Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Bold Idea

Zhou Zhi intended to use this half-mu of land to build a vegetable greenhouse.

In the future, vegetable greenhouses would be commonplace—an excellent way for many rural families to achieve prosperity—and cultivating them wasn’t particularly difficult, though it demanded more hard work. Zhou Zhi had grown up in the countryside; his grandfather was a vegetable farmer who cultivated greenhouses. Every winter and summer break, Zhou Zhi would return to his rural home to help his grandfather tend the greenhouse. So he was quite familiar with the workings of such structures.

But this was the Ming dynasty. The very materials needed to build a greenhouse were unavailable. For example, plastic film or glass that could block wind yet let in light. Glass did exist, but it was prohibitively expensive, and large panes were simply unheard of.

To build a vegetable greenhouse in the Ming dynasty was a bold idea indeed. Yet the notion had turned over in Zhou Zhi’s mind countless times, and after much weighing, he felt that even without plastic or glass, as long as the work was done well and the management was right, there was still a chance to grow off-season vegetables successfully.

How many undertakings in this world come with absolute certainty? If you don’t try boldly, you’ll never know how close you are to success.

He needed to enclose three sides of the greenhouse with earthen walls taller than a man. The most pressing task now was to make bricks from earth while the weather was fine. In the northern Ming countryside, wealthy families built houses with kiln-fired blue bricks, but the poor couldn’t afford them and had to use mud bricks. For a greenhouse, earthen bricks would help better retain warmth inside.

Zhou Zhi made a rough calculation: a half-mu greenhouse would require at least six thousand bricks. Making bricks was hard labor; producing six thousand would take seven or eight days of effort, so he had to hurry.

His family already had the tools for making bricks.

The tools were simple—a rectangular wooden mold, open on one side. You’d fill it with well-mixed earth, press it down, then turn it out to form the brick. Northerners called this tool a ‘brick box.’

Returning home, Zhou Zhi took the brick box, grabbed a shovel, a wooden bucket, and loaded them onto a small wheelbarrow, heading out to the grain-drying yard.

Next to the yard on the north side of the village was a deep pit, which after days of rain had filled with water. The mud needed for bricks was readily available right around the pit. The land belonged to no one, so nobody would interfere.

Most families had already dried their rice, so the yard was mostly idle. Though still damp, the hard ground was perfect for drying the freshly made bricks.

Having chosen his spot, Zhou Zhi set to work without hesitation.

Occasionally, a few farmers would wander by. Seeing Zhou Zhi hard at work, they exclaimed, “Hey, Zhou family boy, making bricks for a new house?”

He laughed and replied loudly, “Uncle, you jest. My family is poor—where would we get money to build a house? I’m just making some bricks for whatever use, to pass the time.”

Use them for whatever? What good could that do? The Zhou boy was clever and always acting strangely lately—what was he up to this time?

Zhou Zhi had invented the bellows not long ago, and almost every household in Baiyue Village had copied it. It was truly useful, so the villagers looked on Zhou Zhi with newfound respect.

The farmers muttered among themselves as they walked off, while Zhou Zhi continued his work.

When he tired, he’d squat and rest, silently reciting a few pages he’d read that morning. His memory seemed sharper after physical labor—the combination of work and study was rather effective.

As noon approached, the sun was high. Three men appeared on the official road from the north and stopped at the edge of the yard when they saw Zhou Zhi.

The one in the middle was Chen Wenju. To his left was a man of about forty, wearing a Daoist crown and a blue robe. On his right was Chen’s hunched, fawning servant, Gou Wang’er.

The last time Chen Wenju had bet against Zhou Zhi in the fields, he’d ended up humiliated and covered in dirt. Afterwards, he’d kept quiet for a few days, only leaving home for the town academy.

But lately he’d regained his old arrogance and insufferable airs.

Now, he had clearly forgotten his previous embarrassment. With a sneer, he called out, “Hey, Zhou brat, tired yet? Come here, this young master wants a word with you.” His voice was shrill and unpleasant.

Zhou Zhi knew better than to provoke someone like Chen Wenju. Without stopping his work, he replied loudly, “Third Young Master Chen, I’m busy at the moment. If you have something to say, go ahead—I can hear you.”

Chen Wenju had already learned Zhou Zhi’s attitude toward him. In the eyes of other poor villagers, Chen was exalted—the true third young master. But Zhou Zhi, though he used the title, clearly didn’t show real deference.

Chen Wenju craved not just outward respect, but genuine submission. Zhou Zhi’s attitude irked him deeply, and he still held a grudge over the lost bet.

Seeing Zhou Zhi’s cool indifference again today, Chen normally would have scolded him harshly. But today, in unusually good spirits, he merely smiled and walked over.

He had decided that today he would thoroughly humiliate Zhou Zhi and reclaim his lost pride, to satisfy his twisted sense of self.

His servant Gou Wang’er hurried after him, and the Daoist, seeing Chen approach, joined them as well.

Chen Wenju curled his lip and asked, “Zhou brat, I heard you went to Scholar Wang’s house to borrow books. What, you want to study? Does the toad really think it can taste swan meat?”

Zhou Zhi was taken aback. He had never told anyone about borrowing books from Old Man Wang—it was a secret. For Chen Wenju to know meant he had been secretly watching, waiting for a chance to retaliate.

Well, having chosen this path, he was not afraid of revenge.

With a cold look, Zhou Zhi said, “A few days ago, I did borrow some books from Old Wang. You’re right, Third Young Master Chen—this toad does want a taste of swan meat.”

Chen Wenju was stunned, then burst out laughing. “Well, you’ve got quite the ambition! Do you really think you’ll pass the student exam at fifteen like I did? Shameless! Bah! Bah!” He spat several times on the ground, as if he’d tasted chicken dung.

Passing the student exam at fifteen was indeed impressive. Although the Chen family had produced scholars, he was the first at that age, and he was very proud of it.

Seeing Chen Wenju’s insufferable expression, Zhou Zhi couldn’t help but retort, “Third Young Master Chen, you passed the student exam at fifteen, and I truly admire you for it.”

Chen Wenju instantly perked up, his head held high with pride.

But Zhou Zhi continued, “But I don’t want to just pass the student exam. I want to become a licentiate, a provincial graduate, maybe even a presented scholar! A mere student is nothing to me.”

Chen Wenju was nearly apoplectic, on the verge of retching. For a poor boy to speak such wild nonsense—he felt he could not even speak to Zhou Zhi anymore. Today, there was no recovering his lost pride. He wanted to walk away, but it was too bitter to simply leave.

So he pointed at Zhou Zhi and said to the Daoist beside him, “Immortal Master, that’s the Zhou family wretch. Since there’s nothing else today, why don’t you tell his fortune—let’s see what sort of fate he has?”