The Year of the Death Wind
March. When not a single drop of rain fell during the season when the earth should have been soaked, every church in the central Meseta held Rogativas—prayers for rain. They offered prayers, masses, and acts of penance, begging God for forgiveness and rain, but the heavens remained silent.
April passed without a single drop. The Valladolid Cathedral held weekly processions, and the Archbishop himself engaged in public penance, yet God turned a blind eye to their pleas.
In May, a light drizzle seemed to fall, but it barely kissed the parched earth before vanishing. Farmers fought over the few grains of sand dampened by that meager moisture, desperate to throw them into their wheat fields. Soon, the Pisuerga River began to dry up. Wells, the only source of water for both man and beast, began to run dry.
June. The wind that every farmer feared to call by name—the wind the 21st century calls Solano, but which the locals call Asurado—began to howl. A scorching, bone-dry gale swept over the wheat fields, turning every stalk into withered chaff or killing it outright. Cattle and pigs died of thirst.
In Castile, where agriculture usually yielded four to five grains for every one planted, this "Year 25" death wind devoured everything, leaving not a single grain for the farmers.
"......"
"Th-this... this is a miracle..."
Our wheat fields had been battered just the same. However, the well-tended vegetation and the loose black soil had managed to retain some moisture beneath the surface, and the humidity from the charca (rainwater reservoir) combined with the bean-stalk mulching had improved our situation enough that a harvest of five to six grains per seed seemed possible. But that wasn't the miracle we were witnessing.
"Everyone, keep quiet. We harvest this among ourselves, and we do it silently. As far as the world knows, our harvest failed this year, too. Do you all understand?"
"Yes!"
"And you, Secretary, keep your mouth shut about this, except for the official royal report. And you, my Tercio brothers! I have a task for you."
"Just say the word, 'Capitán'."
They, too, had begun calling me Capitán—Captain.
"Go into the city of Valladolid. Find those who have fallen into poverty but are former Tercio soldiers—men you can trust. Bring back those who are willing to settle here and stay until they die."
"Understood. Hey, Lanky. Let's go."
I led the farmhands to harvest the Don-Quixote wheat I had planted separately. These "mad knight" stalks had ripened by late May, their heads fat and heavy, waiting for the sickle. A single hectare of Don-Quixote was yielding as much as, or perhaps even more than, four hectares of regular wheat.
We told no one. We gathered every single seed, dried them in the scorching sun, and once threshed and dried, we stored them in jars, sealing them with ash to preserve them.
"...What a mad strain of grain."
After harvesting the Don-Quixote, I touched the soil. This was prime land, well-fertilized and enriched with vetch beans, yet the earth felt as if every ounce of vitality had been sucked out of it; it lacked the vibrant life typical of healthy soil. Watching the madness of this "mad knight," I re-evaluated my crop rotation cycle. I had originally planned to plant wheat after a fallow period, then use beans to restore the soil, followed by barley before another fallow, but this grain was a soil-depleting monster on par with ginseng or linen.
"After planting this, we absolutely must let the land lie fallow. A truly mad knight, indeed."
I shook my head, brushing off the white, waxy powder clinging to the stubble.
By July, after all the Don-Quixote was harvested and stored, the time came for the regular wheat harvest. Only then did we announce the news to the surrounding villages.
"Sadly, we did not have a great harvest this time... but as members of this community, we wish to share this small joy."
"*Sob*..."
"*Waaaaah*..."
As we caught tench from the nearly dried-up charca and shared our meager wheat harvest to foster community spirit, starving refugees began to flock from afar, begging for work in exchange for food.
If previous crop failures were coffee, this year's failure was the "TOP" of disasters. Even at the harvest festival, we could feel that the era of eating whole grains had arrived, as grinding wheat into flour to bake bread was now considered a luxury; we boiled porridge made of tench and whole grains instead.
We put the 20 tons of regular wheat into the newly built 50-ton granary, while the Don-Quixote seeds were placed in the old 10-ton granary, which was then strictly sealed. We piled junk in front of it to make it look like an abandoned shed, creating a double-layered barricade.
Of course, 20 tons of wheat wouldn't last long if we tried to feed all those mouths.
"We've failed our own harvest this time, too. Do we really have to take in those hungry mouths?"
"And if we don't? If we take them in, we can use them as labor. If we don't, they'll turn into bandits and target our granary, and we won't be able to sleep at night."
I spoke the reality to the 'Conqueror'. Instead, I decided to give them tasks.
"We don't have much grain to spare, either."
I gathered their representatives and opened the 50-ton granary to show them. Unlike the hope outside, the massive stone structure wasn't even half full.
"My Lord, please save us! If even the royal estate abandons us, we have no choice but to die!"
"We must endure the worst of it. First, go to the lupine bean field over there, harvest all the lupines, and soak them in water. If you soak them for two weeks and salt them, the toxins should fade."
"I never thought I'd live in an era where I had to eat those poison beans again."
An old man, one of the representatives, wept bitterly.
"The water used to soak the lupines is also highly toxic, so do not just dump it into the river. Lead the men, divert a tributary of the Pisuerga, and soak them separately."
"And gather as many acorns as you can. We must mix the acorns with the grain and find a way to survive."
"If you roam the surroundings and bring back wild radish or clover seeds, I will trade them for wheat grains. But! They must be real radish and clover seeds, by God! If you bring me weed seeds, I will have no choice but to hold you accountable for the sin of deceiving God!"
The refugees bowed their heads and scattered into the mountains and fields. Lupines, which would normally be ignored, had survived this insane drought to produce seeds, and the starving people gathered them, detoxified them, and ate them. They boiled acorns to remove the bitterness, and they would harvest even foxtail grass if it meant they could stretch their food supply.
With fuel also in short supply, we held communal cooking sessions using a mix of dry straw, donkey dung, and cow dung. Rumors that one could at least eat such food drew everyone in the area who could still walk to our farm.
Among them were priests. The Benedictine priests praised me, calling my requirement of radish or clover seeds for wheat a "virtuous act of one who knows the true value of labor," but I had a reason for collecting those seeds.
Meanwhile, heads of households, desperate to feed their children and families even a little more grain, scrambled to tackle the difficult land clearing. After harvesting all the lupines, they cut the bean stalks to the ground, cleared the land into the 12-fanega plots I demanded, and dug into the earth to create new charcas—all with joyful hearts.
I rewarded their devotion with every extra grain of wheat I could spare, and the refugees, huddled together in the roofless fields, endured their suffering by the water and shade during the day and by each other's warmth at night.
"Damn it, I can't believe I came to the mainland just to eat this pig slop."
The members of our farm were unhappy about having to eat that coarse food themselves.
But when I silently ate the same food first, the grumbling Tercio soldiers followed suit, albeit with complaints. But the hardship didn't end there.
"Captain, we have less than 100 fanegas of wheat left. And... it's October now, and the rain still hasn't come properly..."
"Damn it... do we have to prepare for the worst?"
The autumn rains that should have arrived in October were nowhere to be seen. The drought of '25 was truly, viciously harsh.
November arrived. Only then did the rain begin to fall, and the refugees gathered near the royal estate cried out to God. Those who had lived like beasts rather than men near the royal lands wept at the falling rain, slowly returning to their humanity.
"Return home now! I will distribute the seeds. Go! Pray to God for next year's harvest!"
I spoke to them solemnly. They bowed their heads repeatedly in gratitude, clutching the wheat grains in their rags or worn-out sacks as if they were gold. Over the past three months, I had taught them the secret to how the royal estate survived the drought: cutting the lupine stalks before they flowered in the shallow furrows and piling them thickly to cover the ground and retain moisture. Unlike the seed sacks, they kept the lupine seeds they had saved from eating in small pouches, treating them like treasures.
"We... did... it...."
Once the refugees returned to their homes and those with nowhere to go were sent to Valladolid, I finished incorporating the diligent workers into our farm. I felt a sense of accomplishment.
"Why go to such lengths?"
The secretary, who had watched me work until the end, asked with a curious look.
"Why? Because if we don't do this, bandits will spring up all over Spain. Honestly, if I hadn't done this, we would have been killed in the middle of the night and our granary doors would have been torn off."
I didn't believe for a second that desperate, starving people would be stopped by the name of the Crown or the shouts of a few soldiers.
"And were there only one or two bands of thieves targeting us? Those refugees ended up hunting them down and surviving by looting them back."
Bandits were no different from those refugees. As I grumbled, the secretary said to me:
"You are a good man, Capitán."
"No. I simply utilized their labor in the cheapest and most efficient way possible and maintained a minimum level of security and safety."
A good man? I was just aiming for maximum efficiency at minimum cost. It seemed the secretary had become overly sentimental after all the hard work. I needlessly diluted some vinegared wine with water and drank it.
"No one else in this kingdom tried to rule them with wheat grains instead of swords and spears."
"That is why I say I will leave. I only worked hard so as not to bring shame upon my friend, as I am the one responsible for the royal estate this time. Otherwise, I wouldn't have done it."
I shook my head. Honestly, I only did this because I was in a position similar to a public enterprise. If I had abandoned them, it would have tarnished my friend's name.
"You are likely the only one in this kingdom who refers to the King in such a way, 'Capitán'."
While I handled these matters, it was the farmers' job to sow radish and clover seeds into the depleted soil according to my plan, and to plant rye in the newly cleared fields. And now, following the order from above to keep expanding the farmland beyond 100 hectares, they were increasing the lupine bean colonies.
"Captain, why are we planting rye instead of 'that wheat'?"
"...When the weather is shitty, it's always right to plant the safe bet. Let's rotate the fallow land, dig new furrows, clear the fields, and then plant it."
I shook my head at Quixote's words. I had a bad feeling about it; the soil was already exhausted, and I felt like we'd pay the price if we planted it now.
The November rain fell long and abundantly, as if to compensate for the drought of the past year. I ordered the drainage systems to be maintained, and while enduring the complaints of Aventador, who had grown thin from lack of food during the summer, I climbed onto Talia's back.
Aventador truly hated Talia. Since I cherished both horses, I had hoped Talia would carry Aventador's foal, but Aventador seemed to loathe her beyond mere dislike. In any case, unlike the cows and donkeys that could be satisfied by the charca, these two horses had to be taken to the river to drink, and managing their constant fighting was no easy task.
"Aventador. Why do you hate Talia so much?"
At my words, Aventador looked quietly at Talia, then snorted at the mule Talia had birthed and the donkey beside it.
"Ah......"
Understanding his feelings, I gave up on the idea of reconciling Aventador and Talia.
***
Author's Note:
Even in the 21st century, a drought-resistant, high-yield, late-May harvest variety? It's not common... The reason I called this seed a "cheat seed" is because it was obtained through natural occurrence at a level not easily achieved even by 21st-century agricultural engineering. You can just view it as a divine blessing.
In terms of settings, the advantages of 'Don-Quixote' are: 1. High yield. 2. Drought and cold resistance due to the waxy layer. Strong against short-term waterlogging. 3. Strong against lodging (because it's short). 4. Extremely fast harvest.
The disadvantages are: 1. Insane soil nutrient consumption. 2. High initial water consumption. 3. Extremely high sunlight requirement. 4. Strong against short-term waterlogging, but if exposed to moisture for a long time, the waxy layer melts, causing fungal diseases or lodging.