It took Clara and her family three and a half days to harvest all ten acres of rice.
Their speed wasn't the fastest, but certainly not the slowest either.
Still, Clara's threshing efficiency wasn't quite as awe-inspiring as her head-chopping speed in her past life.
Each load of harvested grain was carried home one by one, piling up in both the front and back yards. Taking advantage of the sunny weather, they turned and sun-dried the grain every day.
When the final load entered the courtyard, Lester plopped down onto the sun-scorched cobblestones with a loud sigh. "Finally done!"
He said it like his soul had left his body, utterly drained of strength.
Clara was in better shape. She strode into the main hall and downed half a jug of water in one go.
Adam and the other three children lagged behind, their pace slower. Their little faces were red as ripe tomatoes from the scorching sun.
Clara glanced at her hands—every patch of skin not covered by clothes was at least three shades darker.
Three days of sun had undone six months of careful skincare.
Lester, oddly enough, hadn't tanned much. He sprawled beside the grain pile, hair a mess, clothes askew, looking like an absolute scoundrel.
"Rest for half an hour," Clara instructed as she sank into a chair, "then go call Frank Liew's family to come haul away their share."
Naturally, the four kids followed her example. They put away their farming tools, stripped off their socks and shoes, and sat barefoot in a row under the eaves.
When a bird swooped down to peck at the grain, Deb jumped up with a sharp "Hey!" and ran to chase it off. "No eating our rice!"
Lester cracked a grin, amused by his daughter squaring off with a bird.
Alas, the half-hour break flew by. He brushed himself off and went to fetch Frank's family.
The first acre had yielded 250kg, to everyone's delight.
The following plots didn't match that number, though—especially the few acres damaged when the dike collapsed in June. Those only yielded around 230 to 235 kg.
Altogether, the ten acres produced 2450 kg of grain, averaging 245 kg per acre—around 25 kg more per acre than previous years. In total, that meant nearly 250 kg more across all ten acres.
Frank's family, who held a 40% share, took 980 kg.
The remaining, after deducting the 1/15 grain tax, left Clara with 1372 kg—their total harvest for the year.
That amount, at last year's price, could fetch about 16 taels of silver.
But Clara had four mouths to feed now, and this grain was just barely enough for them—not something she planned to sell.
Of course, "barely enough" meant eating white rice for every meal.
Most village families would be lucky to have thin porridge year-round without starving.
With that kind of yield, they'd usually sell over half the grain for daily expenses like firewood, oil, and salt.
Liam and his brothers came with a horse cart and an ox cart to collect their share.
Along the way, they expressed envy at Lester's impressive yield and asked to buy some of Clara's rice seed for next season.
Lester replied seriously, "I'm the one jealous of you lot, with all that fertile land—you just sit and wait for the harvest."
Liam and his brothers: "…"
"Hey? Why the sudden silence?" Lester asked with innocent confusion—if you ignored that flicker of mischief in his eyes.
Clara heard voices outside and came out to find Lester had brought the men. She invited them in.
"The yard's too small to sun all the grain," she explained politely. "Sorry to trouble you with hauling it back first."
Liam and his brothers finally recovered from the awkward moment. One of them settled the receipt with Clara while the other two helped Lester move the grain.
They brought large baskets—eight per cart. Hauling away 980 kg would take only two trips, and they moved swiftly.
With four-tenths of the grain gone, the remaining space in the courtyard was just enough for sun-drying the rest.
Clara looked up. The weather promised at least two more sunny days—enough to get it all dried.
Tomorrow was the Ghost Festival, also Lester's last day off work.
Clara intended to make full use of her able-bodied helper.
She left the kids to watch the drying grain, grabbed a sickle, and dragged a wailing Lester toward the village entrance.
The weedy lot where the watermill factory would be built was thick with overgrowth.
When Clara told him to start cutting, Lester turned pale. "Darling, I think I've got heatstroke!"
He wobbled like he might faint on the spot.
Clara calmly raised the sickle to his neck. "Are you cutting or not?"
Lester inhaled sharply and blinked in earnest obedience. "Cutting! I'm cutting!"
Only then did she lower the blade.
She pointed him to a patch with fewer vines and then dove into the weeds herself. With a rhythmic "swish swish," she slashed in circles, flattening the grass in a visible ring around her.
While other households celebrated the Ghost Festival—honoring their ancestors with offerings made from their best rice—Clara's family was busy clearing a 300-square-meter field.
By the time they returned home, the sun had set, and every house in the village had incense tables and candles on display.
Clara and Lester stared blankly, just then remembering what day it was.
They exchanged glances but found no reverence in each other's eyes for ancestral spirits.
"Do we have incense?" Clara asked.
Lester scratched his head. "Think we used the last of it during New Year."
"What about candles?"
He winced. "Burned them all when copying books at night."
Clara considered. "Should we offer up two bowls of meat instead?"
Lester rolled his eyes. "Did you forget we ate the last of the meat days ago?"
By now the butcher's stall in town would've long closed.
Clara was about to say, "Then let's just skip it this year," when Lester suddenly stopped walking.
Clara looked up—they were standing outside the old Liew family home.
Lester pointed at the ancestral altar inside. "Same ancestors, anyway. Let's bring some of our new grain and make offerings there."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "Good idea!"
So, the couple slowly walked back home. They put down the sickles, washed up, and brought the remaining half bag of pastries and a bowl of freshly harvested rice. Locking the door behind them, they led their four kids to the old family estate.
"Dad, we've come to honor the ancestors!" Lester called out as he arrived, a hand each on the pastries and the grain.
His voice rang out before he even stepped into the courtyard, startling Doreen, who was cooking in the kitchen and nearly gave her a heart attack.
Turning to look, she saw the whole gang of six entering the courtyard, hands full with ceremonial offerings—and immediately felt something was off.
Sure enough, Lester called out, "Sister-in-law, make extra rice! We're staying for dinner tonight. Let's liven things up as one big family!"
Doreen let out a long sigh. Faced with this rascal, what else could she do?
She picked up the ladle and went to wash the rice.
(End of Chapter)
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