Read More Short Fuses (Four Free Short Stories) Page 25

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  The farmer knelt down, took a handful of reddish soil, and held it up to his lips. He sniffed, inhaling its fragrance like a wine connoisseur sampling the bouquet of an expensive claret. He took a mouthful and chewed slowly, then he nodded, satisfied. He had worked the land for more than three decades, and could taste the quality of the soil, could tell from its sweetness whether it was rich enough in alkaline limestone to produce a good crop of opium poppies.

  It was important to choose the right land to grow the poppies, because if the crop was bad, the farmer would be blamed, and with blame came punishment. So the farmer chewed carefully, mixing the soil with his saliva and allowing it to roll around his mouth. It was good. It was very good. He nodded.

  “Yes?” said the man on the white horse.

  “Yes,” said the farmer. He stood up and surveyed the hillside. “This will be a good place.”

  The man on the horse wore a shirt of green and brown camouflage material, with matching pants. Black boots that stopped just below his knees were thrust deep into the stirrups and he had a riding crop tucked under his left arm. The horse stood up straight, its ears pricked as it too looked at the hillside. They were more than three thousand feet above sea level, in a mountain hollow which would protect the crop against high winds, but high enough that the plants would be nurtured by the night fogs. The ground sloped away gently, providing good drainage, but not so steeply as to make planting and harvesting difficult.

  “How long will it take to clear the land?” asked the man on the horse. He watched the farmer through impenetrable sunglasses.

  The farmer ran a hand through his hair. If he over-estimated, Zhou Yuanyi would think he was being slothful. If he under-estimated, he might not be able to finish the work in time. He thought it would take eight days, if all the men and women in the village helped. “Nine days to cut,” he said.

  Zhou Yuanyi nodded. “I think eight,” he said.

  The farmer shrugged. “Maybe eight,” he agreed.

  “Start tomorrow.”

  The trees and bushes would have to be slashed down with machetes. It would be hard work, back breaking, and they’d have to toil from first light until dark, but the farmer knew he would be well rewarded. Zhou Yuanyi was a hard taskmaster, brutal at times, but he paid well for the opium the farmer grew. He paid well, and he offered protection: protection from the Burmese troops who wanted to smash the poppy-growers of the region.

  Once the area had been cleared, the cut vegetation would be left to dry on the ground for four weeks, then it would be burned, the ashes providing essential calcium, potassium and phosphate, a natural fertiliser. The land would be ruined, of course, good for only three years, maybe four, but by then the farmer would have cleared new fields and be ready to move on.

  “How many rais?” asked Zhou Yuanyi. A rai was just over a third of an acre.

  “Twenty. Maybe twenty-one.”

  Zhou Yuanyi sniffed. He cleared his throat and spat at the ground. “Not enough,” he said. “Find me another field as well. Soon.”