The Trickster of the Meseta

When I left Madrid, Felipe gave me six books, telling me they might be of some use. One of them was Libro de Agricultura (The Book of Agriculture) by Gabriel Alonso de Herrera.

At first, I just skimmed through it, thinking it was just another dusty old tome. But having nothing better to do during the summer, I read it thoroughly, and it turned out to be far from ordinary.

It was filled with absolute nonsense: claims that wheat turns into rye if the environment is poor, that tench and eels spontaneously generate from mud, or that one must sow seeds according to the influence of the cosmos and the moon to ensure a bountiful harvest.

However, it also contained surprisingly advanced concepts: the importance of crop rotation and the necessity of fallowing. It explained the properties of fertilizers and how to use them, and even noted that legumes help crops grow well ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by "purifying the spirit of the land."

Furthermore, it detailed one of the secret techniques of 21st-century organic farming—timing the cutting of crops when the flower stalks emerge to use as green manure—and explained "mulching," the practice of covering the soil surface with straw or other materials to protect moisture and organic layers. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of over-technology this was.

It was packed with agricultural knowledge that made me question how they could possibly know such things, including a method for pest control using the water boiled from lupin beans to remove their toxicity—a trick I, a 21st-century farmer, hadn't even known. It provided detailed examples on how to dilute that water to soak seeds before drying them to prevent pest damage.

If a book published in 1513 contained such knowledge, why was Spanish agriculture in this sorry state a hundred years later?

Throughout September, I dragged a cow from village to village, collecting wild radish pods whenever I spotted them. Unlike the plump, cultivated radishes, these wild ones spread their seeds wherever they pleased. I had the impoverished villagers scatter these seeds across fields where vetch had already been sown. They lamented the fields that had been grazed by sheep, yet they faithfully followed my orders, sowing the seeds into the soil, now softened by the autumn rain.

I didn't have high hopes for these wild radish seeds. They weren't the "super" radish varieties of the 21st century, and there was no way they would grow to a satisfying size in this era.

But being wild species had its advantages. Even if I couldn't expect a harvest, unlike the 21st-century radishes that would cry, "Oh, no water? I'm dying!" at the slightest inconvenience, these would survive on rainwater alone, even in the cruel soil of the Meseta.

These radishes would serve as nutritious snacks for our cows next year. More importantly, they would act as a tool to break up the clay layers that had hardened like stone floors over the centuries. If I planted them for just a year or two and let them rot in the ground, the need for back-breaking deep plowing would be greatly reduced, and natural, sturdy soil pores would form instead.

Accompanied by one of my Tercio soldiers, I wandered through the distant lands where we hadn't been able to plant vetch, sowing handfuls of lupin beans into the damp earth. About a month later, seeing the lupin sprouts rising like oases across the desolate pastures, I decided not to worry about them anymore.

Ah, the fortunate thing was that the vetch beans, which had been grazed by sheep, survived thanks to the hardiness of this era's wild strains, creating patches of green alongside the turnips.

Watching the impoverished villagers weep, calling it a blessing from God, I felt a pang of guilt. I was planning to mow it all down before it bloomed and cover it with mulch to use as green manure... but the atmosphere was such that if I ordered that, a riot would genuinely break out.

"We will now begin the slaughter of the pig!!!"

The feast of La Matanza in November.

This is the day traditionally set aside in Spain to slaughter pigs and prepare sausages and salt-cured lard for the year. Of course, the best loins and hind legs are sold at the market or seized as rent, but it remains one of the few events where every farming household can find happiness in what remains.

However, the La Matanza of this era had a slightly different meaning.

"Eat up! It's to die for!"

They slit the throat of a screaming pig, thrust the blood sausage directly into its mouth, and the entire community watches to see if the participant likes it or not. If one were a Muslim or a Jew, they would express discomfort at killing an unclean animal like a pig and eating blood-filled sausages.

But the logic was clear and sound: wouldn't a true Catholic say, "Thank you!" and eat it? Furthermore, participating in La Matanza was the only way to be recognized not as a suspicious stranger, but as a member of the community, or at least a trustworthy neighbor.

Another change was the taxes. The King's administrators toured the countryside on this holiday, assessing taxes based on the pigs and seizing sausages. Perhaps that was why our scribe, terrified of being discovered as a royal official and beaten to death on the spot, couldn't participate.

Instead, I, the two Tercio brothers, and the villagers toured the neighboring villages I had been plowing throughout September, receiving sausages and lard as payment for our services. Most of it was morcilla, a blood sausage that didn't store well, rather than the more durable chorizo, but it was enough to taste the meat that made us forget the grueling labor of the planting season.

Having toured several villages and earned the title of pure Catholic neighbors rather than suspicious strangers, we were finally able to take on work from other villages and save on food costs. The scribe had managed to secure a minimum amount of food, but that was for the three of us—myself, the two Tercio men, and the scribe—not the villagers. In the end, I had to cover the villagers' food costs out of my own pocket. This is why Spain is failing. There's a limit to telling people to be self-reliant; isn't this too much?

We spent the entire winter working for others, and by earning food, we were able to erase the stain of suspicion, being called "reliable young men" and "good workers." The villagers didn't refuse the help of ten able-bodied men (though the Tercio brothers were mostly just watching us) during a time when all the young men had been dragged off to war and labor was scarce.

While working hard like that, I spotted a plant with golden fruits in what I had thought was just a bush in an abandoned village.

"Oh... what is this?"

I picked the fragrant, golden-shining fruit and sniffed it. When I drew my knife and split it in half, it was a bright yellow fruit with a cross-section like an apple.

"Don't you know what a quince is, Captain?"

"Ah, is this a quince?"

Only then did I realize what it was!

If 21st-century Korea had Doo-chon-ku, 17th-century Spain had a honey-jelly dessert called Dulce de membrillo. Felipe would sometimes give me a slice as a reward, but I never knew it was made from this fruit.

"It's fascinating. Dulce de membrillo is orange, though."

"If you simmer it slowly and boil it down in honey, it turns that color. You've tasted it, haven't you!"

"I think I've had it two or three times a year."

I returned to my quarters, opened General Agriculture, and read the section on quinces.

It sounded like nonsense... yet somehow it made sense. I swore that this was the first time I had ever seen this fruit in my life. So, I decided to try cutting propagation with ten of them, using the book's method for half and my own way for the other half. I would leave them ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠alone for a year.

Winter passed, and spring arrived. It was late April, the time when the vetch and radishes were growing like weeds and about to bloom. I gave the villagers a special order.

"Use large sickles to mow all of that down and scatter it."

"No, Captain, have you lost your mind? Why would you cut down that precious bean field!!!"

To their protest, I offered the justification I had been thinking about all winter.

"Then are you going to feed it all to the sheep? If we can't eat it, we have to make sure the sheep can't eat it either!"

My declaration seemed to leave a deep impression on them. They looked at the bean field and then at me with bewitched eyes, and the "Quixote of La Mancha" stepped forward.

"My rye field was eaten by sheep and vanished! You're right! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠If it's beans we can't eat, the sheep shouldn't be able to eat them either!!!"

We swung our large sickles, hacking away at the wild radishes and vetch that had sent up flower stalks, and scattered them across the farmland. Then, we let out the cows, which had grown plump grazing on grass all winter, to chew on the wild radishes, mixing the mud and the cut grass under the beasts' hooves.

No sooner had we finished all this work than the sheep flocks coming up from the south began to appear on the plains of Valladolid.

"Hey, you crazy bastards! What do you think you're doing, planting wolf beans on the Mesta's livestock trail!"

The lupin beans I had scattered had bloomed in layers, showing off pretty light purple flowers here and there.

Lupin, named after Lupus (wolf) in Latin. Because sheep would die of jaundice if they ate these toxic "wolf beans," the shepherds who knew this were coming over and making a huge scene.

"You stupid idiots! I will report your insolence to my Entregador, so you'd better be prepared!"

The Entregador was a circuit judge exclusively for the Mesta, notorious for handling only Mesta-related cases and delivering verdicts favorable to them.

At their shouting, I looked at the scribe and asked.

"Scribe. Do we have to manage even the 'wild grass' that isn't being cultivated?"

"Well... legally, there are conflicting parts..."

I grinned at the scribe's words and stood up. If territories conflict, it's an ability battle over whose backing "Stand" is stronger. And this was my specialty. It was time for Juan Manuel, the world's strongest Jojo-er who had honed his skills in the royal stables for the past 16 years, to step up.

The familiar Jojo background music began to play behind me. I channeled my aura into every step and summoned my "Stand." The royal servants' "Stand," [The Real-Madrido], which brings the majesty of the King into reality, activated its special ability: "Invincible as long as the opponent is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not a noble."

"What do you want me to do about it, you wandering shepherds! Do you even know that this is a special royal farm? I didn't plant that grass, so if you don't like it, pull it out yourselves before you leave!"

"What!?"

Once I dropped the "Royal" card, the shepherds murmured, disappeared for a moment, and then returned with someone who looked like their leader.

"You bastard! How dare you, a mere vagrant, use the King's name! We are the shepherds of the Mesta!"

"Even so, what do you expect me to do about it! We are working under the King's orders here. If you're unhappy, tell your master to come here himself!"

"Grrr!!!"

But I was already waiting for them in my royal stableman's uniform. With two armed Tercio brothers growling behind me and the scribe standing there in his formal attire, they lost their initial confidence and began to panic. In the 17th century, clothing speaks to one's identity, and tone and appearance are metaphors for one's status.

"You'd better be careful driving your sheep! The moment your flock sets even one foot on this royal farm, the consequences will be entirely your responsibility!"

"D...damn it!"

The passive skill of pre-modern people, "contempt for the weak," works in reverse, prompting a quick retreat when they perceive themselves as the weak ones. As soon as the shepherds realized their position, they disappeared, muttering, "We'll retreat for now!"

"You're amazing, Captain! To think you made those insolent shepherds back down!"

The impoverished villagers, who had been hiding in the houses of the ruined village and watching, came out one by one as my confrontation with the shepherds ended in a landslide victory, looking at me with eyes as if they were seeing a hero. But the Quixote of La Mancha, who had been watching quietly, asked me slyly.

"But if it was going to be like this, couldn't we have just not mowed the beans?"

"Shh—be quiet."

This is why I hate villagers who are too quick on the uptake.

Author's Note:

If you translate "Don Quixote" into Korean, it feels like "Sir Thigh-Diameter, Sir Stamina-King." It's said that after Don Quixote became a huge hit at the time, people would say, "Oh, you're from La Mancha? Then your nickname is Quixote from now on~."