Chapter 4 — A Night of Heavy Snow
That winter in Qinghe County was exceptionally cold. As soon as the twelfth lunar month began, several heavy snowfalls came one after another. Especially at the beginning of the month, snow as thick as goose feathers fell all through the night, covering even the nearby mountains in a boundless sea of white.
The wharf at the eastern edge of the city had been closed for two days—when the snow was that thick, not even a sleigh could make it across the river.
Fortunately, the snow had fallen quietly, without howling winds, and the old houses were spared from damage.
Grandmother Kou’s payment for her sewing had arrived. With it, they bought some sorghum and corn. Knowing that Xie Jing would soon be leaving to work as an apprentice, she even bought a small bag of white rice and was thinking of ways to make something nice for him to eat.
Xie Jing’s favorite was the rice cakes she made—sticky, soft, and fragrant. They weren’t expensive to make, just troublesome. Life was hard, and they rarely had time for such things. Usually, Grandmother Kou only made them once a year for the New Year. But now, with her grandson about to leave home, she couldn’t bear to see him go. She made an extra batch, wanting him to take some along.
That night, Xie Jing ate an entire bowl of rice cake. When he tried to share with her, the old woman only smiled and shook her head. “I’m old,” she said. “Can’t digest things well anymore. You eat more.”
Inside the old house, a dim oil lamp flickered. Firewood crackled in the stove. Xie Jing bent over his bowl, eating the steaming rice cake, while Grandmother Kou sat beside him, sewing by that faint light. Every so often, she held up a piece of clothing to measure against him.
“Jing’er’s grown taller again this year,” she said with a smile. “Good thing I bought a little extra cloth. When I finish sewing, you try it on. If it doesn’t fit, Grandma will fix it.”
Xie Jing nodded, eating so heartily that sweat beaded at the tip of his nose.
Grandmother Kou reached over to wipe it for him, chuckling softly. “Slow down. There’s still half a plate left outside.”
When he finished, Xie Jing tried on the new garment. It was made from ordinary rough homespun—thick gray cloth they had woven themselves, sturdy and durable. She had tailored it into an overcoat to wear over his padded cotton jacket, with stitches small and neat, and had even embroidered a tiny “Jing” character on the collar.
Grandmother Kou had him spin around for a look and nodded in satisfaction, her wrinkled face full of pride.
Xie Jing only tried it on briefly, then folded it carefully and placed it by his pillow. “I’ll wear it when I leave.”
She knew he was trying to save her the extra needlework, so she smiled and said nothing more.
The lamp oil was nearly gone, so the two of them went to bed early.
Through the thick window paper came the faint rustle of falling snow. The winter night was utterly still—even the dogs outside couldn’t be bothered to bark.
Xie Jing quietly stretched a hand out from under his quilt to tuck in the edge of Grandmother Kou’s blanket. Only then did he close his eyes in peace.
Perhaps because of the cold, he dreamed again of another snowstorm.
It was back when he was still by Lord Bai Jiu ’s side. They had gone to Heihe together—it had been just as cold then, so cold their toes felt like they might fall off and their scalps tingled from the chill.
Even though Xie Jing was strong and full of vitality, he could hardly stand it. Lord Bai Jiu feared the cold even more. His breath came faint and thin, his face pale and translucent like carved jade, only his eyes dark and deep beneath lowered lashes. He looked at Xie Jing and called him by his childhood nickname, “Little Jing’er.”
Xie Jing stomped his feet against the cold and hopped a couple of steps forward, teeth chattering. “Master?”
Bai Rongjiu lifted his heavy fur cloak and opened a small gap for him to slip inside. Xie Jing hesitated a moment, then burrowed in.
“Master, I’m cold too… I’ll—I’ll make you cold…”
The man holding him let out a low, amused laugh. His chest vibrated faintly, but Xie Jing couldn’t make out what he said. The thick fur cloak grew warmer and heavier around him. He took a deep breath—and when he opened his eyes again, dawn light was filtering through the window.
He stared at it blankly. It had been so long since he last dreamed of that man. Maybe it was because of the cold, or maybe because somewhere in his heart, he still missed him.
Someone knocked at the door outside—two quick knocks.
A voice called first for Grandmother Kou, then impatiently shouted, “Xie Jing? Is Xie Jing there?”
Grandmother Kou moved slowly. When she opened the door and saw who it was, her expression darkened.
At the threshold stood a slightly hunched man with a pipe in hand. When he saw her, he paused briefly, then smiled. “Good day, Auntie Kou. How are you feeling? Been snowing heavy these days—everything all right at home?” He spoke cheerfully, asking question after question, but Grandmother Kou only answered curtly. She didn’t invite him in, keeping the door barely open.
The man didn’t take offense. “Auntie Kou,” he said, “Xie Jing came to me the other day asking for help. Thing is, my troupe’s been in a bad spell lately—our opening performance didn’t go well, and I didn’t have a coin to spare. But I’ve felt awful about it ever since. So I scraped together twenty silver dollars to lend a hand—”
Before he could finish, Grandmother Kou’s face turned cold. “No need. I may be old, but I’m not dead. I would never sell my child!”
“Ah, Auntie, don’t say that! I didn’t mean it that way. We’re neighbors—just trying to help—”
“I don’t need your help!”
“So you look down on us opera folk, is that it?”
…
Grandmother Kou didn’t bother arguing further—she slammed the door in his face.
The opera troupe leader shouted a few angry words outside but, failing to force the door open, eventually left muttering curses under his breath.
Grandmother Kou was fuming. That troupe lived in the same row of old houses. People often heard the sounds of children being beaten inside—and rumor had it someone had even been beaten to death there. Normally, she simply avoided them. But for some reason, the troupe leader had taken a liking to Xie Jing and kept coming by, insisting on taking him as an apprentice.
The contract he brought was in black and white—“binding even unto death.”
The hunchbacked man, surnamed Cheng and nicknamed “Crooked Cheng,” had even offered ten silver dollars for him.
Grandmother Kou had been furious and from that day on guarded Xie Jing even more closely, never showing the opera people a friendly face again.
After bolting the door, she looked up and saw Xie Jing standing at the inner doorway, dressed in an old cotton jacket that somehow made his young face look all the more clean and handsome. He was just past ten, with clear, bright eyes like a young wolf cub—stubborn but unafraid.
“Grandma?”
“It’s nothing. Just that opera man again. Jing’er, you must remember—those people are no good. Keep your distance. I heard many of the children in their troupe were bought from human traffickers. Such evil, truly!”
Xie Jing glanced toward the door. He knew that man—Cheng Luo, the hunchbacked troupe master. It had been around this same time of year, after another snowstorm, that Cheng had given twenty silver dollars to help him bury his last relative. In exchange, he had joined the troupe and begun learning martial roles on stage.
Two years later, he followed the troupe to the provincial capital. It was there he met Lord Bai Jiu.
Right now, however, Lord Bai Jiu would still be in the capital—or perhaps in Heihe…
Xie Jing frowned slightly. When he met him, it would be two years from now. He knew a little about what would happen in the capital, but about Qinghe County—almost nothing.
This place was too small, too full of painful memories. He instinctively didn’t want to think about it.
Grandmother Kou went to fry more rice cake, brushing oil over a small iron pan until the cakes turned golden and crisp on both sides. The fragrant smell filled the air, easing the tension between Xie Jing’s brows.
He helped her tend the fire, clutching the poker as he looked up at the busy old woman. The familiar scent of food blurred his memories, driving out the last traces of cold from his heart.
There were still two years left. No rush. He could save his grandmother— and he could save Lord Bai Jiu, too.
