sovbooks Chapter 16 introduces Champa rice.
Chapter 16 introduces Champa rice.
Wang Zhi also led him into the kitchen.
Licorice root and dried tangerine peel were hanging by the stove—the dried tangerine peel was a three-year-old product from a pharmacy in Chang'an, and the licorice root was dug up by himself in the field.
Grab a handful of each, crush them, throw them into a clay pot, add water, and boil.
Flames licked the bottom of the pot, the medicinal soup churned, and a bitter aroma wafted out.
He then took out the small earthenware jar that contained brown sugar, hesitated for a moment, and scooped out half a spoonful.
When he came out carrying two cups of herbal tea, Li Shimin was squatting by the chicken coop.
This "Master Li" squatted there, watching the yellow-feathered chickens fight over earthworms for quite a while.
He didn't laugh, he didn't frown, he was just watching intently.
Wang Zhi placed a cup of tea on the stone table: "Please have some, Madam. Mr. Li, this cup is for you, to soothe your throat."
Li Shimin stood up, returned to the stone bench, sat down, took a sip of tea, and put down the cup: "Young Master Wang, would it be convenient for you to take me to see your rice?"
My daughter said she had seen it with her own eyes, and I have some free time today, so I wanted to see it for myself.
Wang Zhihai agreed. He wiped his hands and led Li Shimin out the back door.
Outside the back door are the paddy field ridges, where the rice seedlings have already grown to knee height, forming a large, lush green expanse, with the rice leaves rustling in the wind.
It wasn't the neatly trimmed greenery of palace gardens—it was wild, dense, with plants huddled together, completely covering the ground.
Wang Zhihuan squatted down and gently bent the stem of a rice seedling: "In another half month, the rice ears will emerge from here. This is called tillering; this plant has produced six tillers."
"Several thousand plants per acre, six branches per plant, one ear of grain per branch—Mr. Li is an expert, you can do the math."
Li Shimin squatted down beside him and pinched the rice stalk. It was thick, slightly thicker than ordinary rice.
He let go of her hand, stood up, and looked at the rice paddy.
The wind blows, and the rice seedlings sway in waves, green waves upon green waves, until they stop at the foot of the mountain.
He stood there for a long time, and memories of the past surfaced in his mind.
During the locust plague in the second year of the Zhenguan era, he offered sacrifices to Heaven in the southern suburbs and in front of everyone grabbed a locust and stuffed it into his mouth, saying: "Locust, locust, you eat the grain of my people, so I will eat your flesh."
He didn't shed a tear while chewing locusts.
But that night he sat in the palace all night, with a map of Guanzhong spread out in front of him, and circled the locust plague's passage with cinnabar.
Forty-seven counties.
The rice plantation is right in front of us now. It's short and stunted, with six or seven stalks. It can yield more than two shi (a unit of dry measure) per mu.
If all forty-seven counties were planted, how much more grain could be produced? And could we please stop marking those areas with the red ink circled in cinnabar?
He turned around. The wind was blowing just right, and the rice seedlings swayed in waves, stretching from in front of him to the foot of the mountain. His eyes suddenly felt a little hot.
"Young Master Wang," he spoke, his voice a little hoarse than before, "tell me, if this rice variety could truly be widely cultivated, wouldn't the people's livelihoods be more secure?"
Wang Zhi was still looking at the profile of this "Master Li".
He wasn't asking about yield or farming season; he was asking about "the people's livelihood."
Wang Zhi understood the meaning in that tone—it was the kind of concern that only someone who truly cares about people's livelihood would have.
Wang Zhihuan actually admires this kind of person.
"Master Li," he stood up, dusted off his hands, and looked at the tenant farmers working in the fields in the distance, "it's true that this rice yields a lot of grain. But to ensure that the people have a stable food supply, grain alone is not enough."
Li Shimin turned to look at him.
"We also need the right methods, the right mindset, and people willing to put in the effort for this matter."
Wang Zhi paused, his gaze falling on the farmers who were working hard, and his voice became deep, "Look at those people working in the fields—they haven't rested a single day since they started plowing the land in the spring."
This is just the rice planting; once this crop is harvested, we'll immediately have to prepare to plant wheat.
Year-round, the work in the fields is like a race against time, never stopping for a moment.
He recalled the farmers he had met in his previous life, their sun-darkened faces and rough hands, and the expectant yet apprehensive look in their eyes as they looked at the crops.
"Farmers suffer the most. In a good year with favorable weather and a good harvest, after paying taxes, there's barely enough left to feed their family. But if the year is bad..."
He shook his head. "That's truly a case of 'the farmers toil but what can they do?'"
At this point, as if remembering something, he gazed longingly at the rice paddies, his voice filled with deep emotion, and slowly recited:
"Threshing wheat, threshing wheat, boom ...
When the sun rises in the northeast in April, the wheat is still green when it leaves the seashore, but it is already ripe when it reaches the center of the sky.
The pheasant's call keeps people awake all night, and the bamboo partridge's cry brings rain as dark as ink.
The elder wife went out with a sickle at her waist, while the younger wife followed with a basket.
First, the green shoots are stripped from the upper kiln, and then the lower kiln shoots are bundled together.
The farmers find joy in hardship, unafraid of withered hair and scorched faces!
Li Shimin listened quietly.
This poem is not ornate, and is even somewhat rustic, but every word and sentence is a true reflection of rural life—the sound of threshing wheat, the trajectory of the sun, and the hard work of women harvesting wheat.
The last line, "Farmers find joy in hardship, unafraid of withered hair and scorched face," is particularly poignant.
Wang Zhihuan continued slowly, his voice revealing a deeper understanding of farmers:
"But what about the grain we've worked so hard to harvest? 'The nobleman has already offered sacrifices at the temple, and we've enjoyed the new harvest; wine and liquor have been served to our relatives. The servants are exhausted after the feast, but who would believe that the farmers haven't even tasted it!'"
He looked at Li Shimin with a deep sense of helplessness in his eyes: "The best grain is used to pay taxes, the second-best is used to exchange for salt and cloth, and what is left for our own family is often the worst."
And so, "the wheat harvest is in full swing, and the rice seedlings are growing rapidly," one season after another, year after year.
That's why I said—'Good years are few, bad years are many; what can farmers do about their hard work?'
Li Shimin was stunned.
He looked at the young man before him, at his mud-covered fingers, and listened to him speak in such a calm yet profound tone about the most authentic hardships of farmers.
These words and this poem reveal a deep understanding of the labor of farmers.
In particular, the phrase "farmers find joy in hardship" – if one does not truly understand the hardships of farming, how can one comprehend how farmers find joy in hardship and persevere in their struggle for survival?
"This poem..." Li Shimin began, his voice somewhat hoarse, "was it also your work?"
Wang Zhi smiled and said, "I used to feel sad when I saw farmers harvesting wheat and planting rice, so I wrote these things down."
It's hardly a poem, just a casual piece, and it won't do anyone any good. But farmers certainly have a hard life.
We're discussing promoting rice varieties and increasing grain production here, but ultimately, isn't the goal to ensure that those farmers, whose heads are withered and faces are charred, can have one more mouthful of rice in their bowls?
Li Shimin remained silent. He squatted down again, grabbed a handful of soil from the ridge, and slowly rubbed it between his fingers.
"You're right." After a long silence, he finally spoke, "Rice alone isn't enough. We also need ways to make farmers feel secure and happy to grow rice. Taxes, irrigation canals, grain prices... these are all things."
He stood up, dusted his hands off, and asked, "Do you think this rice variety could be successfully promoted throughout the Guanzhong Plain?"
Wang Zhi thought for a moment and said, "It can be done. But we have to take it one step at a time. We don't have enough seeds, so I'll lead the farmers in Lantian to plant them first."
Plant for a year, and with more seeds, spread them around Chang'an. Plant again for a year, and spread them throughout Guanzhong. In three years, you can expand the entire area.
Besides, relying on individuals won't work; it requires the court's commitment. If the court is truly willing to promote this, it needs to do two things—”
He held up two fingers: "First, build irrigation canals. Champa rice is water-saving, but it cannot be without water during the grain-filling stage."
Second, the promotion should not be forced upon farmers. Farmers need to see the yield first; they will then come to ask for seeds themselves. Forcing them to provide seeds will only do more harm than good.