Wolf Totem

15

Warm, moist spring winds caressed the Olonbulag; massive, blindingly white clouds hung low in the sky. The somnolent grassland sprang to life, transformed into an alternating bright and dark, yellow and white slide show. When the clouds blotted out the sun, Zhang Jiyuan felt as if a cold wind had penetrated his deel. But when the clouds moved on, powerful sunbeams made him feel as if he were baking, sweat oozing from the pores in his face and on his hands, until even his deel felt sun-baked. But then, as soon as he started unbuttoning it to let in some air, another cloud would move in and transport him back to a cold spring day.

The ice was softening, the snow melting, revealing vast stretches of yellowed grass. Early buds that had appeared before the latest snowfall had turned yellow, with a tinge of green. The air was suffused with the heavy odor of rotting vegetation; spring runoff once again flowed in the streams, down from the mountains to saturate the marshes and create pools in which white clouds were reflected. The Olonbulag seemed to dance in the air.

Zhang and Batu had been hidden in the tall circle grass for more than an hour, waiting for wolves. The horse massacre, followed by the “false report” in the reedy valley, had made it impossible for Batu to hold his head up among the herdsmen, and the anger building inside him was directed at the wolves. As for Zhang, since he’d had no success in the encirclement hunt, only a wolf kill would reestablish his reputation. So following several days of rest, they returned to the hillside near the big lake with their semiautomatic rifles. Batu was sure that surviving wolves hated the thought of letting all the remaining horse carcasses sink into the lake. The snow was melting and the water was rising, but there was still some meat on the lake’s edge, where the wolves could get to it, though not for long.

The pools of water on the mountain, bright one moment and dark the next, made the men’s eyes tear up as they searched the hillside with their telescopes, noting every suspicious spot-black, gray, or yellow. Batu suddenly lowered his head and whispered, “Take a look to the left.” Zhang gently shifted his telescope, holding his breath but unable to keep his heart from racing as he watched a pair of wolves emerge slowly from behind the hill, first their heads, then their necks and chests.

The hunters’ eyes were glued on their prey. The wolves stopped when the front half of their bodies were out in the open and cautiously surveyed their surroundings. Instead of moving farther out of the tall circle grass, they lay down and kept out of sight, as if they were the hunters, not the hunted. Two men and two wolves lay hidden in the grass, waiting for their chance. The wolves were in no hurry. They were content to see what tricks the humans had up their sleeves, and patient enough to wait till dark.

Circle grass was the name the Beijing students had given this variety of meadow grass. Commonly seen on the Mongolian grassland, it was prettier but stranger than most grasses. Level stretches of grass on the pastureland or hillsides were notable for occasional patches of waist-high grass, straight and even, like densely packed rice plants or clumps of squat reeds.

Circle grass wasn’t just attractive; it was also a strange plant that grew in discrete patches. Circle grass, circle grass, a circle of grass, from the outside densely packed, like a curtain of reeds, but empty on the inside, as if nothing grew there. It grew in a true circle, as if laid out carefully with a compass. The size varied, from a couple of hand-spreads to a radius of a few feet. Herdsmen out with their sheep or horses rested on its springy stalks. It didn’t take the students long to appreciate the circle grass, which some of them called sofa grass or armchair grass.

With its unique shape and construction, it was a natural hiding spot for humans and for wolves, a place either to rest or to set an ambush. Wolves had ruled the grassland much earlier than humans and were the first to discover and utilize circle grass. Batu said they preferred to hide behind patches of the grass, from which they could surprise passing herds of gazelle or flocks of sheep. Zhang Jiyuan had found wolf droppings in the center of patches, proving to him how much they liked such places, and Bilgee said they were hiding places Tengger had given to the wolves.

Now both humans and wolves were well hidden; the wolves could not see the men, who had no clear shot at the wolves, though they had seen them briefly. Batu was hesitant and Zhang was getting worried. Might the wolves have seen the men earlier, when they’d first moved into the circle grass? One military notion they had taught the Mongol fighters was that on the grassland anything is possible.

Batu considered the situation and decided against any action. With his eyes on the hill across the way, he told Zhang to commit the features of the other hillside to memory as they quietly backtracked to where they’d left the horses, removed the fetters, and led them down the slope, then turned and headed southwest on foot. Not until they were downwind and far enough from the wolves did they mount up and circle around toward the wolves’ hiding spot. Their horses made no sound on the damp ground, aided by the soughing of the wind.

Batu carefully charted the hills as they went, and within half an hour they were on the far side of the slope nearest to the wolves. Batu slowly led his horse up the slope. Just before they reached the top, he stopped, but instead of fettering his horse, he wrapped the reins around its front legs and tied a slipknot. Zhang did the same.

After releasing the safeties on their rifles, they walked ahead, bent at the waist. Once they’d reached the peak, they crawled on their bellies until they spotted the tails and hindquarters of the wolves in the circle grass, no more than a hundred yards away. Their vital spots-heads, chests, bellies-were hidden by the grass.

Apparently, they were still focused on the spot where Batu and Zhang had come from, since they were looking that way through gaps in the grass, their ears pricked up and turned in the same direction. They were attentive to the rest of their surroundings as well, sniffing the air from time to time to detect signs of danger.

Batu signaled Zhang to aim at the closest wolf, the one to the left. He’d take the other one. The wind continued to blow, bending the circle grass in a low arch, brushing the stalks against one another, and keeping the wolves well hidden. Zhang closed one eye, and could no longer see the wolf.

They waited for the wind to let up. Batu told Zhang that when he heard Batu’s gun fire, he was to pull the trigger. Zhang knew that even if he missed, Batu could easily get off another shot. He was, after all, one of the brigade’s finest marksmen; within a range of two hundred yards, his aim was deadly. Many of the hunters said that wolves aren’t worried about a hunter with a rifle at five hundred yards, or even four hundred. But when the distance closes to three hundred or less, they run off. This behavior, they said, came about because of Batu. Less than two hundred yards separated them from the two wolves in the grass, so Zhang calmly took aim on his unmoving target.

The stalks straightened up in a sudden lull in the wind, but just as the animals’ bodies were exposed, a slender wolf burst out of a patch of circle grass off to the right and ran downhill, in front of the two hidden wolves, which leaped up as if snakebit, pulled in their necks, lowered their heads, and followed the third wolf down the slope. The slender wolf had obviously been standing guard for the other two and spotted the hunters at the moment they had the wolves in their sights. The largest of the three animals, the one being guarded, was no ordinary member of the pack, but one of its leaders. All three ran for the steepest hillside in the area.

Batu jumped to his feet and cried out, “To the horses!” They ran around to the rear of the hill, pulled the reins loose, and jumped into their saddles. The chase was on. But when they reached the top and looked down the dangerously steep slope, Zhang felt as if he were staring into an abyss, and reined in his horse.

“Grab the saddle horn and ride!” Batu shouted, showing no fear. With typical daredevil, death-defying Mongol spirit, he turned his horse’s head to one side and raced downhill.

A thought crossed Zhang’s mind: Courage and cowardice are decided at moments like this. He clenched his teeth and loosened his reins as he raced downhill, normally a taboo among horsemen, especially on unfamiliar territory, where a marmot burrow or a rabbit or field mouse hole could trip up a horse and send it and its rider down to certain injury or death.

Zhang’s horse tore down the hillside so fast that it felt as if they were in a free fall. The angle was so steep that he could not stay in the saddle without grabbing the horn and leaning until his back was touching the horse’s rump and the stirrups were touching the animal’s ears. He was virtually lying on his mount. He fought to keep his legs close to the horse, a survival trick all horsemen knew. If he lost his courage at that moment, all his desires would go straight to Tengger. Several days later, when he learned that there had been at least half a dozen marmot burrows and mouse holes on that slope, he broke out in a cold sweat. But Batu told him that Tengger favors people of courage and had moved the dangers out of his way.

When he reached the bottom of the hill, Zhang had nearly overtaken Batu, who looked back, surprised, and smiled. For Zhang, the smile was more radiant than a gold medal.

Roundup horses on the Olonbulag all experience the same emotional response to a mission such as this-impatience when things are going well and dejection when they’re not. When Zhang and Batu’s horses saw they had shortened the distance between them and the wolf by a third, their excitement became a stimulant, and at that moment they could have outrun a gazelle. The gap shrank even more before the wolves reached the next hilltop. Batu sized up the terrain and the location of the wolves. “They’re about to split up,” he said. “Forget about the small one and focus on those two big ones. Watch and see which one I shoot, then fire at the rocks in front of them, starting with the one on the right.” They raised their rifles. The horses’ steady gait made it easy for their riders to take aim and fire straight. By this time the wolves knew the strength of their enemy and were running as fast as they could to the hill ahead. Neither the horses nor the wolves could keep up their frenetic pace for long, and Batu was waiting for one of the wolves to peel off in a new direction, which would reduce its chances for survival. If they all took different directions, the one that went to the right was the one he’d take down.

Seeing they were unable to outdistance their pursuers, the wolves were about to split up, a guarantee that at least one would get away. When the distance had shrunk to about three hundred yards, the ones flanking the head wolf peeled off and ran in opposite directions. Batu fired at the one on the right. He missed. Zhang took aim and pulled off two shots at a spot in front of the wolf; one hit the ground, the other a rock, sending sparks and shards of stone flying. The terrified wolf stumbled, and it no sooner was running again than Batu’s rifle rang out. It crashed to the ground, hit on its right side. Zhang cried out happily, but Batu did not share his delight. “No good,” he said. “The pelt is ruined.”

Both riders turned to take out after the lead wolf. “Let’s not use our rifles on this one,” Batu told Zhang. “I know another way to bring him down.” Energized when they saw that their riders had dispatched one wolf, the horses ran up the hill with amazing speed, at the cost of considerable stamina; within a few dozen yards, they were gasping and snorting, their speed in rapid decline. The lead wolf, on the other hand, displayed greater talent for climbing by increasing the length of its stride and putting on a burst of speed that not only opened up the distance but also lent it new confidence in its ability to get away. Batu and Zhang whipped their horses and dug their heels into their sides. Unused to being whipped, the horses ran like the breeze, their slobber catching on the wind. But the wolf was running with greater ease by now, without slowing. Zhang looked down at the wolf’s tracks and could tell that its strides were longer than those of the horses, and when he looked up, he saw that it had nearly reached the hilltop; once it crossed the peak, the hunters would not see it again.

Suddenly Zhang heard Batu shout, “Get off your horse!” and saw him rein his horse to a stop in a sort of maneuver that roundup horses do better than any other. It is what they are trained to do for catching wild horses, a skill that served the hunters well at this moment. Both horses skidded to a stop so sudden that their riders were thrown out of the saddles and over their heads. Batu executed a perfect somersault as he landed; he then sprawled on the ground, held his breath, and took careful aim at a spot on the hilltop. Zhang sprawled beside him, rifle at the ready.

The wolf, no longer hearing hoof beats, alertly stopped running. Grassland wolves have such short necks that to look behind them, they must turn around completely to see the location of their pursuers and the direction they’re headed. When this one turned, the outline of its figure stood out against the sky on the hilltop, appearing three times the size it had been when running in a straight line, like a firing-range target. While this can give the hunter a clear shot, most of the time the wolf will still manage to get away. But by bringing his horse to a sudden stop, Batu had made the wolf suspicious, forcing it to stop and look back to see what he was up to.

The wolf had taken the bait, and Batu’s rifle rang out. The animal fell forward, and its outline disappeared above the hilltop. “He was too far away,” Batu said. “I didn’t hit a vital spot. But he won’t get away now. Let’s go!” They remounted and spurred their horses up to the crest of the hill, where they spotted a pool of blood on the grass and rocks, but no wolf, not even when they swept the area with their spyglass. That meant they’d have to follow the trail of blood.

“Too bad we didn’t bring dogs along,” Zhang remarked with a sigh.

They rode slowly and in silence for a while, until Batu said, “My bullet broke one of its front legs. See how there are only three paw prints? This one won’t get away.”

Zhang replied, “No three-legged wolf can outrun a four-legged horse.”

Batu looked at his watch. “Don’t be so sure,” he said. “This is a pack leader. What if he finds a deep den? We’ll never get him then. Let’s speed it up.”

They followed the sporadic trail of blood another hour or more, until they came to a grassy knoll, where they were amazed by what they saw: there on the ground was the wolf’s front leg, with tooth marks on the coat, the tendons, and the bone. “See there,” Batu said, “the wolf knew that his leg was slowing him down, dragging along on the ground, so he chewed it off.”

Zhang felt his stomach lurch. “I’ve heard people say that a warrior will cut off his arm if it’s been hit by a poisoned arrow, though you couldn’t prove it by me. But this makes the third time I’ve seen a wolf chew off its own leg.”

“People differ from one another,” Batu said, “but wolves are all alike.”

They continued on, noting that the trail of blood was lessening, while the strides were getting longer. What worried them most was that the wolf seemed to be looking for a shortcut to the border, just north of an off-limits military area. “That’s one remarkable pack leader,” Batu said. “We can’t let it lead us wherever it wants us to go.” They sped up and took a shortcut to the border.

The farther north they traveled, the higher the grass grew, a gray vastness like an enormous wolf pelt. It was going to be harder to find their wolf than to dig up a lamb in a mountain of newly shorn wool. Heaven and man do not easily come together, but a wolf and the grassland merge like water and milk. For all they knew as they rode along, the crippled animal could be right under their noses. Zhang was once again made keenly aware of the close relationship between wolf and the grassland, and between wolves and Tengger. When it’s a matter of life or death, the grassland provides an avenue of escape; when they’re in peril, the grassland supplies wings for them to fly away like birds. It keeps them under its wing. The vast expanse of Mongolian grassland favors and protects its wolves. They are like an old couple, devoted to one another for life. Even Mongols, who are loyal and steadfast to the grassland, cannot reach the exalted position the wolves occupy.

The horses, after stopping from time to time, had regained their strength and were able to increase the pace. The mountain range to the north drew closer; that was where the grassland ended. According to the herdsmen, the mountains, with their barren and cold deep valleys, are the wolves’ last base on the Olonbulag, a place where they have no enemies. But even if the crippled wolf somehow reached that refuge, how would it live? That thought no sooner occurred to Zhang than he realized he was measuring the wolf by his own standards. In the end, man has the capacity to kill a wolf, but not its spirit.

Finally, the horses stepped onto the public highway, which was actually a dirt or, at best, gravel road used for military patrols. The wheels of all-terrain vehicles and transport trucks had created a wide hollow nearly three feet deep, until the road, from one end to another, was a winding trough, like a sandy dragon, rising and falling. The fragility of the grassland, the terrifying reality of the land beneath the thin grassy surface, was exposed by this road. The top layer of grass was moist, but the sandy roadway had been blown bone-dry by winds from the west, creating a dragon hundreds of miles long. The hooves of passing horses raised a storm of sand that flew into the faces of the riders and their mounts, choking them and burning their eyes.

The two hunters headed east; there were no wolf tracks to follow. But when they crossed a gentle rise in the road, a wolf appeared out of nowhere some thirty yards ahead, struggling to climb out of the rut in the middle of the road, something a healthy animal could have done easily; but it was the final barrier for this wolf. It fell back, causing excruciating pain when the wounded stump hit the ground.

“Dismount,” Batu said as he stepped down. Zhang followed, nervously watching to see what Batu was going to do and reaching out for the herding club hanging from his saddle. But instead of reaching for his club or approaching the wolf, Batu let his horse move over to a grassy spot to graze, after which he sat down on the ridge of the road, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and quietly smoked. Through the haze of smoke, Zhang saw a complex set of emotions in the man’s eyes. Freeing his horse to graze, he sat down next to Batu and bummed a cigarette.

The wolf struggled to its feet and sat down, listing to one side, yellow sand stuck to its bloody chest. Defiantly, it stared at its enemies, not for a minute forgetting its dignity. It vigorously shook the sand and grass from its body as if tidying its battle attire. But all its attempts to stop the stump of its missing leg from shaking failed. A look of savage righteousness emerged from its eyes; it breathed deeply, reaching down for whatever strength was left in its body. Zhang Jiyuan lacked the courage to look into the wolf’s eyes; standing on the ancient grassland, that is, looking from the standpoint of the grassland, the wolf had wrenched justice and righteousness from the humans.

Batu held the cigarette in his fingers, gazed thoughtfully at the struggling wolf, the look in his eyes was one of a student who has just beaten his teacher and has begun to feel remorse and a growing sense of unease. Seeing that its enemies had not made a move for a long time, the wolf turned and began to claw at the dirt with its remaining front paw. The black topsoil on the exposed section of ground beside the road was no more than an inch or two thick. Below that was a layer of sand and tiny pebbles. The digging eventually opened up a gap, releasing sand that crumbled on the floor of the rut and made it possible for the crippled wolf to jump and crawl out onto the grass. Then it hopped on three legs in the direction of the distant firebreak and boundary marker.

The firebreak was a wide tractor-leveled lane parallel with the border, a hundred or more yards across. Replowed once every year, it was nothing but sand, without a blade of grass anywhere, and was intended to stop the spread of wildfires from the other side of the border and small fires from this side. It was the only plowed land on the Olonbulag tolerated by the herdsmen. Old-timers said it constituted the only benefit farming brought to their land.

The wolf ran until it had to stop and rest, then ran again, eventually disappearing in the tall grass. There would be no more obstacles.

Batu stood up to look but said nothing. Then he bent down, picked up the cigarette butt Zhang had left on the ground, and spit on it. He dug a small hole in the moist grassy surface with his fingers and buried the two cigarette butts. “Get used to doing that,” he said. “The grassland cannot tolerate carelessness.” He stood up. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll go back for the wolf we killed.”

They mounted their horses and rode off toward the hillside with the circle grass. The snow on the ground was clean, the horses’ hooves light. They didn’t talk.