The first spring rain on the grassland fell in the middle of the night.
Xiyu was woken by a faint, soft rustling sound.
It wasn’t the wind, not camel bells, not the gray hound Helü Tao kept scratching at the courtyard dirt—it was a sound he’d never heard on the grassland before.
It was as if someone were brushing the softest wool felt across the tent roof,
Or as if countless tiny beads were raining down from the sky, rolling across the felt surface and pattering softly into the grass blades.
He opened his eyes in the darkness and listened for a moment before it clicked—it was rain.
Not the kind of violent downpour on the Gobi that pelted your face with grit, nor the sleet mixed with ice pellets that came off the snowy peaks.
The spring rain on the grassland was fine, dense, and silent in its nourishment—it barely made a sound on the felt tent roof, only slowly soaking the green grass and earth outside, wrapping the whole world in a layer of gentle moisture.
The dry, dusty scent that had hung in the air all winter was being pressed down, bit by bit, by the rain.
In its place rose a fragrance he’d never smelled on the grassland before—moist earth, greening grass shoots, dead leaves softened by rain,
And from the distant dwarf pine grove, a faint wisp of resin.
Que Zhi beside him had also woken.
He turned over slowly, facing Xiyu’s back, and pulled the blanket up higher over Xiyu’s shoulder—just that one small movement.
His motions were gentle and subtle, as if afraid of disturbing him.
His arm came from under the blanket and naturally settled around Xiyu’s waist, drawing him gently back into his embrace.
Chest against back, his shallow breaths falling softly on the crown of Xiyu’s head.
Xiyu didn’t move again.
He lay quietly between the warm bedding and Que Zhi,
The sound of spring rain pattering in his ears, his lover’s steady heartbeat beside him, the thick white wolf pelt beneath his feet, and on the small table by the couch, Batu’s embroidered pouch and the wooden horse Helü Tao had carved.
He closed his eyes, curled himself deeper into the curve of Que Zhi’s arm, and let the sound of rain carry him back to sleep.
The next morning, he was woken by birdsong.
Not the usual chattering of sparrows, but a long-tailed bird whose name he didn’t know, its call clear and melodic—as if it had composed its own little tune that only spring could sing.
He opened his eyes and found Que Zhi was already up. On the food tray by the low couch sat steaming butter tea and freshly baked flatbread.
The paper pasted over the window lattice glowed with a faint white light—the sky was darker than usual, the clouds likely not yet dispersed.
He threw off the blanket and walked barefoot to the window, pushing it open a crack.
Then he froze.
The old poplar in the courtyard had been nothing but budding tips last night. Overnight, every branch had been washed as smooth as polished ink-dark jade,
The buds had all burst open into glossy new leaves, the whole tree swaying with fresh spring shoots in the breeze.
The moss on the stone well rim had thickened overnight, pushing out from the crevices and spreading along the grooves worn by the well rope toward the mouth of the well—fuzzy and green as a miniature prairie.
Wild goji branches from beyond the courtyard wall reached in, their leaf tips still holding un-dried raindrops that sparkled in the morning light, as if someone had strung beads on them all night.
He pushed the window fully open on both sides and took a deep breath.
The air after rain was mixed with the scent of earth and grass, along with the faint astringent freshness of old poplar leaves soaked through by rain—cool and crisp as it filled his lungs.
He stood barefoot at the window, letting the wind blow over him for a long while, until a weight settled on his shoulders—Que Zhi had draped his own outer robe over him.
“Don’t catch a cold.” Que Zhi wrapped his arms around him, carried him back to sit by the low couch, and picked up the boots he’d kicked off the night before, setting them side by side at his feet.
“You’re up early today!”
“Mm. Went to the kitchen and made you ginger soup—it’s in the bowl on the left side of the tray. Drink it while it’s hot.”
Xiyu picked up the bowl of ginger soup and took a sip—it was spicy with a hint of sweetness. Wild honey.
He drank the ginger soup, his gaze still lingering outside the window.
“This time last year, I was still on the road from the Gobi to Liangzhou. Out there, it hardly ever rains—just the sound of sand grains pelting the tent.”
“Last night’s rain sounded so fine, like a layer of silk spread over the felt roof—soft and dense.”
He finished the ginger soup, set the bowl down on the small table, stood up and changed into his robes. Taking Que Zhi by the hand, he walked to the door, pushed it open, stepped over the threshold, and stood on the bluestone paving of the courtyard.
The ground was still wet. The earth, soaked all night, gave softly underfoot, his boot soles sinking in a shallow layer.
The old poplar’s leaves rustled in the wind, shaking off a few raindrops that hadn’t drained through the night—one landed right on his upturned forehead and trickled down the bridge of his nose.
He wiped the droplet away with his finger, looked at the faint sheen of moisture on his fingertip, and his eyes curved into a smile.
Lunch was also eaten in the courtyard.
He carried the food tray to the stone table, peeled a boiled egg in the cool post-rain spring breeze, and discussed with Que Zhi what kind of fruit wine they should brew this spring—raspberry wine was sweeter than regular fruit wine, and the wild apricots probably weren’t ripe yet.
He walked over to the corner of the yard to look at a clump of nameless wild grass and called Que Zhi over to see—
Underneath the dead branches, two new shoots had somehow sprouted, their stems topped with a few unopened buds, looking incredibly lively after the rain.
They’d grown a full hand’s length taller since the time they’d returned from the frozen river.
He said that when he’d first come to the northern slope last autumn, this corner had been nothing but rocks. Now even the wild grass knew to grow toward the new ditch.
That morning, Batu came by.
He’d come to freeload a meal—the spring rain had just stopped, and several fence posts at the winter pasture had loosened. After helping repair the enclosure, he’d headed over.
The moment he stepped in, he sank into the soft mud by the stone well. Looking down at his mud-caked boot shafts, he suddenly remarked that mud soaked by spring rain was slipperier than butter tea.
He asked Xiyu if he’d heard the rain last night.
“Halbala woke up three times in the middle of the night. Water had pooled under the sheep pen fence too, and the whole flock was splashing around in the puddles—kept me up. I had to get up and lay two planks under the pen before they’d settle.”
“And guess what—this morning, that dry creek bed by the pasture that had been bone-dry all winter actually had water in it! Just a shallow layer, but you could hear the flow.”
The snowmelt alone wasn’t fast enough—it was the spring rain that did the real work. Every year, the grassland only truly woke up after the first spring rain.
He walked over to the corner, crouched down to look at the wild grass buds Xiyu had pointed out, leaned in to sniff them, and said:
“This is wild iris. The Helian tribe calls it ‘blue sparrow’s tongue.’ It blooms blue in summer. My mother picks a few every year to dry and brew into tea in winter.”
Xiyu told him to come pick some when they bloomed and take them back to his mother.
He pointed out the patch of moss on the well rim, now glossy and slick from the rain—Halbala’s favorite snack.
Every spring, he’d nibble the stone well rim clean, leaving it shinier than if it had been scrubbed with a brush.
Xiyu imagined the scene, laughing as he fed the last bite of his boiled egg into Que Zhi’s mouth.
Turning around, he spotted Halbala leaning his sheep muzzle toward the stone well rim, head tilted, as if sizing up how many more days until the moss was thick enough.
In the evening, a few more drops of rain fell—so fine they were like mist, not enough to need an umbrella, just tinging the sky a pale gray.
After Batu and Helü Tao left, the courtyard grew quiet.
He could hear the sound of water seeping down through the moss on the stone well rim—softer than a breath.
Xiyu leaned against the doorframe, gazing at the lush green clump of wild grass in the corner and the fresh moss spreading along the well rim. He turned and ran over, beaming as he said to Que Zhi, who was polishing his curved saber:
“The snow has completely melted. Today was the first spring rain. From here on, it’s spring.
Last winter, when we went to patrol the winter pasture, that creek bed was still dry. Now the creek beside the winter pasture—the one that’s been dry all winter—has water in it.”
Que Zhi tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling on Xiyu’s face with tender affection,
A soft smile rippled in his eyes, his brows and eyes full of gentle indulgence.
He listened quietly as Xiyu chattered on about the spring scenery, his gaze warm and full of depth, his fingertips lightly, secretly brushing against the back of Xiyu’s hand.
After a moment, his voice came low and soft, carrying warmth as he gave a gentle reply: “Mm.”
Xiyu looked toward the courtyard gate, thinking—tomorrow, he’d take Little Snowball to the paddock for new spring shoes, then stop by the kitchen to help the old cook pickle spring chives. There was still so much to do this spring, and they had the good fortune of having an entire season of it ahead of them.
Leave a Reply