Chapter Thirty-Four: Pen in Hand

In the winter, the prevailing winds were from the north, so the vegetable greenhouse was built with earthen bricks forming walls on the east, west, and north sides, each about two meters high. The south side, where light entered, would in later times be supported by bamboo frames covered with plastic sheeting or large panes of glass. But in the Ming Dynasty, bamboo was scarce in the north, so Zhou Zhi used wooden poles as supports. As for plastic or glass, he intended to substitute them entirely with thick, airtight straw mats.

The distance from the grain-drying field north of the village to his own plot was a mere stretch. Zhou Zhi first used a small cart to transport the earthen bricks to the edge of the field. After compacting the earth where the half-mu plot’s walls would stand, he began to build. Alone, such labor might have taken at least five days, but with his elder sister Zhou Lüyun helping, the work was much swifter. In just over three days, they had erected the entire wall.

Then Zhou Zhi divided the half-mu plot into three sections, and around each section he built a square conduit, one foot wide, from earthen bricks, sealing the joints with mud to keep them airtight. Each conduit had two openings, both facing the outside of the north wall.

At one opening he constructed a stove for heating, while the other was fashioned as a chimney to draw away smoke. This structure, known as a “heated bed” in later times, served to warm and circulate heat within the greenhouse, ensuring a stable internal temperature.

The heated bed technique for seedling cultivation was widely used in the north during the seventies and eighties of the previous century, but nowadays it is rare, with more advanced insulation and heating methods available.

Seeing Zhou Zhi’s strange construction, his sister Zhou Lüyun couldn't contain her curiosity and finally asked him about it. Zhou Zhi did not hide anything and explained his intention to grow vegetables.

Planting vegetables in the depths of winter was nearly unimaginable. As he expected, Zhou Lüyun was stunned upon hearing his plan. But she had long since declared that anything her brother undertook would not be wrong, and she would support him regardless. Though filled with doubts and convinced of the impossibility of success, she still worked tirelessly alongside her brother.

“I knew it—there was a reason little Zhi kept this half-mu plot. My little Zhi is not someone who neglects his duties or brings trouble to the family,” Zhou Lüyun said, smiling gently.

Their mother, Zhou He, was equally astonished upon learning Zhou Zhi’s plan. Like Zhou Lüyun, she thought it unlikely to succeed. Yet she was broad-minded, reasoning that Zhou Zhi wasn’t wasting the family’s money, and the idle plot was of no use anyway. As long as he didn’t cause trouble, and their home remained peaceful, he could do as he pleased.

The wooden supports for the greenhouse were easy to find. The family had a few, and if more were needed, Zhou Zhi would go to the burial ground west of Baiyue Village, where jujube and elm trees grew in abundance.

Within a day, Zhou Zhi had the wooden frame erected.

He needed many straw mats, for the cold winter demanded they be thick and airtight. The family had grown plenty of rice this year, but most of the stalks were reserved as feed for “Old Ma.” Zhou Zhi used only a small portion from their supply.

The rest he obtained from Uncle Zhang’s house.

Uncle Zhang’s fields were much larger than the Zhou family’s, yielding plenty of straw. Besides using some for cooking, they didn’t need it for heating the bed in winter. Zhang Hudan’s younger brother, Zhang Fu, eighteen years old and industrious, had already prepared a great pile of firewood for winter heating.

With the rice straw from Uncle Zhang’s house, Zhou Zhi had everything needed to build the vegetable greenhouse.

He made all the straw mats at home in advance and stored them for the time being. The weather was still warm, so even if the vegetable seeds were sown, there was no need to use the straw mats for insulation yet.

One morning, Zhou Zhi woke early, read several pages of the Analects, then took out the wooden box gifted by Wang Ding and laid out the ink and brush. He spread Wang Ding’s discarded papers on the earthen bed and began to write in earnest.

Although Master Wang Ding had given him paper and brushes, he had not used them until now. The ink was limited, so he had to be frugal. The waste paper, though appearing plentiful at three feet tall, could only be written on one side, and some had turned black from age and were unusable, so even these had to be conserved. When they were used up, he had no idea where he would find more.

To expect the family to spend silver on paper and ink was laughable. To Zhou Zhi’s knowledge, they couldn’t even scrape together a few coins. It was no surprise—a poor farming family had no income, surviving only by selling eggs in exchange for oil, salt, and basic necessities.

This was Zhou Zhi’s first time picking up a brush since arriving in the Ming Dynasty, and he was quite excited. In his former life, he was an amateur enthusiast of calligraphy and had deep affection for the brush.

To be able to wield a brush across lifetimes was a great fortune.

He could write a clear, upright, and vigorous small script. In his previous life, he had studied the small script of Zhao Mengfu and his wife Guan Daosheng, and though he had never seen their original works, he had often copied reproductions and imitations.

He transcribed the passage about Zilu from the Analects, then set down the brush and held the paper in his hands, sometimes nodding, sometimes shaking his head slowly.

Hmm, there were still some places lacking precision. The strength was there, but the finishing stroke was not yet perfect. To take the imperial exam, one must practice good handwriting to leave a favorable impression on the examiners.

This would require diligent practice.

Fortunately, time was abundant, and there was no need to rush.

Casually flipping the paper, he examined the characters Wang Ding had written on the other side. Clearly, there were many signs of inexperience—these must have been written early in Wang Ding’s practice.

That day at the field when he wagered with Chen Wenju, Zhou Zhi had seen Wang Ding’s writing: it was remarkably fluid and round, flowing like water, the result of years of practice.

His calligraphy teacher in later times had said that writing should express life; only with wholehearted devotion could the characters become alive. The saying “writing is like the writer” meant just that: careless and hasty people can never settle down and produce good calligraphy.

Today, he wrote only one passage. The greenhouse would need a great deal of firewood for winter heating, and Zhou Zhi needed to start preparing it now. Only firewood would burn long enough to provide sustained warmth.

The poor folk of Baiyue Village relied on wood for heating in winter, and at night they burned the earthen bed as well. Wood was best for these purposes. In the southwest of Baiyue Village, three li away, there was a large mound covered in wild trees. Villagers went there to chop firewood.

Zhou Zhi took up his axe and headed straight for the mound.

The weather was still warm, so many families had not yet gathered their winter firewood, leaving the mound strewn with available wood. It was late autumn, and many trees still held their leaves, so the wood he chopped was still damp.

No matter—he had to start preparing now, for once the vegetable seeds were sown, there would be no time left for chopping wood.

For several days, Zhou Zhi labored on the mound, chopping firewood. He had expected Chen Wenju to retaliate after their wager, but unexpectedly, the Zhou family enjoyed peace, and Zhou Zhi rarely saw Chen Wenju at all.

Time flew swiftly, and in the blink of an eye it was early October. Zhou Zhi had prepared everything needed for the vegetable greenhouse. Standing at the edge of the field, his face alight with excitement, he suddenly recalled a saying: Dreams are necessary, for perhaps one day they will come true.