Chapter Ninety-Seven: I Want to Make Compost

Old Wen was too late to stop it.

The village chief’s face lit up with joy as soon as he heard: “Really? We can exchange too?”

Wen Xiuyi felt embarrassed to keep having the chief help them, so he took over the chief’s role and said, “Of course you can. The things we make are meant for everyone to use, and this is for the convenience of all. There’s no need to keep it secret.

I’ve already spoken to Carpenter Zhang; our villagers can get it at a lower price. If your family wants to exchange, just go find him and say I sent you.”

Hearing this, the village chief finally overturned his previous impression of Wen Xiuyi. This man suddenly became so generous that the chief wondered if the Wen Xiuyi he knew before ever really existed.

“That’s wonderful. With this, everyone will find work much easier.” Not every household had oxen, but with one or two in the village, everyone could take turns using them, which was good enough.

And now, with more efficient tools, everyone’s labor would be easier, productivity would increase, and the village would only get better and better. The chief’s chances of being praised by his superiors would rise too.

He didn’t delay any longer and immediately announced the news in the fields.

“The Wen family is truly generous. Brother Xiuyi’s invention—the curved-plow—he said we can all exchange for it. I’ll go to Carpenter Zhang to get one made. From now on, with two oxen in the village, everyone can take turns borrowing them, and work will be much easier.

Let’s all thank Uncle Wen and Brother Xiuyi.”

Everyone was overjoyed, offering thanks and praising the Wen family’s generosity.

Old Wen felt the chief was just trying to make things difficult for him. When did he ever agree to lend out Da Huang?

But hearing all the praise and flattery, Old Wen’s vanity quickly surged.

“We all live in the same village. Who doesn’t face hardship sometimes? Lending a hand is no big deal. Everyone, disperse now. Once my own fields are taken care of, I’ll come help everyone else in turn. Go on, scatter.”

After saying this, Old Wen wished he could slap himself.

That damned pride, that damned vanity.

Wen Xiuyi and his two younger brothers stifled their laughter behind him, and even Mrs. Li and Mrs. Cai couldn’t help but chuckle. They knew the old man too well; the villagers’ flattery had left him stuck, unable to retreat.

But while the old man was easygoing, the sharp-tongued Mrs. Li, inheriting her mother-in-law’s temperament, wouldn’t let her father-in-law suffer losses.

She tossed aside her wheat stalks and called out loudly, “Let’s make it clear: borrowing Da Huang from our family isn’t free, nor is working for everyone without compensation. You all need to prepare Da Huang’s feed.”

There was no reason to lend Da Huang and still have to pay for its feed.

Everyone laughed and promised that was a given.

Only then did Mrs. Li return to her work, whispering to her sisters-in-law, “Just wait, when we get home, Dad will definitely get scolded by Mom.”

She laughed at her own words, and Mrs. Cai, though reserved, couldn’t help but laugh as well. They could easily picture the old man being lectured by the old lady.

Sure enough, they didn’t even have to wait until evening. By afternoon, Mrs. Luo had already heard about it.

The villagers, returning home, remembered to thank her, and even those working at the house construction site put in more effort.

Mrs. Luo kept her composure in public, but once she asked privately, she learned what had happened in the fields.

When it was just her and Wen Yao in the kitchen, the old lady couldn’t help but snort coldly, “The Wen family, each and every one, is a living Bodhisattva.”

Wen Yao nearly burst out laughing and dared to reply, “Grandma, I’m a Wen too.”

Mrs. Luo paused, then threw a vegetable leaf at Wen Yao, teasing, “Yes, yes, you’re all Wen. I’m the outsider, the villain.” She laughed at her own words.

Wen Yao caught the leaf with a grin and put it back, pouting, “You’re not a villain; you’re the matriarch of the Wen family.”

Mrs. Luo glared at her, her eyes and lips smiling, “Go to the storeroom and scoop half a ladle of wheat bran. Mix it into Da Huang’s feed later as a supplement. It’s a pity Da Huang can’t talk, just let himself be sold off by them.”

“Maybe Da Huang enjoys it, ha ha!” Wen Yao laughed as she ran off to the storeroom, leaving Mrs. Luo to continue working in the kitchen, her face still smiling.

How to describe this feeling—it was as if things had returned to when Wen Xiuyi first passed the scholar’s exam. Everyone treated her with courtesy and flattery; from now on, who would dare look down on the Wen family?

Though she had silently come to terms with it, when Old Wen and Wen Xiuyi returned, they couldn’t escape Mrs. Luo’s sarcastic tirade.

Father and son were meek; they’d spoken the words and handled the affair. All they could do was quietly endure the scolding.

As for their great hero Da Huang, back in the livestock shed, he was rewarded with grass mixed with wheat bran. When he saw Wen Yao, he nudged her repeatedly and was coaxed into getting a milk candy, happily eating his fill and resting contentedly.

With Da Huang, their work efficiency doubled. In just four days, all their fields were turned over, and villagers began coming to borrow Da Huang and the curved-plow.

With Mrs. Luo overseeing things, they wouldn’t suffer losses. As they turned the fields, Wen Xiuyi didn’t let them throw away the wheat stalks, roots, and dead leaves they dug up but had them pile it all in the fields.

Now that the fields were finished, it was time to decide what to do with all that material.

Wen Xiuyi told them directly to use it for compost.

“Dad, how did we usually fertilize the fields?” Wen Xiuyi asked, seeing everyone’s puzzlement.

Old Wen replied, “When harvesting wheat, we burn the stalks in the field and spread the ashes. Families with more people can save up some manure mixed with water.”

Wen Xiuyi understood. No wonder—the fields lacked nutrients, so yields stayed low. With low yields, there was little grain, and with little grain, hunger followed. It was no surprise that every family barely scraped by, and none had built up their savings from farming alone; all their money came from working outside.

Wen Xiuyi explained a few methods he knew for composting. The Wen family fell silent.

Old Wen had farmed all his life, and his two sons as well, spending most of their years working the land. Now, a man who had never worked the fields was teaching them how to farm—it felt bizarre no matter how you looked at it.

Not just the three men, even Mrs. Luo and her two daughters-in-law found it strange, glancing repeatedly at Wen Xiuyi.

“Mother, why are you staring at me? Is there something on my face?” Wen Xiuyi asked, rubbing his face.

Mrs. Luo looked away, unable to keep watching his silly expression.

Old Wen tapped his pipe and spoke, “Eldest, these methods you’re suggesting—are you sure they work? I’ve never seen anyone do it this way. If it doesn’t work…”

Wen Xiuyi thought to himself, of course it works—these are techniques refined over hundreds of years by our ancestors.

But he didn’t dare say that, only replied, “Dad, trust me just this once. It’ll definitely work. This year we’ll compost ourselves, and next year our yield will surely rise. If it doesn’t, I’ll pay all our family’s grain tax next year.”