Spring on the grasslands didn’t come gradually—it arrived overnight.
Xi Yu remembered it clearly: that morning, he pushed open the door and found that all the snow in the courtyard had melted.
Not into puddles of water, but into the earth itself, soaking the stone-paved ground that had been frozen all winter into a deep gray.
On the bare branches of the old poplar, a few tiny green buds smaller than grains of rice had emerged. The moss along the stone well curb had quietly turned green again without anyone noticing.
The crisp, dry chill in the air had dissipated, replaced by a warm, moist breeze that carried the scent of soil and melting snow,
blowing in from the southern slope, soft against the skin—completely different from the harsh, dry wind of the Gobi.
The north slope irrigation canal was completed before the spring flood arrived.
Hulü Xiong personally led the crew digging for over ten days. Batu’s father and Hulü Tao were there from start to finish, and even the old Khan rode out to see it twice.
Xi Yu and Que Zhi went to help every day as well.
Que Zhi worked with clean efficiency and never got too dirty. But Xi Yu couldn’t sit still—Que Zhi told him to stand aside, but he kept running around, helping with digging and hauling stones, getting covered in dust from head to toe.
Every evening, he’d return grimy and disheveled.
It was as if he were a little glutinous rice ball in the morning and turned into a muddy little bun by night.
Dust settled in his hair and at his temples, mud streaked his cheeks, a thick layer of grime coated his collar and sleeves, and even his lashes and brows were flecked with fine dirt.
Que Zhi watched him every day—dirty but beaming—and a helpless tenderness rose in his eyes. He shook his head with a resigned sigh.
He would stop, raise his hand as usual, take out the handkerchief he’d specially prepared these past few days, gently hold Xi Yu’s chin, and carefully wipe the mud from his cheeks, nose, and forehead.
His eyes were full of indulgent affection, and though he let out a low sigh, his voice was impossibly gentle:
“You’re the most restless one of all. Standing still, you somehow manage to get yourself covered in dust.”
Xi Yu obediently tilted his face up to let him wipe, a faint smile always playing at the corners of his mouth, showing not a trace of embarrassment.
His bright eyes blinked as he looked up, cheeks slightly flushed, and he murmured in a soft, coaxing tone:
“If I get dirty, you’ll clean me up—so I’m not afraid.”
“Yes, not afraid.” Que Zhi couldn’t help but kiss him at that adorable sight.
Though covered in dust and looking thoroughly worn, Xi Yu walked side by side with Que Zhi, chatting all the way, his brows curved and a smile always at his lips.
Cheerful and beaming, he stepped into the dusk, his clothes gray with dirt but his heart light, heading back toward the royal palace.
On the day the sluice gates were opened, Xi Yu stood on the canal bank, watching the snowmelt surge from the gate and rush downstream along the newly dug channel.
Wherever the water passed, the canal bed that had been dry all winter instantly turned deep brown, and the soil bubbled with tiny pockets of air—as if it, too, was drinking in the water.
A few herders’ children ran after the leading edge of the water, splashing mud everywhere with their boots, their laughter drifting all the way to the edge of the pasture.
Batu stood beside him, shaking Harbala’s bell with a jingle. “Once this water reaches downstream, those newly relocated herder families will have water for their pastures.
I remember last winter, when we inspected the winter pasture, that creek gully was down to just a thin layer of ice. The new herders didn’t dare ask for more fodder.”
“Now the water’s here. The grass will grow, the sheep will fatten, and next Year-End Sacrifice, they’ll be able to bring a few extra jars of mare’s milk wine.” Batu’s face was full of hope.
Xi Yu didn’t speak. He just watched the water slowly seep into the edges of the parched pasture.
Last winter, when he’d helped Que Zhi tally the fodder accounts in the study, this irrigation map had been nothing but ink lines traced on rough paper. Now those ink lines were flowing as real water beneath his feet.
The tribes had been thriving lately—herders living in peace, flocks and herds growing strong.
The newly completed irrigation canal on the north slope wound its way along the terrain, nourishing the land along its banks. When spring warmth fully arrived, it would water vast stretches of green pasture and fertile fields.
There were no worldly affairs to attend to, no disputes to mediate.
A gentle breeze drifted across the plains and fragrant grasses; the canal water flowed slowly along the newly built banks. All around was quiet and serene—only the whisper of the wind and the faint sound of a shepherd’s flute could be heard.
Everyone had shed the exhaustion of the past days’ canal work. Their minds relaxed as they quietly savored this peaceful, uneventful leisure.
Little Snowball’s hooves had fully hardened.
After spring began, Que Zhi fitted him with a new saddle.
The first time Xi Yu rode him alone from the royal city to the winter pasture, he only went a short distance before reining in. When he returned, his face was covered in sweat, but his eyes shone brilliantly.
He tied the reins to the old poplar tree and strode into the courtyard, animatedly gesturing to Que Zhi about how far he’d ridden—
the wind had been blowing in his face, ruffling the fine hairs on Little Snowball’s ears every which way.
Que Zhi reached out and picked the bits of grass from Xi Yu’s hair, one by one, then pulled him into an embrace.
“Next time, we’ll ride the black horse together and go farther. Beyond the north slope, there’s a wild apricot grove that blooms in spring.”
Xi Yu tilted his head up and nuzzled against Que Zhi’s neck: “What color are the wild apricot blossoms?”
“White. Like snow, but fragrant.”
“Then I want to go,” Xi Yu said.
“When the flowers bloom.”
Spring had truly arrived.
Xi Yu stood in the courtyard, watching the buds on the old poplar sway gently in the breeze, when he suddenly remembered that winter solstice when he’d left the cold palace.
That day, he’d crawled out through the secret passage and stood outside the palace wall, where the snow was so cold that even footprints froze solid.
He hadn’t known how far the Gobi stretched, hadn’t known who he’d meet, hadn’t known there was a kind of wind in this world that could be soft.
If someone had told him then that a year later, in spring, he’d be on the grasslands riding his own horse, with his own felt tent, flock, and hound,
with friends who would share noodles with him on snowy nights, and someone who would comb his hair every morning—Xi Yu probably wouldn’t have believed it.
But now he did.
That evening, Batu and Hulü Tao came to the courtyard for dinner again.
The old cook chopped up the first wild onions of spring and sprinkled them over the braised mutton, then opened a jar of fruit wine brewed last autumn to celebrate the new canal’s flow.
“I’m not drinking fruit wine. Last time I got drunk, Harbala gave me the cold shoulder all day,” Batu said, looking utterly aggrieved.
Hulü Tao called him out directly: “You grabbed the wine yourself that time—no one forced you.”
Hulü Tao also asked the old cook when the new foals born at the horse grounds would be weaned.
The group shared the kitchen’s freshly steamed wild-vegetable buns along with the braised mutton and fruit wine.
Batu, eating as he talked, defended Harbala: “He didn’t dislike me. He was just upset that day because his bell cord came loose.”
Xi Yu sat beneath the old poplar, with a bowl of hot soup Que Zhi had just ladled for him.
Little Snowball snorted outside the courtyard. Harbala chewed his cud beside the haystack. The greyhound curled up next to Little Snowball, gnawing on a chew stick.
Leave a Reply