Yuanyou first year, second day of the second month. The Dragon Raises Its Head.
Before dawn, I was awakened by sounds outside. Not firecrackers, but drums. Muffled, beating one by one, coming from the direction of the Imperial Ancestral Temple, like a heartbeat from deep within the earth. I sat up from my sleeping place, pushed open the window. The sky was still dark, but eunuchs were already running along the palace path, holding yellow silk-wrapped bundles, heading toward the Altar of the First Farmer. Those bundles contained plows, whips, seeds—everything needed for today. Since Zhou Dynasty, it had been the rule that the Son of Heaven personally plowed. Song inherited Tang institutions, and this rule became established practice—the emperor must on this day personally hold the plow, opening the first furrow for all under heaven. Praying for favorable winds and timely rain, praying for abundant harvests. Last year Zhao Xu was still young; the Empress Dowager plowed in his stead. This year, he must go himself.
I dressed, didn't go to the Inner Kitchen, went first to the Imperial Garden. The green bamboo at our old place had already sprouted new shoots, green and pointed, emerging from last year's withered leaves. The earth on the ground had softened, stepping on it slightly sinking, carrying damp breath. The ant nest was still there, its entrance collapsed by snow, but several ants were already moving earth to rebuild. Spring had come.
Waited about half an hour before Zhao Xu arrived. He wore everyday clothes, not ceremonial robes—the narrow-sleeved, easy-to-move-in kind. Collar and cuffs tightened, a leather belt around his waist, boots on his feet. When he walked over, his steps were larger and faster than usual. He had grown again since the Lantern Festival—then reaching my eyebrows, now nearly to my forehead. He stopped before me; I needed to look slightly up to see his eyes clearly.
"How did you know I would come?"
"Guessed."
He smiled. That smile still held childish innocence, but his jawline had hardened somewhat compared to last winter.
"Going to plow the ceremonial field today?" I asked.
"Mm. The Empress Dowager said this year I must go myself."
"Nervous?"
He thought. "A little. But the Grand Tutor taught me. How to hold the plow, how to wield the whip, how to walk in a straight line."
"Walk in a straight line?"
"Mm. The furrow must be straight; crooked is unlucky. The Grand Tutor said, the furrow the Son of Heaven plows is the appearance of all under heaven. If crooked, the people will suffer."
I looked at him. He stood there, saying these words with a serious expression. Not reciting the Grand Tutor's lessons, but truly believing them.
"Then walk well. Walk straighter."
He nodded. Pulled something from his sleeve, handed it to me. A small cloth bundle, yellow, tied with red string.
"Dragon Raises Its Head food. The Empress Dowager had the Imperial Kitchen make it. I took an extra one."
I opened the bundle. Inside was a cake, square and proper, stamped with the character "Feng" [abundance]. Took a bite—sweet, with osmanthus flavor and new rice fragrance. Glutinous rice flour ground fine, melting in the mouth, sweet but not cloying.
"Good?"
"Good."
He nodded satisfied. "Then I'm off. The Imperial Ancestral Temple is waiting."
"Good."
He turned and left. Took a few steps, turned back.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"Wait for my return. I'll show you something."
"What?"
"A secret."
He ran. Coat hem still stepping underfoot, but no longer tripping him as before. He ran faster, steps steadier. I watched his figure disappear at the end of the palace path, finishing that cake bit by bit. Osmanthus-flavored. Sweet.
That afternoon, when Zhao Xu returned, he was covered in mud. Boots, pant legs, cuffs—all mud-spattered. Several spots on his face too, white streaks where sweat had washed through. But he was happy, eyes bright, mouth corners raised, walking with larger steps than usual. When he walked to me, I smelled earth on him, and a faint scent of sweat, different from his usual soapberry fragrance.
"I finished plowing!" He panted, chest rising and falling.
"Walked in a straight line?"
"Yes." He pulled an ear of wheat from his sleeve, held it before me, "The Grand Tutor said, very straight. The historian recorded it beside me. Said I 'held the plow steady, furrows straight and true.'"
The wheat ear was golden, heavy, grains plump and swelling, nearly bursting their husks. Wheat awns pricked my palm, tickling. This was wheat from the Altar of the First Farmer. Cut by his own hand.
"For you."
"Why give me?"
"Because..." he thought, brow slightly furrowing, as if searching for the right words, "because today is Dragon Raises Its Head. On Dragon Raises Its Head, you give things. Give good things, and the whole year will have good harvests."
I took the wheat ear, placed it in my palm. Very heavy. Heavier than it looked.
"Zhao Xu."
"Mm?"
"Are you tired today?"
"A little." He extended his right hand, opened his palm. The web between thumb and index finger was red, rubbed by the plow handle. Several faint red marks on his fingers too, different from the bamboo strip scratches when making lanterns at the Lantern Festival, deeper, left by exertion. "Held the plow all morning, hand is sore. But the Grand Tutor said, cannot loosen. Once loosened, the plow goes crooked. So I kept gripping. Gripped all morning."
He said this plainly, as if stating something obvious. But I looked at his palm, suddenly remembering last autumn when he crouched in the Imperial Garden watching ants, fingers fine and white, without a single callus.
"Then tonight I'll make egg-fried rice for you."
His eyes brightened. "Agreed?"
"Agreed. With one extra egg."
He smiled. Smiled until his eyes curved, like when he first ate egg-fried rice. But the childish innocence on that face had diminished somewhat since then. He turned and took a few steps, turned back.
"A Heng."
"Mm?"
"That wheat ear, don't throw it away. Keep it. When autumn's new wheat comes down, use it to grind flour, make noodles."
"Good."
He nodded satisfied, turned and ran. This time, his coat hem didn't trip him.
I stood in the Imperial Garden, raised that wheat ear toward the sun. The grains gleamed in the light, like golden beads one by one. The green bamboo's new shoots swayed gently in the wind; the ants had already rebuilt most of their entrance, marching in line carrying food into the hole. Spring had truly come.
That night, I made egg-fried rice. Added one extra egg than usual, a bit more salted pork. The rice was leftover from noon, grains distinct. When the eggs exploded in the pan, the fragrance drew even Eunuch Li over.
"Making egg-fried rice again?"
"Mm. His Majesty plowed all morning today, rubbed his hand red."
Eunuch Li looked at me, said nothing. Leaned against the doorframe, watching me fry rice. Rice finished, packed into the food box. Eunuch Li suddenly spoke: "Keep that wheat ear well. Wheat cut by His Majesty's own hand—not everyone can have such a thing."
I paused. "Eunuch Li, you saw?"
"What don't I see?" He turned and left, hands behind his back, steps leisurely.
I carried the food box toward Funing Hall. Reaching the entrance, the guard stopped me.
"What person?"
"Bearing food."
"His Majesty has already taken evening meal."
"I know. This is extra."
The guard wanted to say more when the hall doors opened from within. A young eunuch poked his head out, saw me, eyes brightening. "Elder Sister is here! His Majesty has waited so long!"
I entered. Zhao Xu sat before his desk, a book spread before him, but few pages turned. He had changed clothes, washed his face, hair re-combed. But that red mark on his hand was still there, on the web between thumb and index finger, rubbed by the plow handle.
Seeing the food box, he set down his book, stood up.
"Egg-fried rice?"
"Egg-fried rice. With one extra egg."
I took out the bowl, placed it before him. He picked up chopsticks, ate a mouthful. Stopped, chewed for a long time. Ate another mouthful.
"What is it? Not good?"
"Good." He ate another mouthful, "Better than usual."
"Because of the extra egg."
He nodded, continued eating. Ate to the last grain, handed me the bowl. "More."
"None. Only this much."
"Can I have it again tomorrow?"
"Yes. I'll make it for you tomorrow."
He nodded. Pulled a note from his sleeve, handed it to me.
"Today's."
I opened it. It read:
"Today plowed one mu of land. Walked very straight. The Grand Tutor praised me. The historian recorded it. Wheat ear for you. Will give you again next year. Better year by year."
Characters much neater than last year. Stroke by stroke, steady and sure. But that final stroke of the character "hao" [good] still curved slightly upward, like the corner of his mouth when he smiled.
I folded the note, tucked it into my sleeve. With that wheat ear.
"Zhao Xu."
"Mm?"
"That mu of land you plowed today—will wheat grow there next year?"
"Yes. The Grand Tutor said, as long as properly cared for, it will grow. Enough rain, enough sun, no pests, the wheat will grow on its own."
"Then next year when wheat is harvested, use it to make noodles."
"Good." He thought, "What kind of noodles?"
"Fengzhen pork noodles."
"Good." He thought again, "The year after?"
"The year after too."
"The year after that?"
"The year after that too. Every year. Until you can no longer plow, then I'll plow for you."
He paused. Then laughed. Laughed loudly, not his usual restrained smile, but open, surging from his chest.
"You plow? Do you know how to hold a plow?"
"No. Can learn."
"Then you'll need to learn for a long time."
"Doesn't matter. There's plenty of time."
He looked at me, smile slowly fading, but mouth corners still raised. "Good. There's plenty of time."
That night, I tied that wheat ear with red string, hung it at my bedhead. With those notes. With that jade. With Grandfather's paper. The wheat ear was golden, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Wheat awns pricked the wind, making fine sounds, as if saying something.
Moon outside the window. Round, bright. I closed my eyes, remembering what he said—"When autumn's new wheat comes down, use it to grind flour, make noodles."
Still long to wait. Wheat must be sown in spring, ear in summer, turn yellow in autumn. But it doesn't matter. Wheat will grow. Noodles will be made. He will grow taller. Taller than now. Much taller than me. Tall enough to hold the plow without gripping so tight, tall enough that the web between thumb and index finger won't be rubbed red.
Tomorrow, make him egg-fried rice. The day after, osmanthus sugar porridge. The day after that, Fengzhen pork noodles. Day by day making. Until wheat turns yellow. Until he is much taller than me. Until he no longer needs to stand on tiptoe to reach that lantern.
That wheat ear hung at my bedhead, heavy. I closed my eyes. In dreams, the wheat had turned yellow. Vast stretches, golden, like that light in his eyes. Wind came, wheat waves surged layer upon layer, rustling rustling, like the earth laughing.
[End of Chapter 15]