Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

In the Keichō era, there was a maritime merchant named Ōsako Kichinō in Yamakawa Port, Ibusuki District, Kagoshima, who managed the Satsuma Domain’s red-seal ships and oversaw Nanban trade operations under official commission.

In June of Keichō 16, under orders from Shimazu Yoshihiro—who had retired and taken the name Ishin—he set out on a distant journey to Luzon in search of tea pots. At that time, Ishin declared that since it would prove advantageous in various ways, he should become a Christian. Kichinō received baptism in Nagasaki and became a believer without conviction, then spent seven years combing through towns from Luzon to Cambodia—though the outcome proved far from triumphant—and upon returning home narrowly escaped being burned at the stake during an inquisition by religious authorities. In the petition dated Kanei 11, Kichinō’s stifled resentment lay exposed.

Lord Ishin commanded thus: "Proceed to Luzon and by any means necessary acquire either the Seikō or Rengeō tea pot." As Luzon is a land of Christians, he further instructed that for this occasion, this humble one should convert to Christianity, make formal greetings, and thereby fulfill official duties. Though I responded that while respecting His Lordship’s will, this faith was not to my liking, yet as all matters pertain to loyal service, I submitted to the decree and accepted that for this occasion I must become a Christian. …and such matters.

Kichinō’s father, Yoshitsugu, had been a retainer of Matsunaga Hisahide. After his lord’s lineage was extinguished and he became a rōnin, Shimazu Takahisa discovered him and ordered him to establish a shipyard in Nagasaki to commence overseas trade. Like Koya Yosaburō of Sakai and Nishirui Kojūrōbee, he became what they called a retainer-turned-merchant—a samurai who had shifted to townsman life. Until the autumn of his death at seventy, he remained standing at the helm platform, berating boatmen and cargo supervisors while navigating the vast southern seas with the composure of one walking through his own garden.

Kichinō was taken aboard a ship just before turning fifteen. Until the age of twenty, he worked as a cargo overseer and ledger clerk, learning Portuguese in Ama and Spanish in Luzon through immersion until he could manage broken communication, at which point he was promoted to deputy factor. The term *deputy factor* referred to a role acting as the shipowner’s proxy, overseeing all matters of ship operation and cargo trade transactions. In Keichō 2, when his father Yoshitsugu died and Kichinō succeeded him, he accompanied Yoshihiro on the second Korean campaign to Sacheon, concurrently serving as grain cargo overseer and small baggage overseer while dashing about beneath enemy arrows. Though he had not participated in Sekigahara in the autumn of the fifth year, he awaited Yoshihiro in Sakai—who, after fighting and suffering a crushing defeat against the Eastern Army, had fled with his life—and at the critical moment put him aboard a ship to escape to Kagoshima.

Satsumaya Sukemasa of Sakai, who served the Shimazu clan in an official capacity, was in a panic—thinking the Shimazu’s downfall was imminent—and could focus on nothing, pacing restlessly. But Kichinō declared, “The roof of Osaka Castle is crudely thatched—the rain must leak through,” then loaded every last military item from the Satsuma residence in Osaka—bows, arrows, guns, ammunition—onto the ship and returned.

Kichinō had naturally assumed Lord Ishin would barricade himself in Osaka Castle and engage the Eastern Army in a glorious battle, but as nothing of the sort occurred, he was struck by an unexpected sense of surprise. Upon making inquiries, he learned that when Lord Yoshihiro had proposed to Lord Hideyori that he should now resolve to barricade himself within the castle walls, Lord Hideyori replied there was no need to fight to the point of a siege. It was said Shimazu too had received a curt reply instructing him to promptly withdraw to his home province. This revealed Lord Hideyori’s true measure as a leader. If his resolve crumbled after a single skirmish, then Kichinō could not fathom for what purpose they had provoked war against Tokugawa. When Lord Ishin flew back to his domain with urgent haste, Kichinō—with quick-witted resolve—had arranged for weapon transport under the assumption His Lordship intended to wage battle on Satsuma soil after growing disillusioned with Hideyori. But this proved a grave miscalculation: Lord Ishin shaved his head in retirement and sent a letter of pledge to Ieyasu, demonstrating nothing but unwavering submission. Far from any talk of war, the entire country lay damp and sodden through every dewdrop-laden blade of grass.

Afterward, an amnesty was granted, and through his third son Iehisa, they had their ancestral lands restored; but out of deference to Lord Ieyasu, they exercised restraint in all matters, and the patronage of Nanban trade—continued since his father’s time—naturally lapsed. Thus, Ōsako Kichinō returned to his hometown port of Yamakawa and engaged in shipping goods between Tokara and Ryukyu.

In May of Keichō 16, there came a sudden summons from Lord Ishin. When Kichinō presented himself at the Tamarizumi retirement residence, Lord Ishin— “Kichinō, go to Luzon and return,” he abruptly said. Kichinō, thinking that permission for Nanban trade had been granted, eagerly inquired. “Would it be for conducting trade-related projects?” “No—you are to go retrieve pots.” “Since it will offer various conveniences regarding that matter, you should become a Christian… I’ve already relayed the details to Lord Sessai, the lay monk.” “Go to Ōkuchi and inquire.” “You may withdraw now.”

Having taken Buddhist vows, he became Sessai. The castle of Niiro Musashi—called Oni Musashi—stood ten ri north of Kagoshima, in Ōkuchi Village of Isa District.

When he withdrew from the retirement residence, Kichinō proceeded directly to Ōkuchi Village. He ascended to the castle, presented his greetings through an intermediary, and was promptly ushered into the parlor. “In any case, His Lordship instructed me to inquire of you regarding the details, so this humble one has come.”

Sessai—a man of martial prowess yet also an accomplished poet—stroked his smoothly shaven monk’s head while saying, “The Retired Lord does enjoy assigning impossible tasks from time to time, you know,” then laughed loudly.

“Very well—this humble one shall undertake to unravel this mystery.” “Now listen—this is how it stands.”

For the Kuchikiri tea ceremony—the ritual opening of the year’s first tea jar—leaf tea pots were indispensable; among these, Luzon-fired pots had come to be regarded as renowned pieces. Toyotomi Hideyoshi had acquired a Luzon leaf tea pot called *Seikō*—which Sen no Rikyū had appraised as being worth one province and two castles—and prided himself on it, but in February of Tenshō 19, Rikyū was reprimanded over alleged misconduct concerning utensil sales and took his own life. Because Rikyū had died, Hideyoshi was disheartened that the means to acquire Luzon pots had been cut off—but in July of Bunroku 3, unexpectedly, Ruson Sukezaemon of Sakai brought back around fifty renowned Luzon pots and presented them for inspection. Hideyoshi,

“Well done, well done! You have seized fifty provinces and two hundred castles from Luzon and returned!” he clapped his hands and rejoiced, it was said.

Hideyoshi first took three for himself, displayed the remainder in the grand hall of Osaka Castle’s Nishinomaru, and distributed the pots to the various daimyos at a rate of one kanme of silver per momme of the pots’ weight. No one knew for what purpose the pots were used in Luzon. Sen no Rikyū was a man who rose to wealth by appraising the authenticity and age of tea utensils, but it is said he often deceived people—insisting, based on personal favoritism or enmity, that counterfeits were genuine and new items were antiques. Be that as it may, thanks to the exorbitant prices set for Luzon pots, those innocent-looking ceramic jars—standing eight or nine *sun* (approximately 24–27 cm) to one *shaku* (about 30 cm) tall—sold for one thousand to two thousand *kanme* of silver each. Thus, in just four or five days, Sukezaemon reaped an unexpected windfall.

“If that had sufficed, matters would not have come to such a pass—but since he absconded to Luzon, it became a difficult resolution.” Ruson Sukezaemon—who had changed his surname to Ruson—provoked Hideyoshi’s wrath by indulging in extravagance: having Kano Eitoku paint the sliding doors and ceilings of his mansion, inlaying them with cloisonné, and gilding them with gold and silver. This led to the confiscation of all his household assets. Without so much as a look of surprise, Sukezaemon donated his mansion to Daianji Temple and, with that, departed Sakai Port with his clan in tow, leaving as nonchalantly as a passing breeze. That was something Kichinō had also heard and knew.

“That occurred in the summer of Keichō 2, the year before Lord Taikō passed away.” “It would amount to about fourteen or fifteen years now.” “It must be about fourteen or fifteen years now… To send you off searching for that fellow who could be in any remote corner of those Nanban countries—when I think about it, it does seem rather pitiful.” “As for this humble one and Sukezaemon…”

In this year, when Lord Ishin went to Sunpu Castle to offer New Year’s greetings, Ieyasu remarked that leaf tea pots were depleted and not a single one remained at present. “If one cannot even perform the Kuchikiri tea ceremony,” he declared, “then the divine favor of tea itself has surely been exhausted.” Then came his pointed suggestion: “Since your house engages in Nanban trade, you must have stockpiled enough Luzon pots to use as water jars.”

In other words，it was a matter of donating two or three Luzon tea pots． The Shimazu stood in such a precarious position that they had no choice but to comply with any demand，no matter how unreasonable；had they possessed them，they would have gladly offered—but alas，they had none on hand． They made earnest entreaties—to the Matsuura，the Makino，even the Matsudaira of Izumo—to all those known to possess Luzon tea pots．Yet when it came to this particular matter，none would take up the offer．

“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 southern seas and are well-versed in various countries’ affairs. Though it will be arduous, I have decided you shall go to Luzon to retrieve those pots.” “Regarding that—there’s something I must show you.” Sessai slid open the wooden box from the alcove’s recesses and lifted out an object resembling a tea pot—its form squat and unassuming—before settling it on the desk by the study window’s pale light.

Its height was about one shaku (approximately 30 cm), and its shape was somewhat flattened. It had a tea glaze with faint quail-like speckles, an unassuming and lightweight construction, and a slightly concave base. It was a familiar-looking pot that seemed to straddle the line between unglazed earthenware and glazed pottery.

“This is an authentic pot borrowed from Kamiya Sōtan of Hakata. A skillful imitation—but not Luzon-made.” “A true Luzon pot would have a richer tea-colored glaze, complete quail-patterned speckling across its surface, and a raised base.” “The supreme-grade Luzon pots are Rengeō and Seikō… The Rengeō bears the character for ‘king’ (王) nestled within lotus blossoms on its shoulder.” “The Seikō too carries its namesake characters ‘Seikō’ upon the shoulder.” “If you find a true Luzon pot, even an authentic-grade one would suffice—but in that case, you must seek out Rengeō or Seikō.”

“I understood the task of going to Luzon and retrieving the pots,” he said, “but when I asked what locating Sukezaemon had to do with it—though both Rikyū and Sukezaemon called them Luzon pots—there had been some tacit understanding between those two men. So in my view, they could only be products of Guangdong or Siam.” “If genuine pots exist in Luzon, there’s no issue—but if not, there’s no choice but to meet Sukezaemon and find out from him in which country and how he obtained them,” he said.

“I have prepared one thousand kanme of Tsushima cupellation silver, twenty kanme of peseta silver coins—along with ingot silver and Kangxi coins.” “Regarding the ship—Miura Anjin’s *Fregata* ship (a frigate; a cannon-equipped merchant vessel) was put up for sale with its red-seal permit attached. A Chinese headman named Andrea Ri Tan purchased and retrofitted it, and it will depart from Ōwase Port early next month.” “Since they say only Christians are allowed aboard, you’ll have to become one—there’s no other way.” “Ah—regarding that matter…”

Even if Kichinō were to become a Christian in name only, he knew nothing of their customs; the notion of upholding the Ten Commandments never once crossed his mind. He had said he would endure any hardship but wished to be excused from becoming a Christian; however, Sessai, insisting that Li Dan’s ship was the only way to Luzon, refused to listen no matter what.

II

Andrea Ri Tan’s ship was a three-masted, two-tiered saaio ship (a Dutch-built black ship), with two brass cannons—each barrel approximately eight shaku long—mounted at the front area corresponding to the foredeck on a Japanese ship.

The ship’s name was Santiago… Santiago corresponded to Hachiman Daibosatsu—the Japanese deity of war—in Spanish, and it was said they would shout “Santiago!” when raising their battle cry during combat. The ship measured twelve ken in length and four ken in width. Besides the cargo master Louis Shinkurō and the ship’s captain Zeriko Shōbei, the crew consisted of Fujianese, Sumatrans, and Malaccans, totaling about one hundred people. The ship’s size and crew number did not even reach one-third of those of a red-seal ship. Though valiant-sounding in name, no matter how he considered it, this was no trustworthy vessel. From Nagasaki to Takasago’s port entrance in Taiwan was six hundred fifty ri; from Takasago to Manila in Luzon, eight hundred ri—a combined fourteen hundred ri of sea. When he thought of crossing all that in such a small vessel, he couldn’t help feeling disheartened.

At the steering oar in the helm area, Ōsako Kichinō watched the silhouette of the Ryukyu Islands fade with each passing wave—and as he did so, he recalled Ri Tan’s warnings about pirate ships. The strongboxes of cupellation silver stored in the ship’s cabin had suddenly become a crushing burden. Li Dan explained that at present, Holland, Spain, and Portugal could not reconcile their differences; whenever ships from opposing sides encountered each other, one would inevitably open fire, plunder the cargo, and then sink the vessel—a practice that left few voyages concluding peacefully. “Since you seem to be carrying a considerable amount of silver,” he said, “I offer this advice for your understanding: if a Fregata ship chases and seizes your vessel, resistance will prove futile.” “Resign yourself and let them take what they want—that way, you’ll at least keep your life.” “From what I can see,” he added, “you are a person of strong spirit—but those who rely on strength often end up gravely injured. Do not forget my advice.”

The hardship of going to the ends of Luzon just to search for pots was already plenty; to suffer such an ordeal on top of that would be unbearable. Even so, he couldn’t comprehend why buying an unassuming ceramic pot would require a thousand kanme of silver. At sixty momme per ryo of silver, a thousand kanme would amount to seventeen thousand ryo… Even constructing a new three-hundred-ninety-man red-seal ship wouldn’t cost fifteen kanme. A large ship measuring twenty ken in length and nine ken in width cost two hundred fifty ryo, while a leaf tea pot small enough to balance on one’s palm went for seventeen thousand ryo—there had to be some mistake in this.

"This feels too futile." "The things daimyos do—this humble one cannot fathom them." Kichinō muttered, then shook his head vigorously as if to dispel distracting thoughts—better not to dwell on things he couldn’t understand even if he tried.

On the evening of June 10th, after he had completed the Christian evening prayers and was having dinner in the stern cabin, the cargo master Shinkurō came rushing in,

“Just now, a black ship crossed the stern and approached from the leeward side,” Shinkurō reported to Ri Tan in an agitated tone. Ri Tan paused his ivory chopsticks mid-meal, then—as if struck by an idea—asked in return: “And have we passed Dongsha Island yet?” “Ah—we’ve just set our compass toward the tip of Luzon.” “We’ve hit a bad channel,” Ri Tan assessed. “Might be a Fregata ship. We’ll need sharp vigilance.” “That’s right,” Shinkurō acknowledged. “Let’s post lookouts before dawn tomorrow.”

The following morning, across the still-dark sea, a single black ship crossed the bow and darted windward like a shadow.

When dawn broke, a two-masted black ship with three-tiered sails could be seen running alongside the Santiago about four ri ahead.

The ship’s captain, Shōbei, “Hey, hey! Quit dawdling!” yelled at the Malaccan sailors, handed them a spyglass, and forced them up to the main mast’s lookout platform. “What’s the situation? Hurry up—out with it!” The Malaccan on the lookout platform,

“This is bad!” he shouted, then reported, “People have climbed onto their lookout platform too—they’re watching us with a spyglass.”

Ri Tan, a Hakata-born Fujianese who seemed thoroughly accustomed to such situations, ascended to the helm area without haste, taking his time. “Master Shōbei, how fares the other ship’s speed? Do you think we can outrun them?” Shōbei shaded his eyes with a hand to gauge the speed of the other ship, then— “It’s not much trouble, but shall we make a dash for it?” Having said that, he ordered the lead sail handler to raise all sails. As soon as the *Santiago* began to surge forward with vigor, the black ship across the way also abruptly quickened its speed, slicing through the sea in zigzag patterns as it charged toward the *Santiago*. Bending its sails and concealing its speed, it pursued with such vivid intensity that one could only think it had been lying in wait.

“They’ve gained terrible speed.” “If we’re careless, they’ll catch us.” Li Dan said. “I’ve readied the ammo box—shouldn’t we fire a round?”

When Shinkurō spoke with a look of bravado, Ri Tan gave an emphatic nod. “You—can you fire the cannons? If you can fire them, then fire away!” Shinkurō summoned the Sumatran sailors and dashed to the forward cannon to load the shot, but ill luck struck—the cannonball proved too large for the muzzle, making it impossible to use in this critical moment.

“Such a cannonball—who the hell loaded this?!” “The cannonball’s too big—it won’t fit in the muzzle.” He scratched his head and reported to Ri Tan. Li Dan laughed and said, “Since we’re bound to be cornered now—take off the compass and quadrant, and stash ’em where nobody’ll find ’em.”

In the midst of this, the black ship closed in to within half a ri. It was a Portuguese courier ship they called a *kobaya*, and they could clearly see it had four cannons mounted. “We’re no match for a *kobaya*.”

Shōbei cried out in frustration, but seemingly intent on escaping no matter what, he began tacking sharply, noisily adjusting the sails. The moment the Portuguese flag was raised up the *kobaya*’s mast, its cannons spat fire, and a round shot howled past to graze the *Santiago*’s bow. Ri Tan tapped Shōbei’s shoulder. “It’s no use anymore. Full speed! Full speed!” When the *Santiago* lowered its sails, as if they had been waiting, about ten Portuguese men—pistols and unsheathed swords tucked into their sashes—came in a small boat. When they gathered the *Santiago*’s crew at the aft deck, the one who stood out—

“Who’s the ship owner here? What cargo are you carrying, and where is this ship bound?” they interrogated.

Kichinō vented his anger and shouted, “I have no obligation to answer your questions!” At this defiance, a Portuguese man rushed over and stabbed him in the stomach with a sword. Having wrapped cupellation silver in a cloth bellyband around his abdomen, Kichinō endured multiple stabs without reaction. Fighting would bring no benefit—this truth anchored his resolve. Though he had always considered the thousand kan of silver burdensome, such quantity defied complete concealment. Resignation to divine will nearly took hold, but imagining pirates casually plundering that hoard filled him with unbearable frustration. Without declaring full intent yet determined to salvage what he could, he descended to the hold with feigned nonchalance.

Kichinō had handled ocean-going ships, so he knew the structure of sayo vessels. In Japanese ships, the ship beams ran where there would abruptly be shelf boards, creating a gap between the outer hull and inner lining that continued down to the ship’s bottom. By removing a single plank from the inner lining of the hull, he could drop as much silver as possible down into the ship’s bottom. For a spur-of-the-moment task, it was laborious, but not impossible to accomplish. The inner lining’s waist planks were thickly split zelkova wood, and even prying at them with a dagger didn’t budge them an inch. Nevertheless, as he kept at it with dogged persistence, the seam between the planks began to lift, forming an opening just wide enough to slip a hand through.

Footsteps could be heard busily moving about overhead. Apparently, the raiders had begun their work. There was no time to hesitate. He grabbed silver coins from the golden box, sparing no moment to breathe, and dropped them one after another into the ship’s bottom. The commotion overhead reached its peak, and along with the dry, barking shouts of the Portuguese, acrid smoke began streaming into the hold. “This is bad!”

The pirates appeared to have wrecked the ship and set it ablaze. This made the Portuguese's intentions clear. He had found it strange that pirates would show no interest in gold or cargo, but now he realized those who had boarded the *Santiago* hadn't come for plunder—their aim from the start had been to burn the ship. Kichinō was working up a sweat, but upon realizing hiding the silver here would be futile if the ship was to be burned, he grew disheartened and stopped.

Yesterday morning, they had passed near Dongsha Island. They were now in the very middle of a vast ocean where no island could be seen in any direction—if cast adrift here, there would be no hope of survival. Determined to negotiate with the Portuguese and stop them from burning the ship, he climbed the hatch ladder, but found its door nailed shut, trapping him with no way out. Wondering if the stern hatch might be accessible, he rushed to the stern compartment—only to find all hundred crew members bound hand and foot and lying sprawled out. When he looked over, Ri Tan was kneeling before a cross, praying fervently.

“They’ve set fire to the ship! If we stay like this, we’ll burn to death!” Ri Tan knew this perfectly well, but as he was currently engaged in his devotions, he indicated that he wished to be left undisturbed.

Exhausted himself, Kichinō wordlessly sat down beside Shōbei, whereupon Shōbei—wearing a comforting expression— “…Black ships that have crossed from ages past—when their time comes, they become shark feed, Santamariya.”

Shōbei hummed a tune for him to hear. After about half an hour, as if the wind had dropped and the sea grown calm, the commotion above abruptly subsided, and the sound of waves lapping against the hull became audible.

When Kichinō stood up, everyone else also rose and rushed en masse toward the hatch. When they emerged above deck, they found a scene of such wanton destruction that it was unbearable to behold: the small mast had been knocked over and lay atop the helm area, the sails were torn to shreds, the tiller ripped off, and every last tool for maneuvering the ship utterly destroyed. The fire had been set in the galley of the forward deck sailors—appearing to have been doused with oil—and now blazed fiercely, belching inky black smoke.

The small fast ship moved far into the distance, but its sail’s silhouette remained visible. If they extinguished the fire too quickly, the pirates might return to burn them again. Once the sail’s shadow of the small fast ship had sunk beneath the waves, they set about dousing the flames.

III

On June 18th, the *Santiago* entered the port of Manila and moored south of the river mouth. Kichinō had the shore crew carry the golden box and, after being seen off by everyone as he disembarked from the ship, took lodgings at an inn directly across the road from the landing. Manila was a place with old ties spanning two generations of his family, and he was on friendly terms with the innkeeper who ran the lodging. After sleeping through the night, the next day, from early morning, he began his search for the pots. He had a rough idea of where to find both the antique shops dealing in old ceramics and the market stalls peddling unglazed earthenware. He had a diagram of an authentic pot copied by Nagafuji Asaharu. Even without needing to say a word, if he silently showed it, the matter should be resolved.

And so, after three days of scouring every shop in Manila, he could not find a tea pot with quail-like mottling and an innocent leaf shape. The people of Luzon prefer to use narrow-mouthed pots, and the kilns for them are in a village called Tondo. The next day, he went there to see. When he showed the illustration of the authentic pot and asked whether they had ever handled such a vessel, the old kiln master declared—as if cutting off further inquiry—that while he prided himself on knowing every pot in Luzon, past or present, he had neither seen nor touched one like this.

It was a plausible explanation, but he couldn’t simply take it at face value. There were other kilns that produced ceramic ware. Having heard there was a kiln operated by Ming Chinese in Parian outside the city, he went there the next day, but they only said the pieces seemed to be from Annam or thereabouts, offering no particularly useful opinions. In the end, he had come to understand that what Sukezaemon had brought back was apparently not from Luzon, but it was frustrating that there was no one who could tell him which country it was from or what this ceramic should be called. Moreover, why he would insist on calling it Luzon when it wasn’t even Luzon ware—that part defied understanding. To resolve this question of *why*, as Lord Sessai had said, there was no other method than to track down Sukezaemon and hear his account.

Manila’s Japantown was located in a section behind Candelaria Cathedral, at Manila’s port entrance, and in the outskirts of Dilao.

It was unthinkable that a man of Sukezaemon’s caliber would hole up in some Japantown. If he were here, word of his presence would have reached me by the day of my arrival. The fact that I hadn’t heard any rumors likely meant he wasn’t here, but thinking there might still be a chance, I went to Dilao and inquired with the town elder. Town elder Asai Kurōemon replied with a bitter grimace, “That man committed piracy in Cagayan on Mindanao Island in the eighth year of Keichō—and on top of that, he backed Spanish troops in slaughtering over twenty thousand Ming Chinese. Given that history, there’s no reason he’d come to Luzon.” “Thanks to that bastard, we’re suffering trouble.” “If he shows his face here, we won’t let him off easy.”

he cursed vehemently.

That Sukezaemon had engaged in piracy was unexpected. If that were true, he would never settle in a Japantown where population registers were meticulously kept. Even were he in Luzon, he must have changed his name and be living in some unknown hamlet. The reasoning held water, yet this left him without means to trace the man.

Around the end of 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 situated on a peninsula jutting southeast from Luzon Island, connected by land—yet land travel remained impossible due to the Moro barbarian tribe inhabiting the intervening terrain. They went as far as a place called Mauban and hired a native boat from there. At night, they camped on the shore, making it a grueling journey that took half a month.

Ōsako Kichinō departed Mauban on October 12th and arrived in San Miguel on November 2nd. It was true that Japanese people lived there, but they were fishermen from Settsu who had been blown off course and washed ashore—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 he was occupied with such tasks, the year came to an end.

He idled away his days at an inn in Manila with nothing to do until around May of the following year, but this was neither abandoning nor ceasing his search for Sukezaemon. Since this inn seemed to be a regular lodging for Japanese, he had thought that by remaining here, he could conveniently glean information about Sukezaemon’s whereabouts from newly arrived Japanese.

At the end of June, the Suminokura red-seal ship arrived but remained anchored offshore, unloading neither people nor cargo. When he inquired with the innkeeper, he was told that because there were as many as one hundred thirty Japanese Christian lepers aboard, a difficult negotiation was underway over whether to grant them port entry.

Suminokura’s ship was denied port entry, and the following evening, two passengers alone were conveyed ashore by sampan.

They were unmistakably siblings who closely resembled each other, the sister being around seventeen or eighteen and the brother perhaps thirteen or so. Both possessed noble, almost martial features that carried an imposing dignity, making one hesitate to approach them lightly. The sister wore a wide-legged hakama of patterned rinzu silk, while the brother was clad in stiff field trousers—yet it was the brother’s faintly effeminate delicacy that gave them the air of an elder sister and younger brother rather than mere siblings.

Because the innkeeper’s investigation was thorough, their lineage was soon uncovered. They were the children of Ōtani Yoshitsugu, Assistant Director of the Ministry of Justice, who had gone blind from leprosy and was said to have commanded from a palanquin in the Battle of Sekigahara—the sister being Monika Mayumi and the brother Jeriko Kikumaru. Monika, apparently of a proud disposition, had protested to the maritime officials during their transport by sampan, saying, “Though we siblings too are of leprosy-afflicted lineage, why are only the two of us being treated specially?”

He had heard that Ruson Sukezaemon’s wife was a woman from Ōtani of Tsuruga. He began to feel a glimmer of hope—that if he asked those siblings, he might learn Sukezaemon’s whereabouts—but the Ōtani siblings were living quietly in seclusion, never leaving their room even in Manila’s sweltering heat. He had not had the chance to see their faces, but one day, upon encountering them in the inn’s cool corridor and stopping them to lay bare the struggles of his search for Sukezaemon, Monika looked back at Kichinō with large, tear-filled eyes and said, “Sukezaemon should be in Annam. Since I have been entrusted with a letter from a certain person—someone I too must meet—what manner of man are you, to go to such lengths to seek out Sukezaemon?”

Kichinō recounted everything that had happened up to that day, beginning with why he had come to Luzon in search of tea pots.

Monika, for some reason, suddenly seemed to open up, “I’ve heard a most enlightening tale,” she said with a laugh.

“I too have work I must accomplish.” “Mine isn’t pots but a cathedral… Both my brother and I are of leprosy-afflicted lineage.” “Since I know full well this disease’s cursed inheritance, I mean to build a cathedral in Annam’s Faifo Japanese quarter—if it takes till my dying breath—to pray for those consumed by leprosy.”

Now that it was clear Sukezaemon was in Annam, he wanted to go there as soon as possible. When he inquired about Monika’s circumstances, she had wanted to go to Annam on the Suminokura ship with the lepers but was perplexed at being stranded here. He had also asked the innkeeper, but she said she wished for his exerted efforts so she could depart for Annam soon.

Through the innkeeper’s exertions, a ship bound for Annam was secured—an aged Zhangzhou two-sweep vessel from Singapore, its cramped hold packed with a hundred Annamites returning home. Though it was the tempestuous season when seas turn savage, they set sail from Manila at dawn on July second with full awareness of the peril.

The voyage had been unexpectedly calm, but on the tenth night, a northeasterly gale swept in and rocked the ship violently. On the morning of the eleventh, though dawn had yet to break, the Malay sailors were dashing about frantically. When Kichinō grabbed a sailor and asked what was happening, the man replied that the violent rocking had loosened the hull’s outer planks, and water was gushing in from there.

He thought they should stop the ship to make repairs, but they were recklessly driving onward against the gale. When Kichinō went up to look, he found the main sail and fore-and-aft sails fully unfurled, with even the small fore-and-aft sail deployed. It seemed they were intent on racing whether the ship would flood from the leak first or whether they could reach Faifo in Annam first. If they kept driving the ship this hard, the damage would only worsen—this was going to turn into a disaster, Kichinō thought, heaving an involuntary sigh.

By the morning of the thirteenth, just as feared, all sails had been torn away, leaving them no choice but to halt the ship and entrust their fate to wind and waves. The Zhangzhou ship was pushed and repelled by the storm’s lingering swells, drifting aimlessly until flooding quickened its pace and water rose to touch the hold’s ceiling. Ōsako Kichinō and the Ōtani siblings had moved from the hold to a deck corner overnight, sparing themselves turmoil—unlike the Malay crewmen who, having slept unaware below, now thrashed in panic as they scrambled upward through flooding darkness.

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

Around eight o'clock at night, the ship’s hull trembled faintly, and an eerie groan that seemed to constrict the heart resounded from nowhere in particular. The air compressed between the water and the deck was trying to burst through the deck to escape. “We’re going to get blown away! Come on, up with you!”

The moment Kichinō took the Ōtani siblings’ hands and made them cling to the mizzenmast’s rope ladder, a thunderous roar erupted, tearing a massive hole through the deck’s center. “We can’t stay here. Let’s climb up to the lookout platform above.” When the three of them were seen climbing up to the lookout platform on the mizzenmast, all the people remaining on the deck rushed en masse toward the rope ladder. Each person pushed others aside in their rush to climb up, so the roughly six-foot-square lookout platform was instantly filled to capacity, and those who were late clung to the rope ladder in clusters. A lone Annamese man of about twenty glared up at the lookout platform but, resigning himself, climbed up to the far-off foremast’s platform instead.

The ship was still sinking little by little, but when it submerged to about ten feet below the mast—for some reason—it ceased sinking altogether. Upon a raging sea churning with whitecaps, two masts thick with clinging humans—like flies trapped on flypaper—jutted out pitifully. Perhaps due to the tidal current, as the submerged hull rolled in the water, the masts tilted violently. Each time, several people spilled into the sea and, after floundering two or three times, were swiftly swallowed by the waves.

The moonlight passed over, but this too was but a brief respite. As midnight approached, the wind grew fiercer, and ten-foot waves surged forth to crash against the mast with tremendous force.

The morning of the fifteenth day came.

At least sixty people must have been clinging to the rope ladder, but come morning, only a handful remained. The hull remained submerged beneath the waves, drifting westward as if drawn by the tide. That day too ended amidst the waves and wind. On the afternoon of the sixteenth day, the wind abruptly died down. Through gaps in the scattered clouds, the sun blazed down scorchingly, and everyone—without exception—was tormented by parched throats.

Four

Monika climbed up to the lookout platform and immediately embraced her brother Kikumaru, maintaining that posture all the while. Kichinō urged her to make herself a little more comfortable, but she merely smiled and did not shift her posture.

Kikumaru had been terrified by the harsh environment and had grown listless and limp, but around the seventh day, he began to show fleeting signs of frailty—his limbs convulsing and his speech turning delirious. Kichinō sat beside the Ōtani siblings, watching Kikumaru grow weaker day by day, yet he could do nothing more than watch. On the morning of the nineteenth day, when Kichinō peered into Kikumaru’s face, Kikumaru was dead. When had he drawn his last breath? He had stiffened in the posture of being embraced. Monika, unaware that Kikumaru had died, was still holding him tightly in her arms.

In such a state, Kichinō himself felt nothing but listlessness, lacking even the energy to move his eyes. Lying on his back in the cramped space, drifting in and out of consciousness, a haze would settle over his mind—there were moments when he could no longer tell whether he was alive or dead. Though right beside each other, Monika and Kichinō had long since stopped speaking. Each morning, all they could manage was to exchange nods with their eyes to confirm they still lived.

On the afternoon of the twentieth day, there was a sudden rain. It was the first rain since the shipwreck. Lying on his back, Kichinō cupped his palms to catch the rainwater, gulping down everything—the streams flowing from his nostrils and the droplets splattering from his chin. The Malays and Annamese around them, whom he had thought dead, sprang up like madmen, throwing their heads back to drink the rain with desperate abandon.

Monika soaked a cloth in rainwater and squeezed it into Kikumaru’s mouth, gazing intently at his face for any sign of life. But once she realized there was no hope of revival, her expression hardened resolutely. She dragged Kikumaru’s corpse away and cast it into the sea without a trace of attachment.

The rain stopped after about an hour, and the weather turned dazzlingly clear. When he glanced over, there in the shadow of the mast, a Malay man sat propped on one elbow, drinking water from a pot.

“Ah.”

If the rain stopped, one could only wait for the next downpour, but with a pot, one could store rainwater until it overflowed and drink whenever desired. Even so, that someone had managed to retrieve a pot amidst such chaos marked him as a shrewd operator. As Kichinō watched the Malay man’s actions, an indescribable emotion pierced through his core, and before he knew it, he found himself crawling toward the man. “Let me see that pot.” He seized the vessel as if snatching it.

Beneath the thick tea glaze emerged quail-feather mottling across the surface like scattered sparks… Around the shoulder’s lower area, lotus petals were rendered translucent in the glaze, within which the character for “king” could faintly be seen—so subtle it might have been imagined. When he looked at the bottom, there was a high raised base exactly as described, with a curved indentation on its underside. This was it. “This is ‘Rengeō.’” Kichinō grabbed cupellation silver from his belly band and thrust it into the Malay’s hand, then clutched the pot and crawled back to his spot.

"It feels like a dream." Placing the Rengeō leaf tea pot before his knees, Kichinō stared vacantly up at the sky, utterly at a loss. At most, two or three days of life remained. This was already an undeniable fact. What did it mean to encounter the Rengeō leaf tea pot he had even dreamed of at this moment of utter extremity? I should be satisfied to die now that I’ve accomplished my purpose, yet I cannot bring myself to feel that way. If I were to die holding this pot, regrets would linger in this world. He had resigned himself to the indifference of life and death with detached resolve, but upon obtaining the pot, he suddenly found himself loath to die. ……Even so, there was no prospect of being saved.

Kichinō slumped limply, lay on his back with hands clasped over his chest, and assumed his usual comfortable position. Wondering if perhaps tomorrow his eyes might not open again, he began to drift into a doze.

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

It was the twentieth day since the shipwreck. The people on the lookout platform were in a state just one step from death—barely breathing—and thus could not recall what the word “land” meant. After a while, someone again shouted, “Land!” but this too elicited no reaction and was completely ignored by them.

When someone whispered for the third time, Kichinō—

“Huh?” he said, raising his head.

Kichinō did not quite know where he was now, but when he saw the leaf tea pot wrapped in bleached cloth by his pillow, his memories revived all at once. Now, someone had definitely said "land."

When he thought he might be saved, that hope suddenly revived him. Kichinō rose up and gazed toward where the land lay.

About ten chō ahead, lead-colored mudflats spread out at roughly the same height as the water’s surface, their edge bordered by spindly, lifeless trees stretching upward. In the shallows, mudbanks emerged here and there, and the shore waves roared as they churned back. Survival was far from assured. Kichinō took one look at the state of the coast and instantly grasped that the situation had deteriorated to the worst possible condition. The hull in the water seemed to be dragged toward shore by the tidal current, but if it were to run aground on a mudbank, it would instantly break apart, and every last one of them would be cast into the sea. With a body weakened from twenty days without food or drink, being struck by a single high wave would mean the end.

If one had a normal body, this sea could be swum even with one hand. After finally obtaining the pot, to think that he would meet such a futile end while seeing land right before his nose—the regret was unbearable.

When he went to Monika’s side, she—seemingly convinced they had been saved—showed a faint smile on her emaciated face where only her eyes seemed to remain. Kichinō smiled back, “I’m gonna swim ya over myself, so y’gotta keep yer spirits up, y’hear? Get some proper rest tonight.”

Monika nodded and, as if intending to sleep, faintly closed her eyes.

The next day, around five in the morning, he was jolted awake by a sudden, upward-thrusting sensation. Kichinō,

“I did it!” he shouted, springing upright. Then came two more massive tremors, and the lookout platform lurched and tilted. Kichinō barely managed to restrain the pot that threatened to roll away.

The hull had fortunately lodged onto the mudbank, appearing unexpectedly sturdy, and thus the situation Kichinō had feared did not come to pass. Apparently it was low tide; the water level gradually receded, and for the first time in twenty days, the deck appeared. With no wind and the shore waves having subsided, this lull kindled a hope that if it lasted two days, they might somehow survive. Kichinō watched what the Annamite and Malay sailors were doing, but from his past experience chasing sailors on Red-seal ships, he realized that even those lying sprawled out in exhaustion were, against expectation, not as weakened as they appeared.

To safely deliver Monika to shore, having as many helpers as possible would be better in any case. There were six who could be of use. If all six worked together to shield her, they could have her swim ashore. Kichinō went to where the Malays were and proposed, “I need to get that girl to shore. Will you lend your strength? I’ll give one ingot each for your trouble.” The Malays agreed without objection.

Five

The tide came in after four o'clock. Monika had changed into light attire consisting only of an undergarment and split-toed leggings, descended to the deck, and was waiting for Kichinō to arrive. Kichinō went to Monika’s side and,

“These lads’ll look after ya, so don’t you fret… This humble one’ll be right behind.” He lowered a roughly ten-foot square timber with a rope attached into the sea, had the Malays support both ends, and placed Monika into the water. After having her grasp the hanging rope, four Malays formed a vanguard and rearguard as they began swimming toward shore. As Kichinō climbed up to the lookout platform and watched, they—though battered by the backwash striking the mudbanks—nevertheless swam little by little toward the shore. Midway between ship and shore lay something like a tidal current where white waves churned violently. Just as he wondered what would happen, they somehow managed to swim through safely.

It was only natural, but Monika seemed to be growing tired, her head occasionally dipping beneath the water. Nevertheless, without letting go of the hanging rope, she somehow managed to keep up. Finally, they swam across the remaining six hundred meters of sea and reached shore.

After confirming they had gathered dried seaweed and lit a fire，Kichinō began his preparations. He tightened his belly band to prevent the cupellation silver ingots from spilling out，wrapped the pot in a wrapping cloth and tied it around his neck，then climbed down the rope ladder to the deck. When he had been resolved to die，he had felt nothing，but now that he thought of a thousand kanme of silver sinking within this ship，he couldn’t help but feel a strange pang. Though there was some lingering regret，if he thought of it as having bought the pot for a thousand kanme，he could resign himself.

He dropped a roughly six-foot log into the sea, then climbed down a thick rope into the water.

He placed his hands on the log and began swimming as if pushing it along, but his arms and legs lacked strength, making it impossible to proceed as he wished. After continuing for a while, his joints loosened, and he began to find some rhythm. He would swim about eighteen meters, slowly rest his body, then swim another eighteen meters. As he kept repeating this process, he reached where the backwash from the mudbanks churned violently. Caught in the waves, the log began spinning endlessly and would not stop. As he was frantically trying to stop the log, a huge wave came surging and passed over his head. The pot tied around his neck rolled heavily down to his chest, and under its weight, he was dragged steadily toward the seafloor. Kichinō, thinking it was over, frantically grabbed the pot, kicked the water to surface, and drew breath with a sound like a bellows.

Right beside him floated the log. As he clung to the log and rested for a moment, frustration welled up within him, and he involuntarily shed tears. Though he had obtained the realm’s treasure, he discarded it in fear of the waves. This magnitude of folly defied all comparison. Then he began swimming feebly again, but whether he was heading toward land or back toward the ship, he could not tell his direction. Merely flailing and thrashing about, he naturally drifted to the shore, and in utter exhaustion, collapsed onto the sandy beach and lost consciousness.

When he came to his senses after some time, he found himself carried beside a bonfire and being tended by natives. According to the natives, this was an uninhabited stretch of coast three days' journey from an Annamese village called Tam Kii—a place with little purpose beyond occasional hunting visits. As they were occupied with these explanations, people from the ship came swimming ashore one after another until all those who had shared twenty days of hardship on the lookout platform were gathered without exception. The natives—having felt Kichinō's belly band to gauge his wealth—proved exceedingly kind; they led the group to a hunting lodge where they provided water, cooked rice, roasted venison, and each time demanded one ingot of cupellation silver.

After resting on solid, unmoving ground for about five days and regaining their strength, the natives took them to a village called Tam Kii. Kichinō and Monika parted from the group there and headed to Feifo, where the Japanese quarter was located. Feifo was home to two hundred and fifty Japanese settlers and sixty shops, all overseen by Sumiya Shichirobei. There were several former retainers of Ōtani Kyōbu-shōyō who, upon seeing Monika’s safe return and hearing of Kikumaru’s tragic end, appeared deeply moved.

According to the town elder’s account, in autumn of Keichō 2 [1597], Ruson Sukezaemon had entered Turan port aboard his own ship with his entire household, apparently intending to settle in Feifo. However, due to suspicions of piracy, when the chief elder did not give a favorable reply, he became angry and went to Ayutthaya in Siam, where he was said to have attained a high position under someone named Oron. He had toiled and come all this way, but even here, he could not meet Sukezaemon. Having heard he was in Siam, there was no choice but to go to Siam—but if so, the thousand kanme of silver in the wrecked ship would become necessary. Sumiya Shichirobei’s wife was from the In clan of the Annam royal family and held considerable influence in Annam, so he requested acquisition of the wrecked ship. Because permission was promptly granted, he remained in Feifo until the spring of Keichō 18 to oversee the salvage operations of the money chests.

On May 7th, they departed Feifo; on the 23rd, they arrived in Bangkok, Siam.

In Ayutthaya’s Japantown, two thousand Japanese had settled, and Shiroi Kyūzaemon was overseeing it. When they inquired about Ruson Sukezaemon’s whereabouts and were told he was supposed to be in Cambodia, they stayed in Ayutthaya until winter of that year. Then, on February 18 of Keichō 19, they departed Bangkok aboard a Siamese ship and arrived in Cambodia on the 27th of the same month. In Pinalu’s Japantown, five hundred Japanese had settled, and Mori Kabei was overseeing it.

When they inquired about Ruson Sukezaemon, they were told he had passed away just last month. In the end, Kichinō could not meet Ruson Sukezaemon in this world.

On their way back from visiting the grave, when they peered into Pinalu’s market, they found "Rengeō" and "Seikō shin tsubo" at a roadside pottery stall. It was like having a magic trick explained—by now he felt little interest—but he nevertheless spent two ingots of cupellation silver to purchase both pots and returned.

It was the next morning.

At the plaza before the inn where Kichinō had lodged, a great clamor of voices arose. When he opened the window to look, hundreds of men and women—each holding either a "Rengeō" or "Seikō shin tsubo"—had formed a line, waiting for the inn’s gate to open. The number of genuine pots gathered here was immense; groups that couldn’t fit into the square snaked continuously into the adjoining side streets. The root of this commotion was that where ten mon in bad coins would have sufficed, he had instead cast an ingot of cupellation silver.

In Genna 1, 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. They remained in Feifo until May of Genna 3, departed Annam in July of the same year, and on October 9th—for the first time in seven years—returned to Kagoshima. He promptly visited the retired lord’s residence and presented two exquisite genuine pots to Lord Ishin, but Lord Ieyasu, who had desired the genuine pots, had already passed away in Genna 2, and Lord Niiro Sessai had also died in Keichō 17, rendering all his arduous efforts ultimately futile.