The season for spring plowing had already passed.
According to the old village chief of Blackthorn Village, if they plowed and sowed now, the best part of the growing season would be long gone by the time the wheat seedlings emerged.
The harvest would be much poorer, perhaps so poor that they would not even recover the grain used as seed.
Even so, planting something was better than planting nothing at all.
Besides, Adrian possessed knowledge beyond that of the people of this era.
Drill sowing instead of broadcasting, using wood ash to adjust soil acidity, enriching the fields with river silt, and rotating crops to restore the land—none of these methods were known to the serfs bound to their lords’ strip fields, and no one had ever taught them.
Adrian was different.
As long as the harvest ratio reached one to five, the three sacks of rye would produce enough food to sustain all three of them until the following year.
If the crop was carefully tended, watered regularly, weeded often, and protected from wild boars and jackdaws, even a ratio of one to ten might be possible.
Cabbage, meanwhile, was far less demanding about the season.
It could be sown as soon as the soil was turned, and its short growing period meant it could be harvested within two months.
Rye was an investment for the future, while cabbage would feed them in the near term.
Cooking cabbage leaves in broth would fill their stomachs and preserve their limited grain.
The pouch of vegetable seeds from Blackthorn Village had remained untouched until now, but it was finally time to plant them.
Adrian pulled the leather pouch from beneath his tunic, loosened the cord, and poured several seeds into his palm.
They were small gray-brown grains, dry and clean.
He lifted one toward the light, inspected it carefully, then returned it to the others.
The following morning, he would first turn the vegetable plot, sow the seeds, and water the soil thoroughly.
By the time the cabbage seedlings emerged, the rye field should also be ready for planting.
Not far away, Lucy moved along the edge of the forest, her small, thin figure darting in and out of the bushes as she gathered bundles of wind-fallen twigs.
“That’s enough.
Let’s head back,” Adrian called.
“Tonight, we’ll cut up the tenderloin, add some gray salt, and boil it a little longer.” Oliver’s eyes immediately brightened at the mention of tenderloin.
He dragged his heavy legs after Adrian as the evening wind swept in from the river, carrying away the day’s heat and leaving a chill behind.
Adrian pressed a hand against the salt pouch beneath his leather vest and listened to the uneven footsteps following him.
Then he led the way up the path toward the wooden house beneath the cliff.
…
“Whew…” Adrian straightened his back and looked over the newly turned soil, which had expanded by roughly half a mu.
Dark-red clay was packed beneath his fingernails.
The cabbage plot was ready, and the seeds had already been sown.
Although nothing had sprouted yet, he could already imagine rows of green leaves growing from the land enriched by river silt.
He rested the iron-shod wooden shovel across his shoulders and glanced at Oliver, whose steps had become unsteady from exhaustion.
For several days, the two of them had worked from dawn until dusk, cutting trees, digging out roots, collecting stones, and turning the earth.
Even with a shovel and a hoe, they had managed to clear only this much ground.
When Oliver stood upright, his knees trembled beneath him.
“Let’s go back.
We’ll continue tomorrow.” Oliver followed behind, while Lucy emerged from the forest carrying a small bundle of dry twigs.
The three returned along the path as the evening breeze rolled in from the river, carrying the cold, damp scent of freshly turned earth.
The sacks of rye remained stacked against the wall beside the entrance.
Adrian set the shovel near the doorway and lifted the curtain.
The stove was still warm.
He crouched, added two dry twigs, and watched the flames rise again.
He took several pieces of smoked meat from the rafters, cut off a few fatty portions, and dropped them into the clay pot.
Then he pinched a small amount of coarse salt from the jar and scattered it into the water.
The water slowly began to boil, and the savory scent of smoked meat mixed with salt drifted through the house.
Oliver sat against the earthen wall on the pile of grass, his eyes half closed.
Lucy leaned against him with her head resting on his shoulder, already asleep.
When the soup was ready, Adrian filled a bowl, removed two pieces of meat, and placed them on a strip of clean bark before pushing it toward Oliver.
“Eat, then sleep.” Oliver opened his eyes and nodded.
He tore off a small piece of meat and gently touched it against Lucy’s face.
Lucy opened her mouth sleepily, took a bite, chewed twice, and closed her eyes again.
Oliver placed his own portion in his mouth and began chewing slowly, but before long, his jaw stopped moving.
He had fallen asleep with the meat still in his mouth.
Adrian held his bowl and took a sip of soup.
The meat had been stewed until tender, the salt had soaked into it, and every bite carried the rich flavor of fat.
After finishing the first bowl, he served himself another.
Once he had eaten, exhaustion quickly settled over him.
For several days, he had spent every waking hour cutting trees, digging roots, removing stones, and turning the soil.
His shoulders and lower back felt as though they had been beaten with a hammer.
He placed the wooden bowl on the stone ledge and leaned against the earthen wall, his eyelids growing heavy.
Oliver and Lucy were curled together on the opposite side of the stove.
Lucy slept with her mouth slightly open, breathing softly and evenly.
Oliver lay on his side facing the fire, his eyes closed, though his body remained tense and tightly curled.
Adrian glanced at him, unbuckled the arming sword from his waist, and placed it within reach.
After a moment, he nudged the hilt half an inch closer.
He was not sleeping deeply.
His ears remained alert to every sound outside.
The river flowed gently beyond the doorway, and the wind occasionally lifted the curtain.
Inside the stove, the charcoal ash collapsed with a faint rustle.
The two children continued breathing evenly, and no other sound disturbed the hut.
Adrian finally closed his eyes.
Days passed one after another.
At last, the full two acres had been plowed.
The tree stumps had been dug out, the stones gathered and piled along the field’s edge, and the soil turned one shovelful at a time.
The dark-brown clods baked beneath the sun and gradually lightened in color.
Adrian crouched on the field ridge, gathered a handful of earth, and squeezed it between his fingers.
Most of the moisture had evaporated.
The ground was ready for sowing.
Adrian taught Oliver how to sow the rye in drills.
Instead of broadcasting the grain across the surface, they would dig evenly spaced shallow trenches, place the seeds inside, and cover them with soil.
Oliver crouched beside him with his brow furrowed, unable to understand why they needed to go to so much trouble.
Broadcasting would have been much easier; all they would have needed to do was scatter the grain by hand.
But Oliver did not question him.
He simply did whatever Adrian instructed.
Digging the trenches was backbreaking work.
Following a taut hemp cord, Oliver pushed the iron-shod wooden shovel forward through the field, keeping the depth and spacing as even as possible.
He worked from one end of the field to the other, then returned to begin the next row.
The sun rose above the mountain ridge and shone across his back, while beads of sweat ran down his neck and soaked into his collar.
After completing each trench, Oliver straightened, pressed both hands against his lower back, and grimaced.
Then he bent down and began again.
Adrian sowed the grain.
He took handfuls of rye from the cloth sack at his waist and walked along each trench, slowly loosening his fingers so the seeds fell evenly across the bottom.
When he finished a row, he pushed the soil back over the grain with his boots and pressed it down firmly.
Oliver watched him for a while before returning to dig the next trench.
The two worked from morning until night, crossing the two acres trench by trench, handful by handful, and step by step.
On the final day, Oliver crouched beside the field and found himself unable to rise.
He supported himself with both hands against the earth, his knees trembling for a long while before he finally managed to stand.
Adrian scattered the last handful of rye into the final trench, covered it with earth, and pressed it down with his boot.
Then he straightened and looked across the two acres of freshly covered farmland.
The rows were straight, the spacing was even, and the seeds lay hidden beneath the soil.
Whether the field would produce the harvest he hoped for could only be answered with time.
They would have to wait for the seeds to germinate and the green shoots to rise.
They would also have to keep the birds from pecking them out and the insects from devouring them.
Oliver crouched silently on the ridge with both hands resting on his knees.
Lucy emerged from the forest, walked over, and set her bundle of dry twigs at her feet before squatting beside him.
Adrian rolled up the empty cloth sack, tucked it beneath his belt, and lifted the iron-shod wooden shovel.
“Let’s head back.”