In the following days, Qin Xiaoman and Du Heng went to Qin Xiong’s house to help prepare for the wedding, borrowing tables, chairs, and benches from neighbors. They also regularly patrolled their fields to check on their crops.
Their family had a lot of farmland, so every time they went to check the crops, it took quite a while.
Whenever Du Heng went out to inspect the fields, he often ran into villagers bickering—either someone’s chicken had trampled another’s crops, or a family’s ducks had wandered into a neighbor’s field. The disputes were trivial, yet they seemed endless.
Qin Xiaoman and Du Heng were diligent in inspecting their own fields mainly to prevent their livestock from straying and damaging the crops. A quarrel rarely solved anything.
The crops in the fertile fields were growing quickly, their seedlings lush and green. The seedlings in the thinner plots weren’t as tall, and the leaves were shorter, but they were still growing.
Qin Xiaoman didn’t know whether it was because the thin plots hadn’t been cultivated for several years, and this year they were producing well, or some other reason. Regardless, he was pleased to see the seedlings thriving.
Du Heng teased, “Maybe it’s because I fertilized the fields that they’re growing so well?”
Qin Xiaoman chuckled. “All right, all right—let’s say it’s your credit.”
The two walked together, heading toward the largest of their thin fields, a full three acres in size.
Qin Xiaoman said, “If this big field grows well this year, we might get three shi of grain—wouldn’t that be great?”
On average, a fertile acre yielded two shi of grain. A good harvest could yield more, but a thin field normally produced about half as much. Qin Xiaoman hadn’t expected much from this plot; even half the yield of a fertile field would satisfy him.
As they neared the field, Du Heng noticed several people standing at its edge, pointing and talking. Qin Xiaoman’s brows furrowed, and he ran ahead.
“Slow down!” Du Heng called, hurrying after him.
“Ah, Brother Man is here!” shouted Mrs. Zhao at the field’s edge, hands on her hips. Panting, she raised her chin and said, “The seedlings in your field are turning yellow!”
Ignoring her teasing tone, Qin Xiaoman rushed to the field’s embankment.
This plot was on a high terrace, and livestock rarely ventured here, so it had been safe. But after a few days away, he saw the leaves, which should have been green, now streaked with yellow-white patches across most of the field.
Diseased seedlings grew slowly, not sprouting new leaves, and were shorter than seedlings in other fields.
Seeing the extent of the damage, Qin Xiaoman felt his chest tighten. If this continued, he thought, not only would three shi be impossible, but few plants might survive until harvest.
“This field is huge—about three acres. Now so many seedlings are sick. What will you do?” Mrs. Zhao exclaimed to the other villagers, “Fortunately, Brother Man has a lot of fields. If this were anyone else, they’d be worried sick.”
“Brother Man, what will you do about these seedlings? Honestly, why plant such a large field? Too much for no gain. A few fertile plots would have been enough.”
Qin Xiaoman, already anxious, glared at Mrs. Zhao. “What I do with my field isn’t your business. Mind your own crops.”
“You have such a temper! I’m asking nicely, why are you so fierce?” Mrs. Zhao straightened her posture and squared up to him.
Du Heng quickly stepped between them, holding Qin Xiaoman close.
“If you like talking snide, don’t blame others for snapping back,” he said.
Being taller, Du Heng overshadowed Mrs. Zhao, and she hesitated to push past him, her chest held high but unable to intimidate. She huffed, “Just because there are two of you, you gang up on others.”
“Your field is probably ruined!” she muttered, but Qin Xiaoman, red-faced with anger, was restrained by Du Heng from retaliating.
“Pray that your crops survive!” Du Heng said calmly.
Though she hadn’t scolded them before, seeing their crops suffering seemed to lift a weight from Mrs. Zhao’s heart. Satisfied, she left.
Other villagers observing the field comforted Qin Xiaoman and Du Heng: “Thin soil isn’t very fertile. Seedlings often yellow and grow poorly. Better to add some fertilizer—it may cost a bit, but it’s better than losing the harvest entirely.”
Their advice was fair; those with thin plots often suffered the same, and a poor harvest was a constant worry. At this stage, with seedlings established, timely intervention was possible.
Qin Xiaoman pursed his lips and nodded, his brow still furrowed.
Once the onlookers had left, he saw Du Heng roll up his pants and step into the field.
“What are you doing?” Qin Xiaoman asked.
Du Heng bent over, testing the water, then looked up. “I’m checking to see what the problem is.”
Qin Xiaoman’s chest rose and fell sharply. “Thin soil lacks nutrients. Even humans go pale without salt and oil—let alone crops.”
Du Heng waded into the paddy, rinsing the mud from his feet. “It’s not just nutrient deficiency. The seedlings seem to have been affected by cold.”
Though the field was indeed thin, Du Heng had fertilized it generously with dried manure earlier, making it one of the best-treated thin plots.
Qin Xiaoman couldn’t believe it. “What weather is this? How could they be cold? In early March, the seedlings never yellowed like this.”
“This field is naturally elevated and holds a lot of water. It’s right next to the woods,” Du Heng said, pointing. “See that row of trees? They’re all tung trees with broad leaves.”
“The branches stretch out over half the field. Usually, the sun can’t reach the inner part, and the water stays cooler than in other fields.”
“Over time, the soil has become cold soil.”
Qin Xiaoman grew anxious. If the problem were simply thin soil, they could fertilize it more. But if the seedlings were suffering from cold, he didn’t even know how to fix it.
Du Heng said, “Let’s release some water.”
“Also, do exactly as I say,” he added.
Qin Xiaoman placed his hands on his hips. “What method could you possibly have?”
Du Heng followed his plan, letting some water out of the field. Then he dug up all the pig bones they had stored at home, ground them into a powder, and, since the field wasn’t wide enough, mixed in plenty of lime.
Carrying a large sack of the ash, he carefully applied it to the roots of each diseased rice seedling.
The work wasn’t as physically demanding as transplanting seedlings, but they couldn’t afford to slack off. One day’s delay could mean losing plants at harvest.
From dawn to dusk, they worked tirelessly, treating every seedling in the field.
Qin Xiaoman’s back ached so much he couldn’t straighten it. He dropped the bucket and sat on the embankment, saying to Du Heng, “No more… we can’t be doing anything else in bed tonight.”
Du Heng, equally exhausted, replied, “Still thinking about that, huh?”
Qin Xiaoman laughed. The tension in his muscles finally eased, though his mind remained heavy as he looked over the yellowing seedlings. A farmer’s heart is always tied to their crops—every sprout nurtured like a child, and seeing them sick or struggling pulled at him deeply.
He wasn’t sure if Du Heng’s method would work, but lacking alternatives, he could only hope.
Night fell. Both of them were sore and tired, and the villagers had finished their day’s work.
A gentle evening breeze blew. Du Heng carried the empty ash bucket, scanning the open field around them. The faint outline of the moon appeared in the sky, and the star that always hovered nearby shone as brightly as ever. Tomorrow promised clear skies.
Du Heng reached out and touched Qin Xiaoman’s fingertips. The slightly rough nails brushed against his palm, sending a faint shiver through him. He quickly clasped Qin Xiaoman’s hand in his own.
The May evening carried the warmth of early summer, yet the lingering chill of late spring made the air still cool. Holding hands, however, neither felt cold—their hearts warmed together.
“Why are you holding my hand?” Qin Xiaoman asked.
Du Heng chuckled lightly. Why? Because I like you, that’s why.
“It’s too dark; I can’t see the way home.”
Qin Xiaoman waved his hand before Du Heng’s eyes. Seeing Du Heng’s calm expression, he teased, imitating a blind person: “Then shall I carry you?”
“I’m too tired to move, let alone carry me,” Du Heng said.
“I can do it!” Qin Xiaoman dropped the bucket and tried to grab Du Heng around the legs. “Come on!”
Du Heng dodged with a quick sidestep. “I can walk myself.”
“Walk? I haven’t carried you in ages. Hurry over.”
Qin Xiaoman chased after him, tugging, squatting in front of Du Heng like a hen with its tail up. “Hurry up!”
“No!”
“I’m already squatting, and you say no?”
“Ah, Xiaoman, let go! You’re about to pull my pants off!”
“Eh, eh, eh!”
Splash! Water splashed up, and Du Heng felt one side of his body go cold as both of them tumbled into the paddy at the roadside.
Qin Xiaoman scrambled up, wiping water from his face, and helped Du Heng out. The night wind hit their wet bodies, raising goosebumps.
Qin Xiaoman gave him a side glance. “I told you not to move around, but you had to, and now we’re in the field.”
“You said no carrying, yet you grabbed my pants.”
Du Heng wiped the mud off Qin Xiaoman’s face. “Whose field is this anyway?”
“Whose else? Zhao’s,” Qin Xiaoman said.
Du Heng cleared his throat. “Then let’s go quickly—we’ve already crushed several seedlings.”
Qin Xiaoman laughed heartily, and Du Heng hurriedly pulled him back toward home.
Soaked and muddy, the two ran home together. By the time they reached the courtyard, moonlight had spread across the stone slabs like silver.