175: Chapter 12: The Three Essentials of Farming 175: Chapter 12: The Three Essentials of Farming The frontmost row of people was responsible for weeding, using the Cross Pickaxe to loosen the hard soil.
Behind them, four oxen pulled the heavy plow, turning over the soil layer and stones.
Following that were those tasked with breaking up the cloddish soil.
Lastly, there were people picking up weeds, tree roots, and stones.
The division of labor was well-ordered and highly efficient.
The wasteland designated for reclamation was fragntary and scattered.
Roman chose the land for selective reclamation based on soil structure and quality, picking only suitable areas.
So lands were designated for planting peas and broad beans, so for planting Spring Wheat, and so wastelands for ginger and garlic.
Others were set for planting onions, lettuce, and windbreak grass.
The yield from poor fields wouldn’t be much.
He selected the best and most abundant wasteland to plant Spring Wheat.
But a successful yield for this round of Spring Wheat would be a hundred pounds per acre, and for that, he had to sow twenty pounds of seeds.
Anyway, regardless of what was planted, things needed to be sown—the combination of seeds and soil was essential for effective soil improvent.
Roman took this spring plowing very seriously.
He supervised the whole process and found that they were pretty diligent.
Although the production model had changed, the core principles remained unchanged; the specific steps were still the familiar routine.
Weeding, plowing, picking up stones.
The sa old three steps.
…
However, the difficulty of reclaiming wasteland was sowhat high.
Mainly because of a shortage of cattle and horses.
There were only about seven or eight hundred working oxen and draft horses—so were pregnant, others were producing milk and could not be overworked.
Four oxen or draft horses pulling a heavy plow could only advance three acres a day, which still amounted to several hundred acres by day’s end.
This shortage referred to humanoid oxen and horses.
Because the real oxen and horses could plow the land.
But then ca clearing weeds, stones, harrowing, and fertilizing—these steps were too labor-intensive.
Roman had to direct on-site, constantly vigilant to prevent any mishaps.
The peasants of this era didn’t even understand farming properly.
Half a month had passed, and only over three thousand acres of wasteland had been reclaid.
Keep in mind, they were working with all their might, without any distractions.
Their als were delivered right to the fields.
Sealed in a hundred large wooden barrels, once the lids were lifted, the vegetable at soup, bread, and bean porridge were still warm.
Broken farm tools were replaced with new ones, their bodies were sufficiently nourished, and they slept soundly and comfortably at night.
Yet, this was still the progress made.
But who could be blad for that?
Such is the struggle with the land.
Roman didn’t push them too hard, as he could see that most people were doing their utmost.
So he only had Balrog pick out a few examples.
Unless soone was unwell, anyone caught slacking would be hung and beaten, one death counted as one less waste of his food.
He ordered them to sow the newly reclaid land.
Depending on the soil conditions, so planted Spring Wheat, so various vegetables—treated as secondary food.
In any case, just plant!
Seize the suitable spots and plant fiercely!
The happiest phase of farming civilization isn’t necessarily the harvest, but the sowing.
To bury the seeds in the soil, anticipating it to return a harvest several tis, or even more than tenfold.
There isn’t a person on this land who doesn’t like farming.
It’s just—
Farming life often doesn’t go smoothly.
“Is this enough?”
Gwivelle turned her head to ask Sanna.
She scooped the yellowberry jam out of the wooden tub and poured it into the crock.
The jam wafted with a rich fruity fragrance.
She and Sanna had again ventured to the yellowberry patch and this ti returned without incident.
They ca back with two full tubs of yellowberries.
Yellowberries take a long ti to grow, requiring an entire winter to accumulate nutrients, but once picked, they only maintain their freshness for three to five days.
Roman burst into silent laughter upon hearing this but felt relieved too.
Sanna was a stalwart girl; the Land Of Misfortune hadn’t scared her witless.
At dinner, Roman told the two girls a secret recipe: by boiling them with lemon juice and maltose, they could greatly extend the yellowberries’ shelf life to a couple of months without issues.
Following his instructions, they made over a hundred pounds of jam.
This delicious jam was only for use within the manor, particularly delectable when spread on white bread.
But he forgot to tell them how to color the jam.
The yellow paste was indeed harsh on the eyes.
Of course, it didn’t stop the people of the manor from enjoying it to the fullest.
After all, in these tis, people weren’t really demanding about food, let alone when it was this sweet and rich.
Roman ca over, leading a white horse.
“What are you doing?”
“I was thinking of bringing so yellowberry jam to Grandpa Galin,” Gwivelle said, squatting on the ground, looking at the crock of yellowberry jam, sowhat uncertain.
She thought maybe Galin couldn’t eat that much, but on the other hand, she felt it was better to bring more of sothing so delicious, as it was they who had picked the yellowberries one by one.
But, if she brought more, Roman would have less to eat.
After Green had tasted the yellowberry jam, he had shalessly begged her for so.
She had just nodded when she turned around to find twenty or thirty pounds less in the tub, devoured by that glutton Green and taken to the barracks.
Now there was even less.
“Why would you want to bring him yellowberry jam?”
Roman pulled her up from the ground.
“I haven’t been to the mountains for a long ti…” Gwivelle whispered.
Galin liked sweets and beer very much.
Especially maltose, which was the only food he hoped she would bring him.
If possible, so beer would be nice too.
That’s what he had said.
Roman hoisted Gwivelle onto the horseback, settling her in place.
“What I an is, why can’t he co here to eat?” he spoke as he also mounted the horse, extending a hand to Sanna.
The sowhat tall girl also climbed up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
The three of them together weighed no more than three hundred pounds, which wasn’t too much for an excellent warhorse, considering a fully armored Conquest Knight weighed more, not counting the horse armor, which could bring the total to six hundred pounds.
“Really?”
Gwivelle turned her head to look up at Roman, only able to see his chin, nostrils, and eyebrows from this angle.
“But would Grandpa Galin agree?”
The grouchy dic was notoriously stubborn.
“He will agree whether he wants to or not!” Roman snorted lightly.
Gwivelle’s face brightened with a joyful smile; she liked the tone in Roman’s voice when he spoke, it had a sparkling quality.
It would be great if Galin could co down from the mountain.
Then she wouldn’t need to visit the mountains every month; she could switch to once every six months or even once a year.
Roman pulled on the reins, and the horse sprang into a run.
They swiftly left Origin Manor.
Today, the sun shone brightly, the fast horse galloped eagerly, and the spring wind was in their favor.
Gwivelle rested in Roman’s arms, her cheeks feeling the bracing spring breeze that conjured images of wind-swept grasslands, rippling lakes, tender green willow branches…
The spring breeze brought with it the scent of freshly turned soil mixed with the sll of grass and a variety of floral fragrances, slowly fernting in the soft and vibrant air, slightly intoxicating.
Along the way, they saw farrs laboring in the fields, sowing seeds.
Gwivelle and Sanna asked Roman what they were planting, and he patiently explained to them.
Gwivelle knew that Roman had been busy recently.
He had to arrange for many people to plant crops and had to personally decide which crop suited each plot of land best.
It wasn’t until today, with the spring planting nearly done, that he had ti to take them to see Galin.
The hand that embraced her had grown tougher and more scarred, the calluses were thickening, feeling sowhat rough and gritty.
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