Yuanyou first year, late ninth month. The osmanthus had fallen completely, sky high and clouds light. Leaves in the Imperial Garden began turning yellow; when wind came, sha-sha-sha-sha, like someone thumbing through a very thick book.
After court, Zhao Xu came to the Imperial Garden as usual, but today he didn't look up at the osmanthus tree—there were no more flowers on it. He stood beneath the tree, looking up at the bare branches a while, then turned to look at me. "The osmanthus is gone."
"Will bloom again next year."
"Must wait another year."
"A year passes quickly."
He frowned slightly, said nothing. I watched him frowning, suddenly remembering last autumn when he stood beneath the same tree, standing on tiptoe reaching for that osmanthus flower. Then he was still shorter than me, standing on tiptoe couldn't reach. Now he was half a head taller than me, reaching out could touch the lowest branch. But he still looked up at the treetop, as if waiting for something.
"Take you somewhere," I said.
"Where?"
"The practice ground."
The imperial practice ground was at the northwest corner of the palace, extremely vast. We turned from the palace path, from afar saw a stretch of open flat land. Surrounding vermillion wooden fences with mottled paint, outside several rows of ancient pagoda trees with lush branches, rustling when wind passed. The center of the practice ground was paved with blue stone slabs, polished smooth by time, gleaming with dark green. On east and west sides stood rows of weapon racks, spears, swords, halberds arranged neatly, flashing cold light in the autumn slanting sun.
North was a high platform, base built with white marble, railing carved with cloud patterns. Yellow silk umbrellas were set on the platform, but unused, folded and leaning against the chair back. On both sides of the platform stood large drums, drum faces vermillion, drumsticks hanging at the side. South was a row of archery targets, woven from straw, covered with white cloth outside, target hearts painted with cinnabar, from afar looking like red moons one by one.
The guard at the practice ground saw Zhao Xu, paused, quickly knelt to salute. Zhao Xu waved his hand. "Rise. I come to shoot arrows, need not announce."
The guard stood up and retreated to one side, back perfectly straight, eyes looking straight ahead.
I walked to the weapon rack, picked up a bow. The bow was made of mulberry wood, bow arm wrapped with silk thread, feeling warm and smooth to touch. I tested the string, tension just right—a soft bow for practice, lighter than what I used at the archery range. Also pulled an arrow from the quiver, arrow shaft white birch wood, arrow feathers eagle feathers, gleaming slightly brown in the light.
Zhao Xu stood beside watching me, eyes bright. "You really can?"
"Really can. In America, there was an archery range beside the school. My roommate pulled me to go. She said, you stay in the laboratory all day, your bones are stiff." I paused, "Later I found, archery is more interesting than doing experiments. When the arrow flies out, need not think of anything in your mind. Just look at the target heart, release. Arrow hits, pressure is gone."
"Then when you went to shoot arrows, what did you think?"
"Thought of nothing. Only thought of target heart."
"Then now?"
I looked at him. He stood beside the weapon rack, sunlight falling on his shoulders, hair, eyelashes. His eyes were very bright, with curiosity, with expectation, and something I couldn't read.
"Now—also thought of nothing."
I stood sideways, feet apart, shoulder-width. Left hand pushed the bow, right hand pulled the string. Arrow nocked on the bow window, string pulled to beside my cheek, bow arm bent into a full moon. Aimed at target heart, held breath—released. Bowstring hummed, arrow flew out, nailed to the target, trembling slightly. Seven rings.
"Hit!" he shouted, happier than me.
"Only seven rings. Not good."
"Seven rings is also good. Teach me."
I taught him how to stand, how to hold the bow, how to nock the arrow. He learned very fast, posture correct in one try. When he drew the bow, sleeve slipped down, revealing forearm. His arm was somewhat thicker than last year, no longer like the bamboo pole when I first came. He drew full bow, string touching mouth corner, eyes squinting, aiming at target heart. Wind came, bangs on his forehead blown up, revealing smooth forehead.
Released. Arrow flew out, steadily nailed to the edge of target heart—eight rings.
He turned to look at me, mouth corners raised. "Higher than you."
"Again."
He pulled another arrow. This time drawing the bow faster, arrow leaving the string very lightly, "sou" one sound, like wind passing bamboo tips. Nailed to target—nine rings.
"Two rings higher than you."
"Again."
He slowed down drawing the bow, aiming time longer. String pulled to behind ear, bow arm bent into a full arc. His shoulders were very broad, back perfectly straight, waist slightly sinking, like a pine tree with deep roots. Wind came, his robe corner lifted, fluttering. Released—arrow leaving string sound very short, very crisp. Dead center. Ten rings. Arrow nailed in very deep, arrow feathers touching target face, no longer trembling.
He set down the bow, turned to look at me. Wind came, blowing his robe puffed up. He stood in sunlight, face carrying that particular to youth, unable to hide smugness. His eyes were very bright, mouth corners raised high.
"Your turn."
I took it, nocked arrow, drew bow. He stood beside me, said nothing. I aimed at target heart, released. Arrow flew out—eight rings.
"Improved."
"Again."
I shot another arrow. Nine rings. He smiled.
"Your turn."
He shot another arrow. Ten rings. Then ten rings. Then ten rings again. The way he shot arrows was very good-looking. Not that deliberately posed good-looking, but body naturally unfolding good-looking. His shoulders were very broad, waist very straight, when arm drew full bow, back muscles would slightly tense. Wind came, his robe spreading behind him, like an eagle's wings.
"What are you looking at?" he suddenly turned his head.
"Looking at nothing."
"Your face is red."
"Wind blew."
"Lying. No wind."
I lowered my head to pull an arrow. He smiled again, said nothing.
Half an hour, he shot twenty arrows, fifteen were ten rings. I shot twenty arrows, my best was nine rings. When he put back the bow, palm was red—rubbed by the bowstring.
"Does it hurt?"
"Doesn't hurt." He withdrew his hand into his sleeve, "Come again tomorrow."
"Tomorrow you have lessons."
"Come after lessons."
"Then you must finish your lessons early."
"I'll work faster."
He looked at me, mouth corners raised. "You teach me archery, I teach you reading."
"You teach me reading?"
"Mm. Your Suzhou dialect is so good, northern dialect not good. I teach you northern dialect."
"What's not good about my northern dialect?"
"You say 'forty' as 'fourteen,' say 'fourteen' also as 'fourteen.' Last time the Grand Tutor didn't even understand."
I paused. "When did I say 'fourteen' as 'fourteen'?"
"Last time you said, 'His Majesty is fourteen this year.' The Grand Tutor asked, 'Isn't His Majesty ten?'"
My face reddened. "That was a slip of tongue."
"Slip of tongue must also be corrected." He imitated the Grand Tutor's tone, back straight, stroking nonexistent beard, "'Fourteen' is 'fourteen,' 'forty' is 'forty.' Cannot mix."
"Then you teach me."
"Good. Teach you one character every day. Today first teach 'ten.'"
"'Ten' I know."
"Then you say it."
"Ten."
"Wrong. Tongue must roll. Ten."
"Ten."
"Roll more. Ten."
"Ten." This time, like it.
"Right. Tomorrow teach 'four.' The day after teach 'is.' The day after that teach—"
"You teach one character a day, until when?"
"Teach until you won't say 'fourteen' anymore."
He smiled. Smiled with complete satisfaction, as if he had already arranged the entire winter. Setting sun in the west, shadows on the practice ground stretched very long. The yellow silk umbrella on the high platform was gilded with gold edges, weapons on the racks gleamed with dark red light. Wind stopped, ancient pagoda tree leaves no longer fell, the practice ground was quiet as a painting. He stood in the painting, robe corner hanging down, motionless.
"Should return," he said.
"Good."
He turned and left. Took a few steps, turned back.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"Tomorrow, I'll still shoot ten rings. You also shoot ten rings."
"I can't."
"Can. I'll teach you."
He ran. Coat hem trampling stone pavement, pa-pa-pa, like horse hooves.
That night, I wrote on a note: fifteen ten rings, one "ten" character. His eyes, like the target heart. Target heart is red. His eyes are not. His eyes are bright. Arrow flies out, lands on target. My heart flies out, lands where? Lands in his eyes.
Moon outside the window. Round, bright. I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, still going to the practice ground. He shoots arrows, I shoot arrows. He teaches me to say "four," I teach him to sing "Jasmine Flower." He says Suzhou dialect sounds good. I say northern dialect is hard to learn. He says not hard. He says, I'll teach you. When he said this, eyes were bright, like target heart. Every time I look at his eyes, I will release. Arrow flies out. Lands on target, lands in his hand. Anyway he taught me. Lands wherever is fine.
[End of Chapter 22]