The Miracle of the Drought
From 1621, the Rogativa—the church’s prayers for rain—never ceased around Valladolid. The record-breaking spring drought struck the wheat during its most critical grain-filling stage, turning the stalks into nothing but chaff. Famine and disease followed in its wake. The spring drought of 1621 was followed by another in 1622, and then came the spring of 1623. Even in April and May, when the first wheat I had planted was nearing harvest, the drought persisted without a single drop of rain.
"Oh Lord, I have tended this field more diligently than any other. I have turned the earth deeper than any man, and I have cultivated this land without sparing even a single weed."
Quijote of La Mancha. He was weeping, wailing before a wheat field that was shriveling and dying before it could even sprout ears. The reward God had granted the farmer who had tilled the deepest and worked the hardest was nothing but the parched despair of a harvest that would yield not a single grain. He would cross the dried-up stream to reach the Pisuerga River in the distance, hauling back a single jar of water to pour over the wheat while praying to God. Like the parched earth, his eyes were so dry that not even tears could flow; he simply sobbed.
"Quijote. Get up."
I pulled him to his feet. Our fields were bizarrely, extremely polarized. First, the shallow-tilled land of about 12 hectares, which took up more than half the area, was divided into drilled and broadcast-sown sections. The drilled wheat, which had been farmed with the most laziness, was the most vibrant and alive. Next was the broadcast-sown wheat, and the fields tilled in the traditional cross-hatch pattern were dying, though not as badly as Quijote’s. The roughly 2 hectares of deeply tilled soil, where I had poured the most effort, had not a single stalk of wheat left, despite Quijote’s desperate, life-risking efforts.
"The priests told me since I was a child that God grants a bountiful harvest to the diligent farmer. So why is this happening!!!"
"Quijote..."
"Captain, did you use magic? Did you use sorcery to steal my efforts? How can that lazily farmed field, where the weeds weren't even properly pulled, be the most vibrant and alive!"
Quijote looked at me and screamed with a strange, hateful, and suspicious tone.
"Hey, you idiot!"
A terrified pauper grabbed Quijote and bowed his head. I stopped him and spoke to Quijote.
"Quijote. If it had rained on time this spring, your field would surely have yielded a harvest richer than any other. It would have grown the finest wheat, with every grain plump and ready for the King’s table."
"!!!!!!"
I acknowledged Quijote’s passion, his effort. He was always tending the wheat field. More diligently and passionately than anyone else. It was as if he were caring for his own children. When the wheat began to wither and die, he had bowed to me and asked to be in charge of taking the cattle to drink every morning. The reason must have been that he wanted to haul back even a little water to sprinkle on the wheat. I had spent days with him hauling water to sprinkle on the quince saplings every morning, so I understood his rage.
"But this year, it simply didn't rain. That is all. And I didn't use magic; I simply put in my own share of effort."
When I said I had put in my own effort, Quijote shrieked at me with a ghostly voice.
"What effort did you put in! Look at that! Look at what is in your wheat field! What kind of effort is it to leave the weeds and just roughly cut them and scatter them between the wheat stalks!!!"
"That is the effort, Quijote. Bringing the fresh grass from the mowed lupine beans nearby since April and covering the furrows of the wheat field was an effort to catch even a single drop of rain."
As I explained the details of my efforts, Quijote collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. He only lifted his head to shout at me.
"Why... why! Knowing that! Why! Could you not have saved... my wheat field too? Captain!!!"
Quijote crawled over, grabbed my legs, and wailed.
"I'm sorry."
I couldn't say anything else. Should I have done deep tillage like common agricultural wisdom suggested? Or was the secret of dryland farming—shallow tillage and soil mulching—better? Honestly, I couldn't bring myself to say that I hadn't been sure, so I had used his efforts as a test bed.
"Quijote. Don't cry. I saw your effort and your devotion. It’s just that tilling the earth deeply is disadvantageous in a drought like this. In the end, farming is a battle of probabilities. Again, if you believe God will grant rain to this land, then your choice was the right one."
I hugged him tightly. When he first grabbed my legs, the Tercio soldiers had been wary, but when they saw me holding and hugging the sobbing man, they pretended not to see and disappeared.
"Captaaaain!!!"
"I'm sorry. I am truly sorry, Quijote."
To a farmer abandoned by the world and, in the end, by God, the only thing I could offer was an apology.
"No. Captain, I am the one who is sorry. It is not your fault that it didn't rain..."
After crying for a long time, Quijote recovered his strength by drinking the watered-down wine I had another pauper bring, and then he spoke.
"Quijote. Your effort, your sacrifice, was not in vain. We have simply learned what we must do and what is dangerous. I will say it clearly once more. Your effort was righteous, and you are a better, greater farmer than I am."
"Captain..."
"Now, Quijote. Shouldn't you pull yourself together? It may not be the wheat field you loved most, but at least there is a wheat field waiting for your harvest, isn't there?"
We began the harvest in late June, as recorded by the clerk, while the wheat was ripening. First, we cleared all the mulch from the furrows to make the field clean and called the people together.
First, the land with bean-stalk mulch in shallow furrows and drilled seeds yielded about 7 fanegas per fanega of land.
The 9 fanegas of broadcast-sown farmland yielded 4 fanegas per fanega.
The 6 fanegas of wheat broadcast-sown in the old-fashioned cross-hatch tilled land yielded 3 fanegas per fanega.
Finally, the 3 fanegas of deeply tilled wheat yielded not a single grain.
Since the ten of us couldn't harvest all of this, we called in the young men from the surrounding villages who had helped us last year to start a pumasi (communal labor exchange). In fact, this kind of rural mutual aid also touches on the realms of redistribution and welfare.
"Now! I will pay you well for the ears later, so for now, you must gather them well. If you try to pull any tricks and get caught, the Tercio men over there won't just stand by!"
I could feel the young men from the neighboring villages whispering as they looked at the wheat field that had been completely ruined, compared to their own, and then at the field that showed a decent harvest despite piercing through the drought.
Trillo. After threshing with the threshing sled and confirming the harvest amount, the clerk compared the documents and the actual goods again, as if he couldn't believe it.
"Is this... possible? In a drought like this, where everywhere else is barely harvesting 2-3 fanegas, this has exceeded the average annual harvest of 4-5 fanegas per fanega and reached 7 fanegas...?"
The clerk was terrified, looking at it again as if he couldn't believe he had written it himself.
While the clerk was writing his report, crying that this was a miracle and that God had not abandoned Spain, I divided some of the wheat from the best-grown field and gave it to the village elders who had come from the surrounding areas, both as labor costs and as seeds for them to use.
"In my view, this seed seems to have been strong against the drought. Since this is proof that God has not abandoned us, I wish to share this grace with all of you."
"Young man! I am truly grateful. Even if I have to starve to death, I will protect these seeds and reap a bountiful harvest next year."
I fully understood that the greedy glint in their eyes as they looked at the wheat field was not for the wheat itself, but for the seeds. In a year of such famine, it would be right to drive down labor costs as the value of wheat rises, but I am a man who will be leaving in 5 years, and I had no desire to be stingy.
"Young man. Are you married? My daughter is truly beautiful, you know."
"Pshaw! What’s beautiful about your daughter? Young man, my niece is truly pretty! Just meet her once. How about I arrange a seat during La Matanza this year?"
"I am a man who will be leaving in 5 years, so that might be difficult. Haha."
"Young man! Where are you going! You should keep farming and living here!"
After exchanging pleasantries and saying goodbye to the people, I shouted that we should bake some wheat bread with the wheat grown in the traditional way.
"No, why aren't you baking bread with that blessed wheat?"
While everyone was excited and cheering to bake bread, Quijote seemed curious about the taste of the wheat grown with mulch. I chuckled at that, tossed him a few grains, and chewed on some myself. The nutty, delicious wheat aroma was fragrant.
"Ah, those wheat stalks have a separate purpose."
"Are you going to use them as seeds?"
"Of course."
I know the nature of farmers well. When a famine hits and everything is ruined, if a normal or bountiful year comes, it is the nature of farmers to go crazy asking where that seed came from. Distributing the seeds to the village elders was partly for calculating labor costs, but it was also to induce 'word of mouth.' How much would they want to brag about being shared seeds that overcame this drought as village elders?
About a month later, after the drying was finished, I loaded the remaining wheat grains—excluding what we would eat next year and what we would use as seeds—onto an oxcart. On the day the clerk left for Madrid with a sack of wheat, saying he had to submit his report, I donned my royal uniform, mounted my horse, and headed toward Valladolid with my Tercio brothers. And even before we reached Valladolid, we met a multitude of people waiting for me outside the gates.
"H-hey, did you hear? That must be the wheat from the rumored royal fields."
"How did they get such plump grains in farmland without irrigation during such a drought?"
"It’s a miracle! A miracle! God is blessing the new King and our kingdom!"
"Hallelujah! Amen!"
I pushed through the crowd, who were swarming the wagon as if looking at a holy relic, and shouted.
"I have come looking for 'Bartolomé of Segovia.' Does anyone know him?"
Then, a merchant whose once-obese body had become gaunt pushed through the crowd and spoke to me.
"Master Juan! It is I, Bartolomé!"
"Haha, my friend Bartolomé! Why have you lost so much weight!"
"Hahaha, how could I eat when my cattle are starving!"
It felt as if his gaunt body was transforming into something grand at my single word.
Quijote was quietly staring at his own dried-up wheat field after finishing the harvest. Something strange caught Quijote’s eye.
It was not an ear left with only chaff, all dried up, but a single stalk of wheat packed full with plump, well-fed grains. Unlike the other wheat that was tall and well-stretched, it was short and its awns were unimpressive, but Quijote carefully pulled up that single stalk, watching the stem sparkle with a subtle white light and the grains packed tight. Quijote, who had gathered this living, miracle-like wheat so that not a single grain would be lost, decided to show it to the Captain when he returned and tucked it carefully into his bosom.
Author's Note
What should the name of this wheat be?