Ming Dynasty’s Rice

In Changsha Prefecture, the sweet potato promotion plan was in full swing, and the fields were bustling with activity. However, sweet potatoes took about 100 days from planting to harvest, and this waiting period felt particularly long for Wei Lan.

She was growing impatient.

Now, the medical clinic and pharmacy businesses were thriving, with people constantly coming in for treatment and medicine. To minimize infections, Wei Lan needed to produce more medical alcohol as soon as possible. Previously, she had directly purchased raw materials from grain merchants, but this time, the quantity she required was far greater than before.

So, Wei Lan decided to personally seek out more reliable supply channels. Her sincerity and demand quickly caught the attention of He Zhongxian, the grain officer of Shanhu County, who personally received her.

It was midsummer. The scorching sun blazed overhead, making the countryside feel as if it were about to burn. Wei Lan, He Zhongxian, and Ming Yi rode along a winding path.

Wei Lan was on a sleek black horse, He Zhongxian on a sturdy chestnut-colored steed, and Ming Yi on a snow-white horse.

He Zhongxian moved his horse closer to Wei Lan’s and, despite sweat beading on his forehead and the hem of his blue cloth robe being dusted with freshly milled rice husks, he remained energetic. He raised his hand and pointed forward with a touch of pride in his voice:

“Miss Wei, look ahead—those are early rice fields.”

Following his gesture, a golden expanse of rice fields unfolded before their eyes. A gentle breeze rustled through the stalks, carrying the fresh fragrance of newly harvested rice, creating an uplifting atmosphere. Wei Lan instinctively pulled on the reins, captivated by the scene.

The distant sound of cicadas faded, replaced by the crisp sounds of sickles cutting through rice stalks, forming a rhythmic melody of the harvest. Shirtless farmers straightened up to wipe their sweat, their tanned backs glistening in the sunlight, radiating strength. Newly bundled rice straw lay scattered across the fields like golden ingots, filling the land with the joy of abundance.

“Officer He, the rice here is being harvested, but why did we pass so many unharvested fields on our way here?” Wei Lan asked curiously, looking at the still-green paddies in the distance.

The wind passed through the mixed golden and green rice stalks, which swayed lazily, a stark contrast to the lively harvest scene before them.

He Zhongxian wiped the sweat from his neck with a cloth and smiled kindly. “Miss Wei, these fields follow different planting cycles—some are harvested once a year, others twice, and a rare few even three times. The single-crop fields are harvested in autumn, while the double-crop fields require a rushed harvest of the early rice and immediate planting of the late rice. There’s no room for error in between. As for triple-crop fields, they’re rarely seen in Changsha Prefecture.”

He gestured toward the scattered villages at the foot of the distant hills. “Those shaded lowland fields are lucky to yield one harvest a year.”

Wei Lan frowned slightly and asked innocently, “Then why not plant all fields twice a year? Wouldn’t that produce more food?”

Ming Yi’s white horse snorted as if curious about the answer too.

Ming Yi smiled and said, “Last year, there was a lawsuit in Changsha Prefecture—a tenant farmer forced a field to grow two crops of rice, but in autumn, he harvested nothing. He ruined the land, turning fertile fields into hardened wasteland.”

He gazed gently at the children playing along the field ridges. A young boy was carrying a bamboo container of water to the adults, a simple yet heartwarming scene. “It’s like a child eating sweets—they must know their limits.”

He Zhongxian nodded. “A double-crop field needs ample water and requires more labor and resources. It’s not that we don’t want to plant twice a year—it’s a matter of balancing the pros and cons. Some areas lack water, some lack manpower, and forcing two crops could end in greater losses.”

He sighed, his voice tinged with helplessness.

Wei Lan pondered for a moment, her eyes flashing with thought. “Could you take us to see the irrigation facilities?”

She had a hunch—if they could improve water management, perhaps more fields could sustain two crops a year, benefiting more people.

He Zhongxian’s eyes gleamed with admiration. “Miss Wei, you’re quite observant.” He nodded and said, “Alright, let’s go.”

The three of them rode through the winding paths between rice fields until they reached the water source.

As Wei Lan turned a corner, she saw seven or eight farmers laboring on a massive wooden wheel, their backs taut with effort. The ropes dug into their shoulders as they powered the creaking dragon bone waterwheel.

Muddy canal water climbed up the scooping blades, breaking into bright silver droplets as it splashed into the collection trough.

“This is the most advanced waterwheel in Shanhu County,” He Zhongxian explained, pointing to the towering wooden structure.

Wei Lan’s gaze was drawn to a faded red paper stuck to the wheel’s frame. Though worn by wind and sun, the characters “Good Harvest and Favorable Weather” were still visible.

Ming Yi dismounted and ran his fingers along the rough wooden pillars. He frowned slightly and murmured, “The Complete Book of Agricultural Policies states that ‘half the effectiveness of a waterwheel depends on manpower’—that’s quite true.”

His fingers traced the structure thoughtfully. “If we could switch to animal power…”

He Zhongxian sighed and shook his head. “We tried using oxen to turn the wheels before, but it didn’t work. In spring, the oxen are needed for plowing, and in summer, they suffer heat exhaustion. Just last autumn, twenty oxen collapsed from exhaustion while working the wheels in the western village.”

“The sight of it was…” He shook his head with regret.

Wei Lan turned her gaze from the exhausted farmers to the distant terraces. Another system stood in the hills beyond.

She asked softly, “Officer He, what’s over there?”

He followed her line of sight. “That’s another water system—tube wheels. Unlike waterwheels, these are powered purely by water currents, saving a lot of labor.”

Wei Lan watched the massive bamboo tubes dip into the rushing river and lift water into elevated wooden troughs. The shimmering spray caught the sunlight, forming tiny rainbows that glimmered against the stone-built irrigation channels, resembling a silver ribbon wrapped around the mountainside.

“This is quite ingenious,” she murmured. “If more of these were built, we could solve many problems.”

He Zhongxian nodded. “Tube wheels are efficient, but they depend on nature. Last winter’s drought dried up the riverbed, turning half of them useless.”

“But we have countermeasures,” he added, leading them toward a reservoir.

At the embankment, several weathered stone markers stood, engraved with flood regulations dating back to the Hongwu era.

He Zhongxian pointed to them. “According to the old regulations, if the water level exceeds five feet, the floodgates open. If it falls below three feet, water extraction is restricted. These simple rules embody generations of water management wisdom.”

Wei Lan traced the inscriptions with her fingers, a quiet respect growing within her.

She picked up a grain of rice from a freshly harvested stalk and rolled it between her fingers. The husk crumbled, revealing a shriveled core.

“Is this the standard rice variety?” she asked, noticing many empty husks.

“This is ‘Red Lotus Rice’—a Jiangxi variety from the Hongwu era. It’s small but makes excellent porridge,” He Zhongxian explained.

Ming Yi examined an empty husk and sighed. “The old saying goes, ‘A good harvest sees 300 grains per panicle,’ but this one…”

An old farmer overheard and wiped his sweat. “Sir, don’t blame us. This year’s ‘fire wind’ withered the rice before it could mature. Three out of ten grains are empty.”

He sighed, “This heat is unnatural. The harvest will be much lower this year.”

Wei Lan clenched the husk between her fingers. She recalled images of modern hybrid rice, where the grains were so full they nearly burst from their husks.

Yet, here in history, these underdeveloped grains were like scattered sparks—waiting 400 years before igniting a revolution.

“If only we could improve the rice seeds…”

But she knew that was a dream too far ahead.