Chapter Seventy-five: Harvesting in the Rain

Black clouds covered the sky, turning day into night. Thunder rumbled overhead, and heavy rain threatened to fall at any moment.

The faces of the farmers in the Upper Village were etched with despair. Yet, gritting their teeth in desperation, they swung their sickles madly, cutting down row after row of wheat. Others, their expressions grave, hurriedly carried the sheaves back. Across the vast fields, not a single word was spoken; only the ceaseless rustle of blades slicing through stalks filled the air.

No one dared utter a sound, not even to draw a deep breath, for fear that the faintest exhale might startle the rain down from the heavens.

At the edge of the field, a silver-haired elder knelt on the ground, bowing again and again toward the sky, begging for the clouds to part and the rain to hold off until the harvest was done.

But the thunder drew ever closer.

“It’s over, it’s all over…” Tears welled in the old man’s eyes. With the approaching tax collection looming, he felt nothing but utter despair.

Suddenly, a group of people appeared in the distance, hurrying toward them. They carried strange implements in their hands and stopped at the edge of the field.

“We’re from Changgu!” they called out breathlessly as they neared. “Saw the clouds and thought you might not be done—came to help! Where’s the most left to cut?”

The elder rose, recognizing many faces among them, especially the one leading the group.

“Shitou, why are you here instead of harvesting your own wheat?” he asked hurriedly.

“Our village finished harvesting and storing everything. Seeing the storm coming, all our able-bodied men went to help the neighboring villages,” Liu Shitou replied. “I came to Upper Village, Wang Laosi took a group to Lower Village…”

Before Liu Shitou could finish, the elder stared at him in shock, asking, “You’ve finished? When did Changgu start harvesting? Just yesterday the wheat was barely ripe—did you cut it before it was ready?”

Shaking his head, Liu Shitou raised the tool in his hand. “We started at sunrise yesterday, just like you. But our Lord Wei made these new reapers for us—much faster. This morning he saw the storm coming, so we rushed even more and finished by noon. Enough talking! Let’s get to work—every sheaf we save counts!”

With that, Liu Shitou led his men into the field. Standing before the wheat with his new reaper, he swept it forward and cut a wide swath, gathering the stalks neatly as they fell. He turned and shouted, “One person behind me, tie the bundles!”

He pressed on, his reaper flashing—each sweep felling another wide patch. In the blink of an eye, the entire section was cleared. Without pause, they moved on to the next field.

Others did the same, clearing one plot after another, not caring whose land it was. Wherever wheat still stood, they plunged in, reapers swinging, teeth clenched with determination.

The thunder grew louder, and the black clouds rolled ever closer.

“Hurry! Faster!” Liu Shitou shouted, ignoring the blood streaming from the blister torn open by the reaper’s rope in his left hand.

To these farmers, the wheat before them was life itself. Without it, there was no hope of survival.

Beneath the looming sky, the only sounds were the thunder and the relentless swish of wheat being cut and bundled—a strange, frenzied silence settling over the fields.

“This patch is clear!” someone shouted. “Where next?”

“Done here too! Where else?” another voice called back.

A tremendous clap of thunder shook the air. The elder at the field’s edge felt a sudden wetness on his face. His heart sank, arms falling limply by his side. “It’s over…”

The summer rain came in a fierce torrent, instantly veiling the world in a dense, shifting curtain.

“How much is left?” Liu Shitou wiped his face, shouting in no particular direction.

“Almost done!” came a distant reply, just as loud.

In the face of disaster, people can summon unimaginable strength. The farmers, racing the rain, worked faster than ever, their frantic pace outstripping even their efforts in their own fields.

Liu Shitou wiped the rain from his face and dashed to find any fields still unharvested, moving from plot to plot, clearing each in turn.

“It’s done! All finished!” Suddenly, a triumphant shout rang through the rain. “It’s all harvested!”

Relief surged through Liu Shitou’s chest, but pain seared his hand.

“Shitou! Liu Shitou!” came an old voice behind him.

He turned to see the elder hurrying over, calling his name. Grasping Liu Shitou’s arm, the elder said, “We’re so grateful to you—all thanks to your help!”

Liu Shitou shook his head. “Elder Qi, how much did we save?” he asked, more anxious for this answer than any other.

“More than eighty percent! Over eighty percent has been saved!” the elder exclaimed, trembling with emotion. “Only a fifth was caught by the rain.”

At that, Liu Shitou let out a long breath. His legs gave out, and he collapsed into the muddy earth, utterly spent.

“Quick, help him up!” the elder called, and several men rushed to lift Liu Shitou.

“Don’t worry, Elder Qi. Gather everyone—I have a message for you,” Liu Shitou said after catching his breath.

“Of course! Rest first, all of you!” the elder ordered. “Bring water! Give our benefactors a drink!”

People helped Liu Shitou and his companions to rest, brought water, and called the villagers together, as if the pouring rain no longer mattered.

When all the laborers had assembled, the elder spoke: “We owe everything today to these strong lads from Changgu. Without them, we wouldn’t have saved even half our crop. They are our great benefactors! Listen well—if ever Changgu needs help from Upper Village, anyone who refuses is ungrateful and deserves heaven’s wrath!”

“Everyone!” Liu Shitou called out from behind. “Our Lord Wei told me to pass along this advice: If the weather stays wet and the wheat can’t be dried, store it in sealed places and add some poplar branches with leaves to the piles. That will help keep the wheat from sprouting or molding too quickly.”

Fearing they might doubt him, he added, “Lord Wei’s word is always true. The tools we used for cutting wheat were his invention. This morning, when the sun was still shining, it was Lord Wei who warned us rain was coming.”

The power of these new reapers was plain for all to see. Without them, how could they have gathered so much wheat before the rain?

Everyone believed at once.

“Lord Wei of Changgu…” the elder murmured, thinking. “Isn’t he the one commended by the county magistrate—the one who invented the irrigation device the county office sent everyone to study? Is he the same man?”

Liu Shitou nodded. “Our Lord Wei is indeed a remarkable man. He made the new plows that spared us from carrying water to the fields. When it was time for the wheat harvest, he devised these powerful tools, letting us finish in a day and a half. If not for his warning this morning, we would have lost our own wheat to the rain and couldn’t have come to help you.”

The villagers listened in awe and gratitude, the storm raging outside, their hearts now full of hope.