Chapter 1367 - Raising Silkworms
Lizheng was among the first orphans taken in by Zhao Yingong, accepted as an apprentice and given a proper education at his private school. Now she had been chosen to serve as both technical and administrative head of the Jixian Village Extension Station—her first independent command.
Li Yao'er had given her intensive training in sericulture at the mountain villa. Wang Siniang was clever and possessed decades of silkworm-raising experience, but she was illiterate, and her ability to absorb new knowledge suffered for it. Lizheng, who had already earned a Type B diploma, proved far more capable. The cooperative's operations involved finance and numerical management—accounting ledgers, loan records, interest calculations—all tasks beyond Wang Siniang's capacity. Thus, while Wang Siniang served as a figurehead and a wedge inserted into the village's social fabric, real authority rested with Lizheng.
Duoduo's mother understood none of these internal arrangements, but she had sharp eyes. She could tell this young woman was "a person in charge," and she treated her with appropriate deference.
The number of people at Wang Siniang's house grew steadily. With each arriving boat laden with new supplies, one or two more faces would appear—men and women alike—all sharing certain characteristics. They moved with purpose and spoke little. One rarely saw them gathered together in idle chatter. Everyone seemed to have work to do, and their hands never stopped.
The hatching of silkworm larvae typically began around half past four in the morning, completing by eight. Once all the larvae emerged, they had to be transferred to silkworm trays for feeding. In Jixian Village, the traditional method was to gather the tiny black larvae using a feather sweep—every household kept feathers specifically for this purpose. But here, a different approach was used.
Under Lizheng's instruction, Duoduo's mother and the other working women spread thin but resilient cotton paper over the silkworm trays after the larvae hatched. They then sprinkled chopped, withered mulberry leaves onto the paper—"lure mulberry," meant to attract the larvae.
Drawn by the scent, the larvae crawled onto the cotton paper. The women gently swept away the lure mulberry, transferred the paper to the rearing tray, and flipped it over before adding fresh leaves. The work of gathering larvae was complete. Not only did this method save labor, but it also caused far less damage to both the newly hatched larvae and any unhatched eggs still remaining.
Watching this technique, Duoduo's mother noticed that the harvest of larvae was considerably higher than what the traditional sweeping method produced. She made a mental note: she would adopt this practice when raising her own silkworms in the future.
The newborn larvae squirmed in their baskets, jet-black and vigorous—the proper color, indicating good health. Larvae of this quality had been rare in previous years. Wang Siniang's Guangdong breed was truly superior stock. Duoduo's mother felt a pang of regret that she hadn't purchased a sheet of eggs on credit to raise herself. The terms had been so favorable.
The larvae in other village households hatched a few days later, but the situation remained promising overall. This year's silkworm harvest would likely far exceed the previous year's, reaching at least eighty or ninety percent. The constitution of the hatched larvae looked strong. Shen Kaibao's silkworms emerged particularly well, and for a moment he allowed himself to forget his various troubles and nurture a fragile hope.
But during the first and second molts, the rains came—continuous, relentless—and the temperature plummeted. Silkworm diseases began appearing throughout the village. Day after day, Shen Kaibao watched his neighbors trudging to the village stream to dump ruined silkworm baskets, and a heavy stone settled onto his heart. At this rate, a peaceful passage through the third molt seemed impossible.
Experience taught that in an average year, roughly one-fifth of the silkworms would be lost during the season. In a bad year, only a third of the larvae would survive to spin cocoons. Worse disasters—total crop failures sweeping through entire villages—happened rarely, but they happened.
For Shen Kaibao and most of his neighbors, this year's harvest had to reach at least eighty percent to compensate for the previous year's losses and sustain them until the next season. If the yield fell to sixty or seventy percent, many families would find the year nearly impossible to endure.
Tension gripped the village. Though households typically refrained from burning incense during the silkworm-raising period—the smoke could harm the silkworms—every family now prayed before the statues of the Kitchen God and the Silkworm God, beseeching them for safe passage through the coming third molt.
Wang Siniang's silkworm house, by contrast, possessed excellent insulation, means of raising the temperature, and instruments for monitoring both temperature and humidity. The conditions inside remained optimal at all times. Combined with thorough disinfection beforehand and the strict cleanliness protocols enforced among the workers, the silkworms grew remarkably strong.
Duoduo's mother found her workload increasing. Now she had to don cotton garments resembling a baby's swaddling clothes each day, wrapping herself from head to toe, a headscarf covering her hair. Before entering or leaving the silkworm room, she was required to wash her hands in a stone trough filled with clear water laced with some pungent, unknown substance. A supervisor stood nearby. Anyone who forgot and only washed their hands after being reminded received a demerit.
More work meant stricter rules. A complete set of "Standard Operating Procedures" had been implemented, taught step by step by Lizheng. Whether the silkworm-raising women understood the reasoning or not, they were expected to follow instructions precisely—no omissions, no additions, no unauthorized modifications. Every movement had to conform to the established rules. Errors in any step earned a demerit.
Three demerits meant wage deductions—a mild consequence, and Duoduo's mother had suffered a few. But for servants under the household of Wang Siniang's master, "Master Zhao," mistakes brought harsher punishments. Not only were wages docked, but physical pain inevitably followed. Duoduo's mother had heard the crack of bamboo boards against flesh, followed by crying and pleas for mercy, drifting from the side rooms. Occasionally, she glimpsed dim-witted silkworm workers kneeling in the courtyard after hours, reciting the Standard Operating Procedures until they could repeat them from memory.
"Master Zhao's rice is not easily earned," she would think whenever she witnessed such scenes, a chill running down her neck. She memorized the rules with particular diligence. Though she wouldn't face beatings or kneeling punishments, too many wage deductions would make her the laughingstock of the village.
As the third molt passed, the silkworm-raising work entered its most intensive phase. Duoduo's mother and her fellow workers grew thin, their sleepless eyes webbed with red veins. A two-shift rotation system was in place—better than the endless day-and-night vigils required at home—yet the workload remained enormous.
During their shifts, the women constantly chopped and spread mulberry leaves, conducting regular inspections of all trays. Whenever they discovered stiff or sick silkworms, they removed them immediately with silkworm chopsticks and deposited them in special collection buckets.
Cleaning silkworm droppings was heavy labor—but far more convenient here than at home. The bottoms of Wang Siniang's trays were lined with fine silk netting. To clean, one simply lifted the net and let the droppings fall through into a dedicated basket.
The droppings and any stiff or sick silkworms were stored separately and dumped together into the biogas digester behind the toilet each night. Fermentation treatment killed viruses and bacteria. Selling silkworm droppings as fertilizer could provide income for sericulture households, but traditional methods lacked any concept of strict isolation or harmless treatment. Untreated droppings became a major vector for silkworm diseases.
Despite the grueling schedule and frequent reprimands, Wang Siniang's household offered generous compensation. Three meals a day with rice aplenty; meat and fish appeared daily. Each morning before work, a special meeting was held to "motivate" the workers. Those who performed excellently and met their targets found that the top three received proportional bonuses.
Wang Siniang and Lizheng took turns supervising and patrolling, their own voices hoarse and eyes bloodshot. Everyone worked desperately in this intense atmosphere. The extension station raised enormous quantities of silkworms with far fewer hands than tradition would suggest—efficiency made the difference.
Throughout the village, the same frantic tension reigned. Shen Kaibao's entire family, including his ten-year-old grandson, hadn't closed their eyes for days. Although silkworm disease cast its shadow and they'd had to discard a few baskets, the surviving silkworms seemed determined. The "babies" that had passed the fourth molt consumed seven piculs of leaves on the first day alone, each one green and robust, producing a steady sha-sha sound as they ate.
But their own mulberry leaves were nearly exhausted, and the leaves purchased with their savings were almost gone as well. Shen Kaibao estimated they would need another thirty piculs to reach the mounting stage. Their own resources couldn't possibly cover it.
He discussed the matter with his sons, Daqing and Sanqing. Where could they borrow money to buy more leaves?
"We've mortgaged all our land to him," Daqing said. "If we ask again, what can we offer as collateral? Master Cao won't agree."
"If we can't borrow from Master Cao, should we try Shopkeeper Wang in town again?" Sanqing suggested.
Shen Kaibao frowned. "In previous years, perhaps. But this year, Shopkeeper Wang says he's a clay bodhisattva trying to cross the river himself."
"It seems we have no choice but to beg Master Cao again..." Sanqing's voice trailed off. He was beyond exhaustion, his eyelids heavy as millstones, yearning only to close.
Shen Kaibao said nothing. He racked his brain, but apart from Master Cao, he couldn't think of anyone with both the means and the inclination to lend him money. And Master Cao was shrewd—he never extended credit without solid collateral. Thirty piculs of leaves at the current market price would cost at least four mace of silver per picul.
"What about buying on credit from the leaf guild?" Daqing ventured.
It was an option, but buying leaves on credit from the guild meant not only inflated prices but ruinous interest. When Shen Kaibao thought of his unharvested cocoons—so many already lost—his heart clenched with anxiety.
Just then, a commotion arose from the threshing ground outside. It turned out that Duoduo's mother's husband was passing by with a boat carrying ten piculs of leaves. The conversation between father and sons was interrupted, and all three went out to see.
Shen Kaibao was puzzled. He knew Duoduo's mother's family. Their mulberry land was far smaller than his own. Though they were only raising two sheets of silkworm eggs this year, their leaves definitely wouldn't have been sufficient. Just days ago, he'd seen Duoduo's mother's father-in-law looking worried about his inability to afford more mulberry leaves. How had they suddenly come by this supply?
He hurried over to stop Duoduo's mother's husband and asked where the leaves had come from and at what price.
"My wife arranged it," the man called out proudly. "She bought them on credit from the Shen Da family. They have plenty of leaves!"
(End of this chapter)