came surging in to strike the mast with tremendous force.

The morning of the fifteenth day arrived. At least sixty people must have been clinging to the rope ladder, but come morning, hardly any remained. The hull remained submerged beneath the waves, drifting westward as if drawn by the tide. Amidst the waves and wind, that day too came to an end.

On the afternoon of the sixteenth day, the wind abruptly died down. Through gaps in the broken clouds, the sun blazed down scorchingly, and everyone was tormented by parched throats.

IV Monika climbed up to the crow’s nest and immediately embraced her brother Kikumaru, maintaining that posture the entire time. Kichinō suggested she make herself more comfortable, but she merely smiled and did not attempt to alter her position.

Kikumaru, terrified by the harsh environment, had become utterly weak and limp, but around the seventh day he grew listless, his limbs convulsing as he began uttering delirious words. Kichinō sat beside the Ōtani siblings watching Kikumaru weaken each day—yet for all his watching, he could do nothing.

On the morning of the nineteenth day, when Kichinō peered at Kikumaru’s face, Kikumaru was dead. It was unclear when he had stopped breathing; his body had stiffened while still being held. Monika was holding Kikumaru tightly in her arms, unaware that he had died.

As for Kichinō himself, he was now utterly listless, lacking even the energy to move his eyeballs. Lying on his back in the cramped space, drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind would grow hazy, and there were moments when he couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead. Despite being right beside each other, both Monika and Kichinō had long since stopped speaking. Each morning, all they could manage was to nod to each other with their eyes to confirm they were still alive.

On the afternoon of the twentieth day, a sudden rain fell. It was the first rain since the shipwreck. Kichinō lay on his back, shaping his palms into cups to catch the rainwater—swallowing everything from the streams flowing past his nostrils to the droplets splashing off his chin. The Malays and Annamese around him, whom he had presumed dead, sprang up like madmen and drank their fill of rain with upturned faces. Monika soaked a cloth in rainwater and wrung it into Kikumaru’s mouth, staring fixedly at his face for any sign of life. When she understood revival was impossible, her expression turned resolute. She dragged Kikumaru’s corpse away and cast it into the sea without hesitation.

The rain ceased after about an hour, and the weather turned dazzlingly clear. When he suddenly noticed, in the shadow of the mast, a Malay sailor was propped up on one elbow, drinking water from a jar. “Ah.” When the rain stopped, one could only wait for the next rainfall, but with a jar, one could store rainwater to the brim and drink it whenever desired. Even so, that someone had managed to retrieve a jar amidst such chaos marked them as a shrewd one. As Kichinō watched the Malay sailor’s actions, an indescribable emotion pierced through his being, and before he knew it, he found himself crawling toward the man.

“Let me see that jar.” He snatched up the jar as if seizing it by force.

Beneath the thick tea-colored glaze, quail-like spots floated across the surface like scattered sparks... Near the shoulder area, translucent lotus petals were visible, within which the character for "king" could faintly be seen. When he looked at the bottom, there was a high raised base just as he had heard described, with a curved indentation on the base. This was indeed the one. “This is the ‘Lotus King’.” Kichinō grabbed a silver ingot from his money belt and thrust it into the Malay sailor’s hand, then clutched the jar and crawled back to his own spot.

"It was like a dream." With the Lotus King leaf tea jar placed before his knees, Kichinō gazed up at the sky in bewildered despair. He had at most two or three days left to live. That was now an undeniable fact. What did it mean to encounter the Lotus King leaf tea jar he had even dreamed of in such a desperate hour? He should have been content to die having achieved his true purpose, yet he couldn't bring himself to feel that way. If he were to die holding this jar, he would leave regrets in this world. He had resigned himself to the idea that life and death didn't matter either way, but now that he had obtained the jar, he suddenly found himself unwilling to die. Even so, there was no hope of survival.

Kichinō went limp. Lying on his back with hands clasped over his chest—assuming his usual comfortable position—he began drifting in and out of consciousness while thinking he might not wake tomorrow.

On the evening of the thirtieth day, a voice somewhere muttered, “Land.”

It was the twentieth day since the shipwreck. Those on the lookout platform were in a state one step from death, barely clinging to life; thus, they couldn’t recall what the word "land" meant. After a while, someone else shouted, "Land!" but this too failed to elicit any reaction and was completely ignored. When someone muttered it a third time, Kichinō— "Huh?" he said, raising his head.

Kichinō had no clear idea where he was, but when he saw the bleached cloth-wrapped leaf tea jar by his pillow, all his memories came rushing back at once. Now, someone definitely said "land".

When he thought survival might be possible, that hope abruptly sent energy coursing through him. Kichinō pushed himself upright and stared toward where land should be. About ten chō ahead, lead-colored mudflats stretched level with the water's surface, their boundary marked by spindly trees reaching upward without vitality. In the shallows, mudbanks surfaced intermittently as breakers crashed with thunderous reverberations. This went beyond mere survival. Kichinō absorbed the coastal conditions in an instant and recognized their dire predicament. The submerged hull appeared to be drifting shoreward with the tide, but should it strike a mudbank, the vessel would disintegrate instantly, hurling everyone into the sea. Bodies sapped by twenty days without sustenance couldn't withstand a single pounding wave—that would finish them.

With a normal body, he could swim through this sea one-handed. After all the trouble of obtaining the jar, to think that I would meet such a futile end with land right before my very eyes—the frustration was unbearable. When he went to Monika’s side, she seemed convinced they had been saved—her face so emaciated that only her eyes seemed to remain—she offered a faint smile.

Kichinō smiled back,

“I’ll swim along with you, so you must keep your strength up,” “Rest properly tonight.” Monika nodded and, as if settling to sleep, faintly closed her eyes.

The next day, around five in the morning, he was jolted awake by a sudden impulse. Kichinō,

He shouted “Yes!” and jumped up. Then came two massive tremors, and the lookout platform lurched. Kichinō barely managed to pin down the jar as it threatened to roll away.

The hull apparently settled onto a mudbank in a fortunate manner, showing unexpected sturdiness, and things did not turn out as Kichinō had feared. It appeared to be low tide; the water level gradually receded, and for the first time in twenty days, the deck began to emerge. There was no wind, the surf subsided, and if this calm lasted two days—this possibility kindled hope that they might somehow survive. Kichinō watched the Annamese and Malay sailors at work, but drawing on his experience of driving crews hard aboard Vermilion-sealed ships in years past, he discerned that even these listless, drawn-out men were not as weakened as they appeared.

To get Monika safely to shore, it would be best to have as many helpers as possible. There were six who could be put to work. If the six coordinated their efforts to protect her, they could help her reach shore. Kichinō went to where the Malay sailors were and proposed, “I need to get that girl to shore—will you lend your strength? I’ll give one silver ingot each for your trouble.” When he made this request, the Malay sailors agreed without objection.

V The tide came in after four o'clock.

Monika changed into light clothing consisting of a juban underrobe and tabi socks, descended to the deck, and waited for Kichinō to arrive. Kichinō went to Monika's side.

“These lads will look after you, no need to fret… I’ll be right along after.” They lowered a ten-foot square timber with a hanging rope into the sea, had Malay sailors support both ends, and placed Monika into the water. When they made her grasp the rope, four Malay sailors formed vanguard and rearguard positions and began swimming toward shore. As Kichinō climbed up to the lookout platform and watched, they were being battered by returning waves striking mudbanks yet still inched closer to shore. Midway between ship and shore lay something like a tidal channel where white waves churned violently. Just as he wondered what would happen, they somehow swam through safely.

It was only natural, but Monika appeared to be tiring, her head occasionally dipping beneath the water's surface. Still clinging to the hanging rope, she somehow managed to stay with them. They finally swam across the sea—just under six hundred meters—and reached shore. After verifying that dried seaweed had been gathered and a bonfire lit, Kichinō began preparing. He readjusted his haramaki to secure the silver ingots, wrapped the jar in a furoshiki cloth tied around his neck, then descended via the rope ladder to the deck.

When I was certain I would die, I felt nothing—but now that I think of the 1,000 kanme of silver sinking within this ship, I can’t help but feel a peculiar sensation. There’s some lingering regret, but if I think of the jar as bought for 1,000 kanme, resignation comes.

He lowered a log about six feet long into the sea and climbed down using a thick rope to enter the water. Placing his hands on the log, he began pushing off to swim but found no strength in his limbs to move as intended. After persisting awhile, his joints loosened and he found some rhythm. He would swim about ten ken, slowly rest his body, then swim another ten ken. As he repeated this pattern, he reached where returning waves churned violently against the mudbank. Caught in the surge, his makeshift raft began spinning endlessly. While frantically trying to steady the log, a large wave rushed over his head. The jar tied around his neck rolled down to his chest, its weight dragging him rapidly toward the seafloor. Certain he was finished, Kichinō clawed desperately at the jar, kicked upward to surface, and inhaled with a bellows-like gasp.

Immediately nearby floated a log. As he clung to it and rested briefly, bitter frustration surged through him until unbidden tears began to flow. He had grasped a treasure of the realm itself, yet cowered before mere waves and cast it away. This depth of folly defied all comparison. Then he resumed swimming weakly—unable to discern whether he struggled toward land or back toward the ship—thrashing blindly until currents deposited him ashore, where he collapsed onto the sand in utter exhaustion and lost consciousness.

When he came to some time later, he found himself carried beside the bonfire and being tended to by the natives. According to the natives, this was an uninhabited coastal location three days' journey from Tam Kỳ village in Annam—a place with little purpose beyond occasional hunting visits. As they were occupied with these tasks, people from the ship began swimming ashore one after another, and soon all the faces of those who had shared both hardship and respite on the lookout platform for twenty days were gathered without exception. The natives, having touched Kichinō's belly band to gauge his wealth, were exceedingly kind; they led the group to a hunting lodge, gave them water to drink, cooked rice and roasted venison, each time demanding one silver ingot.

After resting on firm, unmoving ground for about five days and regaining their strength, they were taken to a village called Tam Kii. Kichinō and Monika parted ways with the group there and headed toward Feifo, where the Japanese quarter was located. Feifo had two hundred and fifty Japanese residents settled there, with as many as sixty shops, all managed by Kadoya Shichirōbei.

There were several who claimed to be former retainers of Ōtani Yoshitsugu, Assistant Director of the Ministry of Justice. Upon seeing Monika’s safe return and hearing of Kikumaru’s unfortunate demise, they appeared deeply moved. According to the town elders’ account, in autumn of Keichō 2 (1597), Ruson Sukezaemon had entered Tsurang aboard his personal ship carrying his entire household and relatives, apparently intending to settle in Feifo. However, due to suspicions of piracy, when the chief town elder failed to give a favorable reply, Sukezaemon became angry and went to Ayutthaya in Siam, where he was said to have assumed a high-ranking position called Oron.

After all their hardships and long journey, even there they were unable to encounter Ruson Sukezaemon. Having heard he was in Siam, they had no choice but to go there—but if so, they would need the 1,000 kanme of silver lying within the wrecked ship. Since Sumiya Shichirōbei’s wife was from the In clan of the Annam royal family and held considerable influence in Annam, they petitioned for the acquisition of the wrecked ship. As permission was promptly granted, they remained in Feifo until spring of the eighteenth year of Keichō to oversee the salvage operations of the money chests.

On May 7th, they departed Feifo and arrived in Bangkok, Siam, on the 23rd. In Ayutthaya's Japanese quarter two thousand Japanese had settled where Shiroi Hisazo managed affairs. When they inquired about Ruson Sukezaemon's whereabouts and were told he should be in Cambodia, they stayed in Ayutthaya until winter that year before departing Bangkok aboard a Siamese ship on February 18th of Keichō 19 [1614], arriving in Cambodia on the 27th of that month. In Pinhal's Japanese quarter five hundred Japanese had settled where Mori Kaei managed affairs.

When they inquired about Ruson Sukezaemon, they were told he had passed away just the previous month. In the end, Kichinō was unable to meet Sukezaemon in this world.

On the way back from visiting the grave, when he glanced into Pinhal’s market, he found "Lotus King" and "Clear Fragrance True Jar" at the Sakagake Pottery Shop. It was like seeing the trick behind a magic show—by now, he had little interest—but he spent two silver ingots to buy two jars and returned.

It was the following morning.

At the plaza before the inn where Kichinō had taken lodgings, such a clamor of voices arose that he opened the window to look—hundreds of men and women, each clutching either a "Lotus King" or "Clear Fragrance True Jar," had formed a line waiting for the inn’s gate to open. The multitude of genuine jars gathered there was staggering, with groups unable to fit within the plaza forming a serpentine queue that wound through the side streets beyond. This commotion stemmed from someone having used a silver ingot where ten mon in debased coinage would have sufficed.

In Genna 1 [1615], on May 1st—the very day the Toyotomi clan fell with the Summer Siege of Osaka—they departed Cambodia aboard a Cambodian ship and arrived in Annam on the 20th. He remained in Feifo until May of Genna 3, departed Annam in July of the same year, and finally arrived in Kagoshima on October 9th—his first return in seven years. He promptly visited the retired lord’s residence and presented two exquisite genuine jars to Lord Ishin—but Lord Ieyasu, who had coveted the genuine jars, had already passed away in Genna 2, and Reverend Sessai had also met his end in the seventeenth year of Keichō, rendering all his arduous efforts ultimately futile.