The wind of June was relentless, driving layers of cloud and mist as it rose from the Great Lake in the Gulf of xico. After half a month’s journey, it finally arrived above the fields of the Patzcuaro Lake region, bringing with it the first rain of the rain season.
The sound of rain dropped steadily, a light drizzle fell from the sky, scattering onto the half-barren land of the Patzcuaro Lake region, softening the soil, making it more suitable for the farming tools. The fine rain danced in the air, moistening the endlessly cultivated fields, and dampening the heads of the busy young n.
The weather in June had already beco hot, and thousands of young n worked collectively in the fields, like a bustling colony of ants, creating a rather spectacular scene from a distance. Most of the young n were bare-chested, wearing just a loincloth around their waists, carrying a bamboo basket on their back, and wielding a digger in their hands, maintaining their vigorous work. The fields under their feet were simply marked with sticks, divided into clear strips, each man having a set length to complete.
Old Militiaman Chiwaco used both hands to forcefully jab the digger into the field, then twisted it to create a hole finger-deep. Next, he took a few corn seeds from the bamboo basket on his back, carefully placing them into the dug hole, and then used his foot to gather the ash from burnt weeds around, roughly filling the hole—a planting spot was thus completed.
Then, the old militiaman stepped forward about half a ter and dug another hole. He had been doing this kind of farming work for over a decade and was extrely familiar with it. Picking it up again now, he felt a heartfelt fondness and tranquility.
The gentle rain caressed, and a light breeze lingered, and half a day passed swiftly. The old militiaman had continuously worked over a hundred steps before finally straightening his back, leisurely sighing. He looked up at the cloudy sky, wiped the rain and sweat off his face with his hand, and shook his hands vigorously. Then, he turned his head to look back at Weizti, who was lagging behind.
"Dumb log, pick up the pace! It’s getting darker over the horizon, and the rain is likely to get heavier. Let’s finish up today’s work and rest under the shed together."
"Um, okay."
Weizti, wrapped in a headscarf, glanced at his uncle. Despite his small fra, he worked much faster than his younger counterpart in the fields. He responded dully and continued to dig with the stone knife tip of his digger.
"This scene, it’s so bustling! Just like a huge swarm of bees."
The old militiaman, resting his feet, surveyed the surroundings. He first saw the crowd of busy young n and clicked his tongue in admiration. Then, tilting his head, he looked at the long strip of land he had cultivated.
This type of narrow strip had recently been designated by the Great Master, called "mou;" it was further dictated that a step to the left and right counts as one "step." Each mou is 240 steps long and one step wide, marked beforehand by the Great Master’s n with wooden sticks, and each mou spaced half a step apart. The young n just need to keep their heads down and work in a straight line. The planting of each mou remained the sa as before: first corn, then beans, and finally squash.
Chiwaco was an old farr. He stretched out both hands, carefully calculated for quite a while, and roughly figured it out. In a normal year, on regular land, the yield of one mou would be around eighty or so pounds, mainly of corn, with beans as a secondary crop, and squash as an addition, with squash leaves also being edible as vegetables. The spacing for planting corn had to be large enough to ensure each plant had space; otherwise, they wouldn’t develop ears.
Overall, the yield of a field fluctuated with the soil and was also related to precipitation, fertilizer, light, and heat. On the fertile lands near the lake, the yield would notably increase by twenty percent, whereas on the poor soils of the mountain areas, it would decrease by twenty percent. The tropical region didn’t lack sunlight or heat, so generally, the biggest limitation was precipitation.
In terms of precipitation, the Patzcuaro Lake region was a highland valley, similar to the Sichuan Basin, and had an annual rainfall similar to the Lake Texcoco region, ranging from 1000-1500 milliters. The mountain ranges on both sides contributed to streams that converged here, so agricultural production was not lacking in water, but the distribution of rainfall was uneven, posing the danger of seasonal flooding.
The climate here was of the tropical grassland type, with an average annual temperature in the twenties, distinctly divided into dry and wet seasons. During the peak of the rainy season in August and September, the area of Lake Patzcuaro would visibly expand, so planting near the lake required extra caution, either by constructing slightly elevated fields or, like the xica, building floating gardens on the water.
As for the fertility of the fields, in this era lacking iron farming tools and large dostic animals, and thus unable to plow deeply, it was only possible through natural fertilizers and the practices of fallowing and slash-and-burn. The large spacing required for planting corn, along with the use of beans for nitrogen-fixation, was to maintain an adequate supply of nutrients.
"Hmm, the yield from four mou of land, over three hundred pounds of grain along with field vegetables, just enough to sustain a young man for a year. Is this what the Great Master was talking about, ’one stone’?"
At this thought, Chiwaco lifted his head and counted the long strips he needed to complete, which just happened to number ten. The old militiaman let out a deep breath. He murmured a complaint, but his face showed a smile.
"That’s tough, one young man farming ten mou! When it cos to harvest ti, he’s likely to be as exhausted as a fish out of water, collapsed on the shore. But oh, I really look forward to seeing that harvest scene!"
"Uncle, I’m done. This work is more exhausting than what we used to do in the village, let’s take a break!"
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