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Three Rice Yield Improvement Plans
The sound of cicadas was muffled by the thick blue-brick walls, making the atmosphere especially quiet.
As Wei Lan stepped over the imposing stone lions guarding the entrance of the Changping Granary, she caught a faint scent of aged rice husks fermenting—a fragrance carrying the weight of time. Passing through two grain storage vaults with bamboo-thatched domes, He Zhongxian led them into the signing office of the western wing.
Inside, shelves were stacked with insect-eaten “Fish Scale Records.” On the wooden desk by the window lay an abacus and brass weights, while in the corner stood an official grain-measuring container. These objects, weathered by time, carried a sense of antiquity.
“This is the contract.” He Zhongxian retrieved a document bearing the official seal from a wooden box and carefully unfolded it. Sunlight streamed through the lattice windows, illuminating the red cinnabar stamp reading ‘Perpetual Tenancy, No Additional Levies’, making it particularly eye-catching.
This clause, set by the imperial court, ensured tenant farmers would not face extra rent burdens that could hinder grain production.
“For long-term purchases, a broker’s guarantee is required, followed by authentication from the household department’s seal…” He Zhongxian continued.
Liu Mingyi took the contract and examined it carefully. His fingertip paused at the line stating “Annual supply: 3,000 shi of brown rice,” and a hint of doubt flickered in his gaze. He looked up at He Zhongxian and asked, “May I ask, Grain Officer, what is the average rice yield per mu in Shanhua County?”
He Zhongxian’s hand briefly halted as he wiped a brass weight. Raising his head, he responded in a smooth, bureaucratic tone, “The county-wide average is 1 shi and 5 dou per mu.” His voice was as if he were reciting a memorized official document, not even moving an abacus bead.
Liu Mingyi frowned slightly, shifting his gaze from the contract. After a moment of contemplation, he said, “That seems strange. The rice fields we observed today had panicles seven inches long. Even with losses from wind damage, the yield should be closer to 2 shi per mu.”
The room fell into a deep silence, the air thick with tension. Wei Lan fixed her gaze on He Zhongxian, noting the slight movement of his Adam’s apple.
After a brief pause, He Zhongxian turned and retrieved the “Fish Scale Records” from the wall.
Spreading the aged paper on the desk, he pointed to the densely marked red circles indicating the distribution of ‘Upper Fields’, ‘Middle Fields’, and ‘Lower Fields’ across different villages. His voice was slightly hoarse as he explained, “The recorded average yield accounts for 1.8 shi in upper fields, 1.2 shi in middle fields, and 0.6 shi in lower fields—a statistical average of the three.”
Mingyi’s long fingers suddenly pressed on the corner of the record, revealing a spot where “Tenant Holdings” had been marked and later erased with cinnabar ink. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his tone carried a sharp edge: “Grain Officer He, it seems that the yield from ‘Tenant Holdings’ was not included in the average calculation?”
Such concealed lands were often omitted from official records. But Mingyi had already spotted the discrepancy.
He Zhongxian’s expression shifted slightly, and he coughed to mask his unease. “These… Tenant Holdings are somewhat unique. They are mostly owned by wealthy outsiders, and their yield is inconsistent, so they were not factored into the average.” His eyes flickered as he spoke, betraying his nervousness.
Tenant Holdings were typically owned by affluent landlords trying to evade taxation, often underreporting their true output. Local officials, in turn, found it difficult to verify such landholdings. This might explain why Shanhua County’s reported rice production appeared artificially low.
Wei Lan placed a pouch of silver ingots on the table. “We will pay at the rate of 1.8 shi per mu.”
She paused, then took out a small box of medicinal ointment and slid it toward He Zhongxian. “I heard this summer has been scorching. This ointment is for the villagers working the water wheels.”
He Zhongxian’s pupils constricted, his gaze flashing with complexity. Ming Dynasty grain officials feared the crime of “falsifying land records” above all else. If he accepted payment based on actual yield, it could expose years of underreporting—tantamount to deceiving the emperor. His fingers hesitated over the abacus, weighing his choices.
Finally, he let out a long sigh, picked up a brush, and adjusted the contract: changing ‘3,000 shi’ to ‘2,400 shi’. His voice was hoarse as he said, “Miss Wei may send someone to inspect the delivery.”
It was an implicit agreement—the actual shipment would exceed the recorded amount.
Wei Lan smiled slightly and nodded. “Thank you, Grain Officer He.” She knew the deal was sealed while skillfully sidestepping potential trouble.
Leaving the granary, Wei Lan and Mingyi rode side by side. Above them, black and white clouds swirled together, painting a harmonious picture. A gentle early summer breeze carried the scent of rice paddies, refreshing and pleasant.
Wei Lan, astride her black horse Wuyun, turned playfully to Mingyi. “Brother Mingyi, my Wuyun is faster than your Baiyun. Let’s race!”
Without waiting for an answer, she nudged her horse forward, dashing ahead.
The sudden burst of speed caused her flowing sleeves to brush against Mingyi’s hand on the reins—a fleeting touch as soft as the wind. For a moment, Mingyi was dazed before quickly regaining his focus.
“Slow down! The newly paved road—” Before he could finish, Wei Lan was already ahead by half a horse’s length.
She turned back, laughing mischievously. “You’re falling behind!”
Mingyi couldn’t help but smile. With a swift squeeze of his legs, Baiyun surged forward, quickly catching up.
The two horses thundered along the riverbank, their hooves drumming against the earth. The river wind tousled Wei Lan’s red dress, making it flutter like a dancing flame.
Eventually, they reached a vast, lush meadow. Mingyi tugged Wuyun’s reins, slowing both horses to a stop.
Breathing slightly heavily, Wei Lan patted her horse’s neck, triumphant. “I won! You lost! Hahaha!”
Mingyi smirked. “Fine, you win this time. But next time, we start with a proper ‘Ready, set, go.’”
Wei Lan giggled, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Rules? Where’s the fun in that?”
Back home, Wei Lan sat at her desk, deep in thought. Images from the fields lingered in her mind—empty husks, creaking waterwheels, struggling farmers.
She turned to Mingyi. “Brother Mingyi, I’ve been thinking about ways to increase rice yields and help the people.” She pushed a piece of paper toward him, densely filled with her ideas.
Mingyi read carefully, admiration flickering in his eyes. “Rice-wheat rotation is ingenious! But rice selection—how do you ensure crossbreeding?”
Wei Lan demonstrated using her hairpin. “Before rice flowers bloom, carefully cut the male parts, then use a brush to transfer pollen from the chosen parent.”
Mingyi raised an eyebrow, impressed. “A delicate process. But well thought out.”
Wei Lan smiled, determined. “If we can make rice both resistant and high-yielding, it will change countless lives.”