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墨書 Inktalez
Arriving in a new environment, time seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, the semester was coming to an end. Today was the day of the final exam, and I had woken up early, making my way toward the teaching building.
As I stepped out of the dormitory, a chill hit my face, and I was momentarily blinded by bright white light. I instinctively shrank my neck and blinked my still-sleepy eyes, feeling a bit unsteady on my feet. It turned out that it had snowed.
The winding path through the campus was covered with a thin layer of white snow. Since it was still early, there weren't many students around. I carefully navigated around the scattered footprints as I continued on my way.
To get from the dormitory to the classroom, I had to cross a Stone Arch Bridge. The bridge was only five feet wide, with stone railings just a few inches high on either side. Given the heavy snowfall last night, I figured there must be ice on the bridge. Wanting to take advantage of the fewer people walking by and the untouched top layer of snow, I gradually quickened my pace.
As I approached the small bridge, I was taken aback by what I saw: the dark Stone Arch Bridge lay quietly before me, completely free of snow. About a meter from the bridge's entrance were two large piles of snow and ice, clear evidence of someone having shoveled away the accumulation.
Taking a few steps forward, I stepped onto the bridge and felt everything beneath me more vividly: this early-rising snow clearer not only removed all the snow and ice but also meticulously swept away any remaining slush with a bamboo broom. With the North Wind blowing, the bridge surface appeared cleaner than ever. If it weren't for the cold temperature, I would have loved to take off my shoes and walk barefoot back and forth across it.
Standing on the bridge, I looked up toward the teaching building. Through the gaps in the branches of an Osmanthus Tree at the bridge's entrance, I could vaguely see a hunched figure laboriously making his way toward the teaching building. Behind him, a slightly narrower concrete path was slowly taking shape; with each bend he made, snowballs and chunks of ice flew out one after another, gradually forming irregular patterns along both sides of the path.
Pushing aside my myriad thoughts, I continued toward my classroom. As I passed by that figure, just three or four meters from the stairs leading to the teaching building, I slowly turned my head to look back with a sense of respect.
Ah, it was him—our principal Zhao Lin!
I couldn't help but observe him more closely: his thin frame continued its repetitive motion as he bent down again and again. His nostrils and mouth exhaled warm breath while his damp hair and thick eyebrows were tangled in disarray from both sweat and melting snow. Occasionally, when students walked by him, he would quietly stand up and step aside with a gentle smile on his face, his soft gaze watching those lively or cautious young men and women until they reached the foot of the stairs.
Watching that slightly hunched figure reminded me of various legends circulating around campus: Principal Zhao was one of Dongkou County's first special-grade Chinese language teachers; at over 60 years old, he was considered a special talent who had been rehired. Because of this reason, although he had traditionally held authority at our school, in recent years it was actually overseen by Party Secretary Xiao Kehai; Principal Zhao generally did not participate in major school decisions. Despite not being heavily involved in administration, there were certain matters he cared deeply about—sometimes even leading to disagreements with other school leaders.
The first issue he particularly focused on was teaching quality among teachers; if any teacher's performance fell short or lacked ambition, he would not hesitate to deliver stern criticism regardless of personal relationships. Many teachers sought various ways to join our prestigious school; however, he maintained strict standards. It was said that when a deputy director from the county's education bureau sent his brother-in-law to report for duty at our school, Zhao organized several teachers to observe classes only to send them back immediately afterward.
Equally important to him were students' learning and living environments. He consistently emphasized that schools must provide students with a peaceful learning atmosphere, freedom of thought space, and good living services. Because of this stance, he offended many businessmen and leaders looking to profit off students and criticized numerous teachers who adhered to "cramming" teaching methods.
Since Zhao wasn't the school's top leader yet stubbornly held onto his principles, although all students liked him and all teachers publicly respected him, he often became a lonely figure on campus without genuine support or cooperation from most teachers. Over time, aside from touching upon his core principles, Zhao rarely raised his voice within school walls.
This first snowfall of 1989 came without awareness from the school about its potential impact on certain students; thus Zhao took on the role of snow clearer all alone. I didn't know when he began shoveling or where he had cleared but could imagine an elderly man in his sixties braving such cold weather while everyone else remained asleep under their warm blankets—wielding a cold iron shovel and broom inch by inch clearing paths ahead—what kind of feelings must have filled his heart?
I didn't attempt to help Principal Zhao clear any remaining paths; instead, I simply noted this moving scene in my mind.
It seemed as if fate wanted to deepen this memory for me; during morning language exams, we were allowed to choose our own essay topics and styles. I titled mine "The Snow Clearer," using tender yet heartfelt words to recreate everything on that pristine white paper. During grading time, Liu Teacher Changlin—the head of our language research group—defied others' opinions and awarded me a perfect score of 100 for my essay.
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