Dyfeld immediately grasped the potential of guano fertilizer, compared to the skepticism of his son and Cadwulf. He also saw it as the simplest task.
“As far as I understand it, Ser Kolsko, at first you will only need a few dozen sacks of the bird shit deposits crushed to a fine powder. Those you intend on using to test out whether the powder can increase crop yields. I wonder, though, if you need that many sacks. From what you describe, two or three sacks would be enough to test.”
Yozef thought it interesting that Dyfeld caught that. No wool on his brain, even if he looked like a common laborer. Yozef didn’t need to tell anyone he’d eventually experiment with extracting potassium nitrate for gunpowder—if he got around to it.
“True, Ser Fuller. However, as long as we’re doing this, I’d like to be sure I have a sufficient supply.”
Dyfeld shrugged. “It’s your coin. If it works as you think it will, then we’d need to expand the work. In that case, I see two issues.” Dyfeld went back to the map of the inlet. “As for the extractions, there’s no reason to pulverize the shit deposits on site. Since it has to be hauled here anyway, all it will take is to break it up the into small-enough pieces to load into sacks for pack-horses to carry and bring it back here, where we can do the crushing. Once it is known that the fertilizer works, and you want to increase extraction, then we can think about more efficient ways to do the crushing, either doing it on site or bringing it here in wagons.
“The second issue is that you’ll need to show use of the land to satisfy the registration of ownership. The registrar did explain the usage provision, didn’t he?”
“Yes. I have to show the land is being used for some purpose.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. You say there’s no proper road or path to this site, so, if necessary, we’ll simply hack out a pack horse trail for now. We should also build a small encampment for workers to sleep and eat, and provide some minimal evidence of land improvement. If major extractions are to occur, we can build a regular road for wagons getting in and out. No point doing that, though, until we see whether it’s worthwhile. If your fertilizer idea doesn’t work, then you’d best just let the land revert to the clan.”
By now, Yozef had forgotten that this was supposed to be an interview to see whether he would consider hiring Dyfeld. Instead, Yozef had been told that Dyfeld would let himself be hired, and they continued with the planning.
“The little house you want is something else. It’s not just a small house you’ll need. I assume you’ll get there by horse, so you’ll need a barn as well, plus an outhouse appropriately distant from the house. The house itself looks like you want one different than most houses, what with so many windows and some of them quite large. There’s no way we can get either lumber or glass there by pack animal, so we’ll need a minimal road. I can have one of my assistants check out possible routes, but we may be able to use beach sections, combined with new roadbeds where necessary. While this will add to the costs, if you expand the fertilizer extraction, we’d only have to improve the existing road for heavier wagons and extend the road on to the mining site.”
Dyfeld stopped and, with the hand missing the third finger, pulled over the sketch of the house. “I’ll have suggestions on the house design after we’ve talked more about the features you want.”
Dyfeld Fuller’s speed and efficiency caught Yozef by surprise when, eight days later, a wagon holding twenty sacks of crushed murvor guano waited at the distillation shop. No arrangements for testing on farms had been made. He knew nothing about how much was needed per acre. He did remember Julie chastising him for giving one of her orchids too much plant food, something about excess nitrogen burning the leaves. Different terrain might also vary the amount of fertilizer needed.
There was also the problem of the seasons. He worried about the cooler weather after the Harvest Festival and whether he’d have to wait months for the next growing season to begin, but Dyfeld said no.
“The main crops won’t go in for another three or four months, although there are always cool weather crops some farms plant. My brother used to farm until his death, and he’d plant crops that grew until the weather got too cold and then sit dormant until temperatures were warmer to finish growing and maturing. And it depends on the farm. If the location is right, it’s possible to grow something year round. I’m not sure what’s growing now, but check with the local farmers.”
Yozef set Cadwulf to the task of contacting farmers to see whether any were interested. Not unexpectedly, few were, with variations on the same themes.
“Murvor shit on my fields? Nonsense!”
“My family has always farmed the same way for generations. There’s no reason to change.”
“Are you a farmer? I didn’t think so. Who are you to advise us how to grow crops?”
“Why would I want to increase yields? We are having trouble selling or using the crops we already get before they spoil.”
It was the latter excuse that led to the solution. If farmers were having difficulty selling their crops, they could be paid to carry out Yozef’s experiments. However, the attitudes of many farmers worried him. Could he trust them to do what was necessary to validate the tests? He needed a farm that followed directions and kept accurate records, and he’d need to check progress and compliance, either doing the checking himself or training someone to do it.
“What about that farm woman you told me about at the festival?” said Yozef. “A widow owning and running a medium-sized and productive farm.”
“Who? I don’t … oh, wait. You mean Bronwyn Linton? The one who eyed you?”
“I don’t know that she eyed me.”
“She did. And if I recall, there was eyeing in return.” Cadwulf’s face took on a leer. “Are you sure it’s only to test your fertilizer that makes you suggest her? Maybe some other fertilization occurs to you?”
Yozef flushed. “Nonsense. I’m just trying to find farmers who will work with me.”
His young associate and friend relented with the teasing. “You may be right about her being easier to work with. Her reputation is that she’s practical, works hard herself, demands the same of her workers, and is fair and honest.”
The next day they rode the ten miles to the Linton farm, located on a river valley bottom. The farm had dark soil, and lush foliage separated fields of crops. Yozef’s nose pulled in rich odors of damp soil and growth. Newly planted fields had sprouts of a grassy crop and other fields with broader leafed plants. Cadwulf recognized winter wheat and turnips. The fields appeared well tended, the fences and several out-buildings in good repair, and the farm house had been painted in the not-too-distant past. A middle-aged man came out of a barn as they rode up.
“Good day, Ser,” said Cadwulf. “I’m Cadwulf Beynom and this is Yozef Kolsko. We’re here to talk with Bronwyn Linton.”
“She’s in the north field,” the man answered, walking away with evidently no intention of either going for Linton or telling them the location of the north field.
Cadwulf wasn’t perturbed and called to the man’s back.
“If you could direct us to where she is, we would be appreciative.”
The answer was a jerk of his head, presumably meaning the field was in that direction.
Cadwulf thanked him more than Yozef thought deserving. He had to keep reminding himself that people weren’t so much rude as brusque—a reasonably neutral brusqueness and not the abrasiveness of some New Yorkers or the deliberate, feigned superiority of the French.