From the ridicule of a $60 duck flock to the exposed land reclamation conspiracy: Secrets revealed in the late father’s old notebook
Part 1: The Map on the Kitchen Table
Three days after we laid our father to rest, the old wooden house still smelled of wild daisies and the damp air of the persistent rain. I sat by the window looking out at the southern fields—a vast basin submerged in a sea of murky, silt.
The dry clatter of papers hitting the wooden table startled me. My brother, Thomas, pushed a large map covered in red and blue lines toward me.
“Sign it, Leo,” Thomas said, his voice as cold as the weather outside. “The county is offering $1,200 per acre for the southern depression. They want to turn it into a public flood and sewage treatment area. That’s the best price we can get for a useless swamp.”
“Father never wanted to sell an inch of land,” I replied, looking up at my five-year-old brother. Thomas had left the farm for college in the city a decade ago, now impeccably tailored and with a disdainful look for landowners.
“Dad’s old and senile!” Thomas slammed his hand on the table. “He’s thrown thousands of dollars into that mud puddle for the past ten years and hasn’t harvested a single basket of corn. You’re too sentimental, Leo. Sentimental won’t pay the land taxes and bank loans. You can’t run this farm with that naivety.”
I looked at the bright red seal of the County Infrastructure Development Commission in the corner of the map. Something was wrong. The county hadn’t cared about this remote area until two years ago, when they suddenly proposed a “flood control” project.
“Give me three months,” I looked up, meeting Thomas’s eyes. “If I can’t prove the value of the land by the end of fall, you can sell it all.”
Thomas scoffed, shaking his head: “Three months? Fine. But don’t come looking for me when you’re bankrupt.”
Part 2: 214 Ducks and the Mockery
The next morning, I drove my old pickup truck to the county market. Everyone here knew my farm had just lost its former owner and the southern land was submerged in water.
In the corner of the market, a trader was hawking a flock of mixed-breed ducks—Khaki Campbell and Runner ducks—crowding in bamboo cages.
“Selling them off! 214 ducks, $60 for the whole flock! Whoever wants them all can take them!” the trader yelled.
The ducks looked ragged, but their eyes were bright and they constantly rummaged around in the bottom of the cages. I vaguely remembered a detail from those afternoons with my father in the fields: He always looked at the flocks of waterfowl landing in the basin with a mysterious smile.
“I’ll take it all,” I slammed the $60 bill down on the wooden crate.
News of Leo Miller buying 214 “junk” ducks for $60 to release into the flooded swamp spread faster than a monsoon wind.
That afternoon, as I opened the truck door to release the ducks into the floodwaters, several neighbors and Thomas were standing on the earthen embankment looking down.
“Look! Miller ‘the younger’ is investing in high technology for the swamp!” Old Hank, who owned the corn farm across the street, chuckled gleefully. “$60 to fatten up the foxes and crows!” “Your father must be tumbling around in his grave!”
Thomas just stood there with his arms crossed, his eyes filled with disappointment and shame. He turned his back and walked away without a word.
I ignored the mockery. The 214 ducks immediately plunged into the murky water, burying their heads in the deep mud, flapping their wings and chirping in their own way. They weren’t just swimming; they were working.
Part 3: The Leather-Bound Notebook in the Old Chest
My father’s study was in the attic, smelling of pine and old paper. After the day Thomas mocked me, I decided to sort through his belongings—something I had tried to avoid because of my grief.
At the bottom of a brass-covered wooden chest, I found a worn-out brown leather-bound notebook. It wasn’t a daily diary, but a record of my father’s farming activities over the past 15 years.
I flipped through the pages. Meticulous handwritten notes in blue ink recorded rainfall, flood levels, and In particular, the list of naturally occurring plant species in the southern basin.
On the page dated October 14, 2021, my father’s handwriting became more neat:
“Traces of Oilcake Weed and traditional Lampwick grass have been discovered. The basin soil is not degraded by flooding, but is healing itself after 30 years of contamination by chemical fertilizers from the old farm to the north.”
“The County people have come for the third time. They talked about ‘flood control planning,’ but the young engineer accidentally dropped the geological context sheet. They don’t want flood control.” Beneath the deep clay layer lies a rich layer of humic and peat-rich mud (high-quality peat), accumulated from thousands of years of waterlogging in the basin.
“If properly activated by natural aquatic microorganisms and poultry waste, this mud becomes an invaluable living organic fertilizer—or a source of raw materials for the biotechnology companies the County is secretly contracting with.”
I blinked in astonishment. Turning a few more pages, my father had drawn a cycle diagram:
Flooding -> Ducks eat snails, weed roots, and insect larvae -> Duck droppings rich in nitrogen and phosphorus
Swamp microbial activity -> Mature sediment.
At the bottom of the page, my father wrote a line underlined twice:
“Don’t sell. The ducks will unlock the treasure.”
A jolt of electricity ran down my spine. My father wasn’t senile. He understood the laws of nature and saw through the schemes of the county officials. But he died suddenly from a stroke before he could complete the exploitation cycle.
Part 4: Three Silent Months
For the next three months, ignoring the whispers of the locals, I lived almost in isolation in the southern fields.
I built a temporary wooden shed by the water’s edge. Every morning, I herded 214 ducks into the basin. The ducks grew incredibly fast. They didn’t need a single grain of commercial feed; the food source from snails, algae, insects, and aquatic grass seeds in the swamp was an inexhaustible supply of nutrients.
In return, every day, hundreds of pounds of fresh duck droppings were stirred up by their feet, mixing thoroughly with the accumulated mud and decaying vegetation. The swamp water began to change from a murky brown to a deep emerald green, then gradually cleared at the edges. The foul smell of stagnant water disappeared, replaced by the strong, earthy scent of the forest after the rain.
In the middle of the third month, the water began to recede naturally.
Instead of a cracked, gray, and lifeless mudflat like every year, the basin appeared in the autumn sun like a smooth, porous, and damp black carpet. A new layer of sediment, nearly 20 cm thick, covered all 50 acres of land.
I knew it was time.
Part 5: Soil Samples and an Unexpected Visit
I personally scooped three soil samples from three different locations in the basin, carefully packaged them, and sent them to the State Agricultural Institute for comprehensive testing. Meanwhile, I hired an independent legal consulting firm to review the County’s mineral mining plans.
A week later, the results from the Agricultural Institute arrived via email. I printed them out and bound them into a booklet.
On the exact three-month deadline, Thomas showed up at the farm. He brought not only the old transfer agreement, but also Mr. Vance—the County Planning Director—and a man in a gray suit who introduced himself as a representative of GreenCore Soil Biotechnology.
“Leo,” Thomas said, his voice slightly softer but still commanding. “Mr. Vance has gone to the trouble of coming here. The County has raised the price to $1,500 per acre. That’s $75,000 in cash. You can take half and start a new life in the city.”
Mr. Vance smiled politely, handing me an expensive fountain pen: “Mr. Miller, this is the best opportunity for your family. This land is only causing flooding disasters for the area. Let the authorities handle it.”
I looked at Thomas, then at Mr. Vance.
“Before you sign, I want you to see this,” I pulled out the soil analysis report and slammed it on the table, right next to my father’s old notebook.
“These are the results of the biological analysis from the State Agricultural Institute,” I read slowly. “The organic matter (OM) content in the basin sediment layer is 14.8%—five times higher than first-class agricultural soil. The density of nitrogen-fixing and phosphorus-dissolving microorganisms is at a record high. But more importantly…”
I turned to the last page.
“…this bio-sludge contains up to 32% pure natural humic acid. You don’t want to buy land to ‘relieve flooding.’ You want to turn it into a mine for producing high-grade organic fertilizer for GreenCore, with a market price of no less than $400 per ton.”
Mr. Vance’s face instantly changed color. His polite smile vanished, replaced by extreme tension. The GreenCore representative recoiled a step, his eyes darting around.
“W-what?” Thomas stared at me, then at Mr. Vance. “Vance, what does this mean? You told me this was dead land?”
“I’m not finished yet,” I opened my father’s notebook, pointing to the dates. “My father discovered this three years ago. He deliberately flooded this land to accumulate sediment. And those 214 ducks worth $60 that everyone was laughing at… they’re a microbial machine. For the past three months, they’ve digested toxic algae, churned up the silt, and unleashed the full potential of minerals trapped beneath the clay layer.”
I stood up, looking directly at the County Planning Director: “I’ve sent a copy of this report along with my father’s logbook to the State Semi-Resource Inspection Commission. If the County continues to use its power to reclaim public land for this clandestine commercial purpose, we’ll see each other in the State Supreme Court.”
Mr. Vance trembled, retracting his pen, speechless. He let out a low growl and turned, stomping away to his car. The GreenCore representative hurried after him.
The kitchen fell into a dim silence. Thomas stood rooted to the spot, staring at the soil analysis report, then at the notebook with the familiar handwriting of his deceased father.
“Father… you knew it all?” Thomas whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “And I… I finished it?”
“I wasn’t senile, Thomas,” I said gently. “I just saw things that those who were too hasty, like you, or those greedy people, would never see.”
Thomas slowly sat down in his chair. He rested his head on his hands.
