Late November, Yuanfeng's eighth year. Zhao Xu's illness had dragged on for seven full days, followed by another ten days of convalescence, before the imperial physician finally said he could go outside.
During those ten days, I prepared white porridge every day, adding kudzu root powder, adding a pinch of dried osmanthus. His notes changed from "porridge drunk" to "much better," then to "can we play outside tomorrow?" I replied "no" to each. He replied: "Hmph." I replied: "Hmph is useless too."
The day the physician finally relented, the young eunuch came bearing word, smiling even more brightly than Zhao Xu: "His Majesty says, tonight we go to the Imperial Garden!"
"At night? It's too cold at night."
"His Majesty says, he has lessons during the day. Only free at night."
I sighed. "Then tell him to wear more layers."
That afternoon, I went early to the Imperial Garden. Snow had fallen for three full days, accumulating thick on the ground, crunching beneath each step. The green bamboo at our old spot bent under the snow's weight; the ant nest was long invisible. The entire Imperial Garden stretched white and silent, like another world.
I spread a thick cloth on the stone bench and sat to wait. Darkness fell quickly. Palace lanterns glowed in the distance, their orange light reflecting on the snow, dyeing the whole expanse warm. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, large and round, illuminating the snow until it sparkled like scattered fine salt.
I waited about a quarter-hour before Zhao Xu arrived. He wore that thick fur coat, the white collar framing half his face, revealing only his eyes. Two guards followed behind, left waiting at the corner of the palace path, forbidden to approach.
"I'm here!" He ran over, boots sinking deep into the snow with each step. Reaching me, he panted for breath, nose tip red from cold. I suddenly noticed—he seemed to have grown taller. Not the sudden sprouting kind, but slowly, quietly, climbing from below my shoulder to nearly eye-level with me.
"Run slower. You've just recovered."
"I'm well now." He pulled the fur collar down, revealing his full face. Moonlight struck his face, pale and white, nose bridge straight, casting a thin shadow at the corner of his mouth. He had grown thin. After so many days ill, a full circle thinner, chin sharper, but his eyes brighter than usual, like two moon-washed pebbles in the snow.
"You've grown thin," I said.
"No. The physician says I've gained half a catty."
"That's swelling from recovery. Doesn't count."
He frowned slightly, but quickly smiled again. "What shall we play today?"
"No drawing today."
"Then what?"
I bent down and grabbed a handful of snow, kneading it in my hands into a round ball.
"Snowball fight."
He paused. "What is a snowball fight?"
The snowball flew from my hand, striking his shoulder and exploding into white petals. He stood frozen, looking down at the snow on his shoulder, then up at me.
"You hit me?"
"Yes. This is called a snowball fight. You hit me too."
He crouched down, fumbling to grab a handful of snow, throwing it before he could even pack it tight. The snow scattered mid-air like a handful of flour, falling on my head, shoulders, eyelashes.
"You have to pack it tight." I bent to grab another handful, kneading it firmly in my hands into a solid ball, "Throw with strength."
I handed him the snowball. He took it, raised it, aimed for ages, then threw. It missed. Flew past my ear, struck the bamboo behind me with a crash, snow cascading from the bamboo leaves onto us both.
I laughed. He laughed too.
He learned quickly. The second time he packed it much tighter, threw more accurately. The snowball struck my knee; he jumped for joy. I packed two more, one striking his shoulder, one his leg. He dodged, didn't dodge in time, took the hit squarely. Snow slid down his collar, and he shivered with a cry: "Cold!"
"Serves you right. Who told you not to dodge?"
"You didn't say to dodge!"
"Dodging is part of snowball fights."
He puffed his cheeks and crouched down, beginning to pack snowballs frantically. Seeing the situation turn dire, I turned and ran. He chased behind, snowballs flying one after another. I ran to the osmanthus tree, turning to look at him. He stood in the snow, bent over panting, fur coat hem covered in snow, collar too, nose still red, but mouth corners lifted high.
I stopped running. "Letting you win. You've just recovered; running too fast will make you cough."
He paused. Then walked over, stopping before me. Moonlight fell on his face, a snowflake clinging to his lashes, sparkling. He stood before me, and I suddenly realized—he truly was at my eye level now. No need to look up or down; looking straight ahead, I met his eyes exactly. His eyes reflected the moon, bright like two water-soaked black pebbles.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"You're so good to me."
"Nonsense. Who else would I be good to?"
He smiled. Then crouched down and began to pile snow.
"What are you doing?"
"Building a snowman. You taught me."
He first gathered snow into a pile, patting it firm with his hands into a round base. Then piled a smaller sphere on top, smoothing it with his hands into a head shape.
"Branches." He extended his hand.
I broke two small twigs from the nearby osmanthus tree and handed them to him. He stuck them into the sides of the body as arms.
"Eyes?"
I pulled two dried longans from my sleeve—originally saved as snacks for him. He took them, pressing them into the head as eyes.
"Nose?"
I searched my sleeves, finding only a small crumb of dried osmanthus cake. He took it, pressing it below the eyes.
"What is this?"
"Nose."
"An osmanthus cake nose?"
"Yes. A fragrant nose."
He laughed. Laughed while crouching on the ground, hugging his knees, shoulders shaking.
"What is it?"
"The snowman has an osmanthus cake nose. Won't mice eat it?"
"No. Mice don't come out in winter."
"What about spring?"
"In spring the snowman will have melted. Mice can't eat it then."
He was silent a while. Looking at that snowman, looking for a long time.
"Then next winter, we'll build another."
"Good."
"The winter after too."
"Good."
"And the winter after that."
I didn't say good. The wind scattered his words; I looked at him, thought a while, then said: "Mm."
Good is a promise; mm is—something more certain than a promise.
He stood, walked to the snowman's side, unwound his own scarf and wrapped it around the snowman's neck.
"What are you doing? Aren't you cold?"
"It's cold."
"It's made of snow. It doesn't feel cold."
"It does. It has no clothes to wear."
I looked at him. Nine-year-old emperor, standing in the snow, unwinding his own scarf to wrap around a snowman. Moonlight fell upon him, the white fur collar of his coat loosened, revealing his thin neck. He hunched his shoulders, but didn't pull up the collar. He just stood before me, shoulders just reaching my chin. If I wished, I could rest my chin on top of his head. But I didn't. I just stood there, looking at him.
I walked over, unwound the scarf from the snowman's neck, and rewound it around his own neck.
"It doesn't feel cold. You do."
"I'm not."
"You're shivering."
"No."
"Yes."
He lowered his head, said nothing. I wrapped the scarf tight, tying a knot beneath his chin. The knot was too tight, squeezing his mouth. He reached up to tug at it, revealing half his face.
"Your knot is so ugly."
"As long as it stays on. Who cares if it's ugly?"
He laughed. Laughed until his eyes curved, moonlight falling on his lashes, sparkling.
The snow stopped. The moon emerged fully from behind the clouds, large and round, illuminating the entire Imperial Garden like daytime. I suddenly remembered something—in New York, every year at this time, a song would play in the streets. Emily said that song was tacky, yet every year she was the first to hum it.
"Zhao Xu."
"Mm?"
"Would you like to hear a song?"
"What song?"
"From when I was in New York, every winter this song would play in the streets. Very old song."
He looked at me curiously. "Sing it and let's hear."
In a Song Dynasty palace, on snow-covered ground beneath moonlight, singing an English song to a nine-year-old emperor. I don't know what to call this, but I opened my mouth.
"We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a Merry Christmas,
and a Happy New Year."
My voice wasn't loud, dispersing in the snow, carried away by wind. He listened, head tilted, eyes bright.
"What language is this? Can't understand."
"It's English. From very far in the West."
"What does it mean?"
"It means—wishing you a merry Christmas, happy new year."
"What is Christmas?"
"It's... a holiday. In winter. When it's very cold. Everyone gathers together, eats good food, exchanges gifts."
I didn't mention the lively parts—the Christmas trees in shopping malls, the colored lights on New York streets, the crowds in Times Square. Those were too hard to explain. I only spoke of my own portion.
"My former roommate, every year at this time, we would light a small lamp in our dormitory, drink hot cocoa, eat cake I made. She would also play guitar, but poorly. We would just sit like that, waiting for dawn."
He thought. "Like New Year's Eve?"
"Similar. But not as lively as New Year's Eve. Quieter."
"Then when you were in New York, who did you spend it with?"
"With my roommate. Her name was Emily."
He was silent a while. "Do you miss her now?"
I paused. Did I? Miss Emily, miss New York, miss that dormitory piled with thesis drafts, miss the expired milk in the refrigerator, miss the withered succulents on the windowsill. Miss those days completely different from here. But I looked at Zhao Xu before me—standing in the snow, wrapped in a scarf, nose red, waiting for my answer. His eyes met mine exactly, no need to look up or down.
"Yes," I said. "But here is good too."
"Why?"
"Because here there is osmanthus sugar porridge. There are paintings you drew. There are notes you wrote. There is..." I paused, "there is a snowman."
He smiled. Smiled until he buried his face in the scarf, revealing only his eyes.
"That song, sing it again."
"Good."
I sang it again. This time a bit louder. Moonlight fell on the snow, sparkling like scattered fine salt. Wind came, carrying the song far away. He hummed along for two lines, pronunciation completely jumbled, but very earnest.
"Good tidings we bring to you and your kin,
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."
"Good what?"
"Good tidings. Means good news."
"Good news?" He thought. "Then I have good news too."
"What good news?"
"I finished reciting the Analects today. The Grand Tutor said it's better than last month."
"That is indeed good news."
"And another."
"What?"
"I've recovered from my illness."
"That is also good news."
"And another."
"More?"
He lowered his head, voice very small. "I saw you."
I said nothing. Wind came, cool, but my face was warm.
"Should return now," he said, this time him saying it.
"Good."
He turned and left. Took a few steps, then turned back.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"Next winter, sing that song for me again."
"Good."
"Every year."
I didn't say good. The wind scattered his words; I looked at him, thought a while, then said: "Mm."
He smiled. Then turned and ran. Coat hem trampling through snow, leaving a trail of crooked footprints. Moonlight chased his retreating figure, stretching that thin, small shadow very long. I suddenly noticed, his shadow seemed a bit longer than before too.
I crouched where I stood, looking at his footprints. Snow began falling again, fine flakes landing on those footprints, slowly filling them in. But I knew he had been here. I knew he would come again next winter. The winter after too. The winter after that.
I stood, walked to that snowman's side. Longan eyes, osmanthus cake nose, branch arms. I unwound my own sash—not the formal one, but an inner cloth belt—and wrapped it loosely around the snowman's neck.
"You make do with this for now. Next year I'll get you a better one."
Thought a moment, then added: "And I'll sing you another song. In English. Doesn't matter if you can't understand."
The snowman didn't answer. But I knew it heard.
That night, I wrote today's story into a note and tucked it beneath my pillow. After finishing, I took it out again and added a line on the back:
"We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."
The characters were crooked. No one in Song Dynasty knew these characters, including myself. But I knew what they meant.
Outside the window, the moon was round, the snow bright. I closed my eyes, remembering what he said—"Next winter, sing that song for me again."
Next winter. The winter after. The winter after that. Every year.
His eyes met mine, no need to look up or down. Next winter, would he be taller than me?
Grandfather, did you hear? I sang an English song in Song Dynasty. Sang it for a nine-year-old emperor to hear. He couldn't understand, but he asked me to sing it again. Every year.
I'll wait. Next winter. The winter after. The winter after that. A hundred winters.
[End of Chapter 10]