CHAPTER 278: CHAPTER 205 UNTITLED

Okabe Iyayama and Harano had a delightful conversation. Even though Harano didn’t know woodworking or architecture and couldn’t build ships, he could understand the related techniques Okabe talked about, was willing to listen, and happy to discuss things with him—this pleasantly surprised Okabe.

In all these years, he’d never met a Lord who could talk construction with him. To exaggerate a bit, his family had done carpentry for seven generations and probably only ever met such an oddball as Harano.

So, he really couldn’t stay unhappy. In fact, as they chatted more, he got quite excited. At the drinking table, he even volunteered for a few small jobs—to help New Wanjin design some signature buildings in the future. This way, it wouldn’t just be a place full of square concrete houses: impressive, yes, but a bit dull-looking.

It was close to ten at night when he, thoroughly tipsy, was carted back to his guesthouse. As he entered the small courtyard of his residence, planning to collapse into bed, he noticed a heap of stuff laid out on the tatami: everything from pots and pans to household décor. His primary wife was sorting and organizing these things, face aglow with happiness.

Glancing at it all, he asked, "Did you just buy these today?"

Before coming, he’d thought New Wanjin a dangerous place, so he’d sternly cautioned his family not to go wandering around carelessly—he didn’t want anyone getting into trouble. But after spending a day or so here, he’d realized New Wanjin wasn’t actually dangerous at all, so he became more relaxed; it seemed fine for his wife and kids to go shopping. After all, he’d just received an annual salary of a thousand kan—the likes of Maeda Toshie, an Advanced Warrior, only got four hundred and fifty kan a year. He was earning more than two Maeda Toshies, which meant the coming years would be very comfortable indeed.

"They weren’t bought," Okabe Iyayama’s main wife finally noticed he’d returned—tipsy at that—and hurried over to help him, saying casually, "These are gifts from Princess Dog."

Okabe Iyayama was slightly shocked. "You went to Lord Yehua’s residence?"

"We all went. Princess Dog even kept us for dinner," his wife explained nervously, afraid he’d be angry. "We couldn’t really refuse since she’d even sent someone to fetch us."

"Mm, going is fine—just next time try to let me know first."

Okabe figured this was Harano’s way of building rapport. Plus, Harano had been with him all afternoon and evening, so letting his wife and daughter meet Princess Dog alone was no big deal—these days, he couldn’t feel any dislike for Harano. He’d just need to watch out a little in case Harano turned out to be a huge lecher.

Of course, if Harano was willing to marry officially and take his daughter as a concubine, that could be negotiated.

He mentioned this offhandedly, but his attention quickly shifted back to Princess Dog’s gifts. Rummaging through everything, he found the presents to be down-to-earth—mostly everyday household items, but all of excellent quality. And especially striking was a pair of meiping vases intended as interior decoration: unique in shape, bright in color, the glaze warm and lustrous, simply beautiful.

He picked up a meiping, studied it closely for a moment, and thought it could fetch a fine horse if traded. He admired aloud, "This must be a treasure porcelain from Ming Country—just look at it, it’s extraordinary. Definitely a world above Seto Pottery."

In this era, Japan did not produce real porcelain. In the year 1223, Kato Keisuke had gone with Dao Yuan to the Song dynasty to seek Buddhist teachings, and when he returned to Owari’s Seto Castle area he tried to fire porcelain. It didn’t work out, but he did produce a kind of semi-vitrified glazed pottery that looked good, named "Seto Pottery."

That tradition continued, and by the time Harano appeared, "Seto Pottery" had branched into several schools—yellow Seto, Shino Burn, Shihe Burn, and so on—but the techniques hadn’t changed: what came out was still just considered pottery.

The exact reason is unknown—probably the kiln temperature wasn’t quite high enough...

Or maybe they just liked that style, who knows.

If you really wanted porcelain, you’d have to wait until 1804, when Kato Minji, Kato Keisuke’s many-times-great-grandson, finally succeeded in firing porcelain. That took nearly six hundred years—pretty inspirational if you think about it.

So, during Japan’s Warring States, if you happened to see real porcelain in Owari, it was definitely smuggled from Great Ming—just like fine silk—a bit of common knowledge.

"No, it’s not!" Okabe Iyayama’s wife was particularly fond of this pair of meiping. She had asked Princess Dog about it and now responded immediately, "These are locally-made porcelain from Wanjin. Dear, look at the bottom of the vase."

Okabe Iyayama turned the vase over and sure enough, there was a seal at the base, glazed with four Chinese characters: Ju Mu Porcelain Workshop.

He paused, momentarily stunned, then muttered, "It really is Wanjin’s own make... at Ju Mu Plains? There was a rough pottery kiln there, I think, making coarse jars. Never imagined they’d manage to fire such fine porcelain. The Kato Family will go crazy when they hear about this."

Ju Mu Plains is part of what would become modern-day Toyota City—the city famous for making cars—though it’s a bit further south than the modern city. Today’s Toyota City sits atop the old Ju Mu River; when the river changed course later, people moved over.

Right now, Ju Mu Plains soil is pretty awful—clayey, much like in Koka and Iga, so not good for farming. That’s why local clan leaders built a pottery kiln there, extracting clay on a large scale for pottery to sell elsewhere.

After Harano expelled all the local nobles from the Chita Peninsula, this pottery kiln naturally became his property. Also, with the Chita region wracked by storms, floods, and drought, he was providing relief by paying labor wages and seized the chance to turn many nearby villagers into kiln workers, beginning porcelain production—ceramics don’t even need charcoal, just wood will do for firing. The glaze, deeply chemical, perfectly suited his expertise, and after over a month of tinkering in his "Elderly Warriors Workshop," he managed to produce a functional glaze.

In short, Wanjin had one more pillar product. At least, Harano found jobs for all the laborers around Ju Mu Plains; from now on, these folks would mostly produce porcelain, farming on the side.

Of course, firing porcelain isn’t that easy: Harano spent nearly two years on repeated test firings before he succeeded, and even now, the reject rate is still high and only two colors are decent. There’s still much room for improvement.

Okabe Iyayama didn’t know any of this. Holding the meiping, he marveled, then looked over the other items. He found everyday porcelain bowls and plates were less exquisite than the meiping pair but still quite fine. There were even iron pots and spatulas—and on close inspection, the iron was of extremely high quality; it would be good enough for swords! Making kitchenware out of it was sheer luxury.

This was all a byproduct of recent natural disasters—plagues of drought and flood alternating, and fields unable to be cultivated. Harano had to find work for the displaced, so many were sent to open up Iron Field, which led to a huge increase in Wanjin’s refined iron output over the last two years. Weapon production couldn’t absorb it all, so, to recoup costs and avoid waste, he started selling iron tools and kitchenware cheaply.

This unwittingly changed the eating habits of Wanjin people. Previously, commoners cooked in clay pots, mostly boiling food. Now, with iron woks spreading, frying and stir-frying took off—even without Harano’s prompting, sharp-minded folks picked it up on their own. In the night markets, many small vendors hawked creative snacks cooked with newfound flair, earning a tidy profit.

It just goes to show the old saying: once conditions are right and restrictions are lifted, the market will find a way and miracles will follow.

Okabe Iyayama didn’t know all of this either, but as an advanced carpenter and experienced craftsman, he could sense that these were all marks of Wanjin’s foundation and strength. He genuinely thought the place was impressive and prosperous.

With these thoughts, he went to lie down, pulling over a soft, light cotton quilt. On the edge of sleep, he suddenly remembered something, turned to his wife, and instructed, "Fetch the... that strange outfit Lord Saburo gave us. I’m going to wear it tomorrow."

When in Rome, after all. Now that he was in Wanjin, maybe he ought to try fitting in—wear those odd, button-up, two-piece outfits with tight pants. Strange-looking and not very comfortable as they seemed, Wanjin was formidable; maybe even their clothes had their own merits. He wanted to give it a try.

Okabe Iyayama’s wife agreed, but then immediately asked, "Should we change as well?"

She rather wanted to. Today she’d seen Princess Dog in a skirt, with a big, beautiful hem; she wanted to try it. Okabe Iyayama thought briefly and replied, "Up to you!"

He’d noticed it out on the streets today, too—a lot of Wanjin women dressed in rather odd clothes. The styles were strange, yes, but they all covered up tightly, so if wife and daughter wanted to dress that way in Wanjin, it seemed harmless.

Okabe Iyayama’s wife was overjoyed and, emboldened, ventured further: "Princess Dog also said that when there’s time, she’d invite us to the Grand Theater to see a play. So, should we..."

"Go, go!"

Okabe Iyayama’s wife was even happier and pressed her luck: "Today, Princess Dog also said Wanjin has schools; all children are supposed to go, and she suggested we send Ping’an Pill and Aju to study. What do you think...?"

"School?" Okabe Iyayama was taken aback and sat up, asking seriously, "Is it a terakoya? Nozawa family’s ancestral temple? Would they take Ping’an Pill as a student? How much does it cost?"

With his status, he wasn’t qualified to have his children officially apprenticed. It was always a wish of his to be made a samurai, partly for the sake of his children—much like modern parents scrambling for a Beishangjin household registration so their kid can get into university more easily.

"I don’t think it’s a terakoya," his wife replied, uncertain. She only remembered Princess Dog mentioning it in passing. "And it sounds like it’s free—kids under twelve can go for nothing, and Lord Yehua even covers a meal."

Okabe Iyayama was stunned: "Really? Is that possible?"

"Princess Dog surely wouldn’t lie. Maybe Lord Yehua is just a good person..."

"No way she’d lie, but maybe it’s a place for Wanjin samurai’s children," Okabe Iyayama mused, lying back to ponder. "I’ll ask about it when I get a chance. If you see Princess Dog again, sound her out too. If Ping’an Pill can go study, it’ll be worth spending some money."

"And Aju."

"We’ll see about Aju; you can teach her yourself for now."

Okabe Iyayama’s wife fell silent. Okabe, meanwhile, feeling drowsy from drink, soon drifted off to sleep—dreaming of Harano’s "Great Anzai Iron Ship."

At this point, if he couldn’t please Harano, he’d feel like he deserved to be hacked down in one blow by the man.