Once all seeds were collected, the first task was weighing.
This year, their acre of thinner soil produced 180 jin of seeds. One shi of rice equaled 120 jin, so their harvest was one and a half shi—a respectable yield, especially for a first attempt on newly cleared land. Qin Xiaoman beamed with pride, attributing the success to Du Heng.
Du Heng calculated quickly. “According to Uncle Ge, one jin of seeds yields about 2–3 liang of oil. That means these seeds could produce several dozen jin of oil.”
“Refined oil sells for over a hundred wen per jin. Even accounting for costs, that’s thirty to thirty-five jin of oil, over three thousand wen. Not a small income.”
Qin Xiaoman watched Du Heng’s mind work like an abacus, arriving at the figures almost instantly. Though he couldn’t calculate so fast, he cautioned, “You’re quick, but aren’t you forgetting the harvest tax?”
Du Heng paused, remembering the heavy levies imposed on commoners. “Right… I completely forgot.”
“Better to talk about it at home. Outside, be careful—if someone overhears and mentions it to the village head or elders, it could look like tax evasion, and that’s trouble.”
Du Heng nodded.
Qin Xiaoman sighed. The year’s labor largely went to the state. Common people truly bore the burden.
“Yesterday, villagers asked Uncle about this year’s taxes. He said it should be the same as last year—thirty percent of the harvest.” Qin Xiaoman prayed silently: If it doesn’t increase, that’s fine. Just hope they don’t raise it during collection.
“Thirty percent!”
Du Heng exhaled, barely able to believe it.
“Are you saying we have to give nearly half a shi of our one-and-a-half shi of rapeseed to the government?”
Qin Xiaoman nodded. “Of course. Who dares to refuse?”
Du Heng felt a chill run through him—more like three chills, if he were precise.
Seeing his reaction, Xiaoman patted his back. “It’s normal to feel a sting when it’s your first time farming and paying taxes.”
“But on the other hand, when you were a merchant, didn’t you pay even more?”
Du Heng paused, then smiled. “My parents handled it all—I didn’t really know the details.”
Xiaoman didn’t dwell on it. “True, you were still studying seriously back then. But either way, the rapeseed harvest is good. Even after taxes, over two thousand wen is nothing to sneeze at. A shi of rice sells for only about a thousand wen.”
“This oil mill business really is profitable. No wonder Uncle Ge devotes all his land to rapeseed. I heard he bought property for his son in town—at first I thought it was a rumor. Seems it wasn’t.”
Xiaoman chuckled, bubbling with delight. “Next year, let’s skip corn altogether—just plant rapeseed!”
Du Heng laughed. “Now you’re talking nonsense again. What would the livestock eat if we don’t grow corn?”
He knew the profit calculation for rapeseed oil was generous, but that was based on the best possible price. Ordinary smallholders like them wouldn’t get one hundred wen per jin; luck might allow it, but likely they’d only get eighty or ninety wen selling to the oil mill. Similar to pork: the market price might be twenty to thirty wen per jin, but farmers selling to butchers get only ten or so.
Plus, the months of labor for tending the fields, harvesting seeds, and pressing oil all counted for real money.
Xiaoman grinned, knowing that getting such a harvest involved some luck, though Du Heng’s efforts were indispensable.
News of nearly two shi of rapeseed spread quickly through the village. In these households, it was impossible to hide anything—what crops were planted and the harvest yields became common knowledge. Even if they tried to keep it quiet, the village registrar would eventually take note, and everyone would know.
So there was nothing to hide. A good harvest was something to be proud of. Lately, the village buzzed with talk of Qin family’s rapeseed harvest.
“Look at Du Heng! Who would have thought a delicate scholar could farm so well? I used to see him barely lift a hoe and thought him useless.”
“Just seeing him handle a feast well shows he’s not incompetent. And now, seeing him work the fields… this harvest is impressive! I’m tempted to plant half an acre of rapeseed myself next year.”
“You’ve only got ten acres of rice, corn, and sweet potatoes for livestock—not enough for food, let alone rapeseed. Only families with large fields can afford that risk.”
“True. Our two or three acres of fertile land wouldn’t suffice.”
“But Xiaoman’s family planted thin soil, just testing the field the first year. Du Heng knows how to work the land—it yielded well.”
“In spring, I saw Du Heng buying Ge’s dried cakes for fertilizer. I thought it wouldn’t enrich the soil, but it seems the fertilizer worked well.”
“Maybe it just happened to suit rapeseed. Fertilized soil gave a better yield.”
The villagers speculated on the secret to Qin family’s success, seemingly ignoring the quiet Mrs. Zhao bending her head, weeding without a word.
“Hey, Mrs. Zhao, I heard your rice seedlings were yellowed. Are they better now?”
Mrs. Zhao paused, feeling annoyed. While other fields grew quickly, her one acre had suffered, seedlings barely clinging to life. After the high sun of early summer, she wasn’t sure it would survive until autumn.
Even though it was only one acre, how many farmers could afford such a disaster?
By contrast, Xiaoman’s three-acre field had revived. Though not as tall as unaffected fields, it was lush and growing.
She continued weeding, replying to the villagers: “Not yet. I think the year’s just unlucky. I plan to go to the Yufu Temple festival to pray to Kṣitigarbha Bodhisattva.”
“The nineteenth is only a couple of days away. I’ll find a free day to offer incense. Last year I was busy with the fields and didn’t go—my harvest wasn’t as good as those who prayed. This Bodhisattva remembers well.”
“You’re always working hard. Your family is the most diligent in the village. If you’re going to the festival anyway, you might as well enjoy the fun. There are only two a year.”
Du Heng was returning from the soybean fields. By June, the sun was scorching. He had risen early, finished weeding the wild grass, and was heading home.
Passing by the ridges, he heard villagers talking about the temple festival. He furrowed his brow.
The village registrar had recorded their rapeseed yield. Seeing it was lower than expected, Du Heng considered how to maximize economic benefit.
He greeted the villagers and returned home with his hoe.
By the time he arrived, Xiaoman hadn’t returned yet. Du Heng washed the clothes piled in the basin yesterday, drying them in the yard. Soon after, Xiaoman came back, carrying a large basket of cow fodder.
Few villagers raised large livestock. Cow fodder was hard to come by, though recently some people had been cutting grass to sell to livestock owners, tightening the local supply.
Their family, however, had grown a sturdy cow. Occasionally, Xiaoman would even cut cabbage from the field to feed it.
“I heard the villagers say there’s a temple festival on the nineteenth of this month.”
“Yeah.” Qin Xiaoman set down the basket and poured himself a cup of water. “It’s always lively—people from both the city and the countryside come. And it’s said to be very auspicious.”
“What’s the matter? You want to go pray too?”
Du Heng chuckled, though his interest was more in the ‘lively’ part than the prayers themselves.
Qin Xiaoman leaned closer. “What are you asking for? Success in the exams, or maybe a child?”
Du Heng flicked a little water from his cup onto Xiaoman’s forehead. “The Yufu Temple has quite a wide range of activities, huh?”
“Of course, it’s a big temple.”
Du Heng asked, “If it’s that lively, can people sell things along the way?”
“Oh, plenty! Villagers bring their own fruits to sell, city vendors bring their carts. Along the main road you’ve got congee stalls, noodle stalls, dried fruit, pastries—everything.”
Du Heng was simply drawn to the bustle.
Xiaoman was pleased to see his husband interested. In the past, he had only sold plums. The plums weren’t perfect, but thanks to the crowd and generous buyers, they sold out. He remembered that fondly, though the past couple of years had been too busy to attend.
Excited, he said, “But what can we sell? Your wontons and noodles are delicious—maybe that’s an option.”
Du Heng shook his head. If everyone made the same things, it would be crowded, and the high quality and cost of ingredients would make it expensive. It wouldn’t sell well, and low pricing would lead to losses.
“Let’s first press the rapeseed into oil.”
Xiaoman considered it. Selling oil at the festival might not attract many buyers, but there was no dispute—seeds had to be pressed eventually.
So they first went to Uncle Ge’s.
“You mean you’re just providing the seeds and want me to press the oil?”
“Yes. See how much it would cost for the labor.”
Uncle Ge had long wanted to buy their seeds; they were large and full, ideal for oil. He planned to offer a fair price. But now, they weren’t selling seeds or oil—just asking for help pressing. That wouldn’t make much profit.
“These two are regular customers, but oil pressing takes time and effort. The process is complicated, so we’ll charge five wen per jin of seed.”
Xiaoman protested, “Uncle Ge, that’s too expensive! Selling seeds alone only gets a little over ten wen per jin. Five wen for pressing leaves hardly anything for us.”
“Xiaoman, you don’t know. You’ve never pressed oil yourself—you don’t know how much trouble it is.” Uncle Ge leaned back, legs crossed. “The cost of refined oil comes from the labor.”
Du Heng asked, “Nothing can be done to reduce it?”
Uncle Ge waved him off.
Du Heng didn’t haggle further. “Alright. We’ll think it over.” He then took Xiaoman and left.
“Hey!”
Mrs. Ge, carrying water, saw them leave. She muttered to her husband, “Five wen is steep. Why charge the villagers so much?”
“City oil mills charge even more. They can’t press oil themselves, so they pay someone.”
Mrs. Ge pouted. “You’re petty. Just because it’s their first rapeseed harvest and they did well, you’re unhappy?”
Uncle Ge snorted, half-shutting his eyes to sip tea, ignoring his wife.