Wolf Totem

19

Bao Shungui led Batu, Laasurung, and three other hunters, along with Yang Ke and seven or eight big dogs, to the new grazing land. A pair of horse-pulled carts piled high with tents, ammunition, and kitchen items followed.

When they reached a mountain peak west of the new land, Bao and the hunters surveyed the basin and the surrounding ravines, the river’s bends and branches, and the grassland through binoculars; there were no wolves and no gazelles. Nothing but ducks, wild geese, and a dozen or so swans on the lake.

Most of the hunters had little interest in hunting wolves on that early summer day; they were mesmerized by the vast emerald grassland arrayed before them. Yang Ke felt as if the sight had turned his eyes green, and when he looked at the others, he saw the same color in theirs, like the beautiful yet terrifying eyes of a wolf on a winter night. As they made their way down the green mountain slope, their nostrils were filled with the scent of new grass carried on the clean, fresh air. The horses’ hooves and the carts’ wheels were stained green, as were the ends of the lasso poles that scraped along the ground. The horses strained at the bit to start grazing. The one thing Yang Ke would have liked to see was the blanket of flowers Chen Zhen had described for him. It had withered and fallen, leaving a monochromatic green panorama.

Bao Shungui looked like a man who had found a gold mine. “This is a perfect site!” he shouted. “A jade cornucopia. We should have let the military brass drive over here for a few days’ vacation, hunt some swans and ducks, and have a barbecue.”

Yang Ke didn’t like the sound of that, as the image of the “Blackwinged Demon” in the ballet Swan Lake flashed before his eyes.

The horses ran down the mountainside and crossed a gentle slope. “Look to your left,” Bao Shungui said, keeping his voice low. “There’s a flock of swans over there. They’re busy eating. Let’s go get one.” He signaled a couple of hunters to follow him before Yang Ke could stop them. So he fell in behind them, rubbing his eyes as he ran. Suddenly the hunters reined in their horses and lowered their rifles. They shouted something. Bao Shungui also brought his horse to a stop and took out his binoculars. Yang Ke quickly did the same. He could hardly believe his eyes. The expanse of white that filled his eyes turned out to be a vast array of white herbaceous peonies. The previous summer he’d seen peonies on the old grazing land, in patches here and there, but never in such tight profusion. He fantasized that he was looking at a field of transformed swans.

Bao Shungui was not upset by what he saw; rather, he was happy. “My god!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such gorgeous peonies. They’re so much nicer than the ones in Beijing parks. Come over here and look at them!” Several horse riders rode up.

When he reached the flowers, Yang Ke nearly fainted. Thirty or forty patches of flowers were blooming in wild profusion in the rich soil. The bushes stood three feet tall. He went up for a closer look. The pistils were in clusters, the petals sprinkled with water, delicate and more handsome than ordinary peonies, more sumptuous and graceful than Chinese roses. Never before had the natural world presented him with such unspoiled beauty.

Bao Shungui was also spellbound. “This is a true rarity!” he exclaimed. “How much do you think these would sell for in town? I’m going to send some of these bushes to the military brass, let them share in this wonder. The older officials have no interest in money, but they love celebrated flowers. They’ll take these to their heart. Yang Ke, I’ll bet you don’t have peonies like this in your Beijing guesthouses.”

“Guesthouses? You won’t find flowers like these in royal gardens.” Bao turned happily to the hunters. “Did you hear that? These flowers are a real treasure. Make sure you take special care of them. When we get back, cut down some apricot branches to make a fence.”

“What happens if we move away? Someone else will come out and dig them up.”

Bao Shungui thought a moment. “I’ve got a plan, don’t worry.”

Yang looked troubled. “Don’t try to transplant them; you’ll only kill them.”

The horses and wagons arrived at a bend in the river, where the hunters quickly spotted places where wolves had surrounded groups of gazelles. Only skeletons, horns, hooves, and patches of hide remained; even the skulls had been picked clean. “There’s been more than one attack here,” Batu announced. “And plenty of wolves. By the amount of droppings, I’d say that even old and lame wolves participated in these hunts.”

“Where do you think they are now?” Bao asked.

“My guess is they followed the gazelles into the mountains, or maybe they’re off hunting marmots. Or they could have followed gazelles up to the border. At this time of year, the young gazelles run as fast as the adults, which means the wolves have trouble catching them. That’s why they picked the bones clean.”

“Now you see the positive side of wolves,” Batu said to Bao. “If not for them, this virgin land would have been destroyed by gazelles, not just by grazing, but by what they left behind. When our sheep come out here, if they smell gazelle urine, they won’t eat the grass, not a bite. This is a perfect spot. Even the horses want to stay. Let’s find a spot to pitch our tents so the horses and dogs can rest. We’ll go into the mountains tomorrow.”

Bao gave the order to cross the river, so Batu chose a spot where the water was shallow and the riverbed sandy. Then, after he and some of the hunters had fashioned ramps on both banks with their hoes, he led one of the wagons across the river. Meanwhile, the other hunters set up a tent on the eastern slope. Batu told them to erect a stove and make some tea, then said to Bao, “I’ll go check out the ravine to the south. I might find an injured gazelle. People haven’t come all the way out here just to eat the dried meat we brought along.”

Bao agreed enthusiastically. So Batu and a couple of hunters rode off to the mountain, taking the big dogs with them. Bar and Erlang, who had hunted gazelles in that area, raced ahead, driven by their hunting instincts.

Yang Ke was so fascinated by the swans out on the lake that he reluctantly, even painfully, passed up the chance to go hunting with Batu so that he could sit on a slope and gaze down at his swan lake. In order to keep watching the swans, he’d pestered Bao Shungui and Bilgee for two days to let him come ahead of the brigade-all the people, the horses, and the livestock. He wanted to take full advantage of the opportunity to drink in the beauty of the swan lake scenery, which easily eclipsed Chen Zhen’s descriptions. He sat on the ground, took out his telescope, and watched breathlessly. Sitting all alone, he was immersed in tranquil thoughts when he heard a horse ride up behind him.

“Hey!” It was Bao Shungui. “I see you’re studying the swans too. Let’s go, just you and me-we’ll bag one and get something good to eat. The herdsmen won’t eat fowl, not even chicken. I tried to get them to go with me, but they said no. They won’t eat it, but we will.”

Yang turned to see Bao holding up his semiautomatic rifle and nearly wet himself. Waving his arms, he stammered, “Swans… precious, rare creatures… can’t kill them! Please, I beg you. I’ve loved Swan Lake since I was a kid. During the three difficult years I cut school one day and went hungry so I could stand in line late at night just to buy a ticket to watch a performance by a joint troupe of young Soviet and Chinese dancers. It’s truly beautiful. Educated people and great men everywhere love swans, so how could we come to a true swan lake just to kill and eat them? If you need to kill something, kill me.”

Bao was shocked that anyone could be that ungrateful. He glared at Yang, his enthusiasm dampened. "Swan Lake-what the hell is that all about? Capitalist hogwash. You’re a high school graduate, and you think that makes you better than me? We can’t stage The Red Detachment of Women till we drive Swan Lake off the stage.”

When Laasurung saw Bao heading toward the lake with a rifle, he galloped over to stop him. “Swans are a sacred bird, given to us by Mongol shamans. You can’t shoot them, you can’t. Besides, Chairman Bao, it’s wolves you want to kill, isn’t it? Well, when the wolves up in the mountains hear gunfire, they’ll take off, and we’ll have come for nothing.”

That stopped Bao. He reined his horse in, turned to Laasurung, and said, “It’s a good thing you alerted me to that, or I might have done something stupid.” He handed his rifle to Laasurung, and then turned back to Yang Ke. “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll scout the area around the lake.”

Yang listlessly saddled his horse and followed Bao. As they drew up to the lake, flocks of ducks, wild geese, and a variety of waterbirds soared into the air and dropped water on their heads as they flew over. Bao grabbed the horn of his saddle and stood up in the stirrups to look over the reeds as a pair of swans stretched their wings, thrust out their necks, and skimmed the tops of the reeds, frightening him by passing no more than ten feet above his head. He sat down hard in the saddle, startling his horse, which burst forward and nearly threw its rider. The swans, apparently unafraid of people, soared lazily above the basin, circled the lake, and disappeared behind the reeds.

Bao got his horse back under control and adjusted the saddle. He laughed. “This must be the easiest place anywhere to hunt swans. All you need is a slingshot. They’re the emperors of birds. One bite of their flesh makes life worth living. But we’ll wait till we’ve finished off the wolves; then we’ll come back for these.”

Yang Ke said tentatively, “When you saw those peonies a while ago, you said they were a treasure and needed to be protected at all costs. Those swans are national treasures, international treasures, so why won’t you protect them?”

“I’m a farmer,” Bao replied, “and I look at the practical side of things. Treasures are things people can get their hands on. If you can’t, they’re not. Peonies have no legs, so they’re not going anywhere. But swans have wings, and when the people and the livestock arrive, they’ll fly north and wind up as pan-fried treasures for the Soviet or Mongolian revisionists.”

“The Soviets will treat them as treasures; they won’t kill and eat them.”

“If I’d known how unenlightened you are,” Bao said testily, “I wouldn’t have brought you along. You wait and see. I’m going to turn your swan lake into a watering hole for horses and cows.”

Yang swallowed his response. He’d have loved to pick up a rifle, fire into the air, and send the startled swans flying out of the grassland, out of the country, and all the way to the nation that produced the ballet Swan Lake. That’s where you find people who love swans, he thought. How could this nation, where even sparrows have been eaten nearly to extinction, where the only things left are toads, be a place for swans?

Laasurung signaled for the two of them to return, so they rushed back to camp, where Sanjai, who had come from the southeastern mountains, was harnessing up his wagon. Batu and his party had shot wild boars up in the mountains and sent him for a cart to haul the carcasses to camp. They told him to bring Chairman Bao back with the cart. Bao could barely contain his delight. He slapped himself on the leg. “Are you telling me there are edible wild boars here on the grassland? That’s a surprise. They’re better eating than domestic pigs. Let’s go.” Yang had heard of hunters bagging wild boars, but he hadn’t seen one since coming to the grassland. So he and Bao rode off in the direction Sanjai pointed out for them.

They saw where the wild boars had rooted the ground even before they reached Batu. Acres of rich soil by a stream, at the foot of the mountain, and in the ravine, looked as if they’d been plowed by an out-of-control ox. The fat, big-leafed stalks of tall grass had been eaten, leaving the area around them strewn with dry leaves and stalks; much of the foliage was buried in the rich soil. Fine grazing land now looked like a potato patch in which pigs had been let loose. The sight infuriated Bao Shungui. “Those damned boars are a menace! If we plant crops here one day, they could be very destructive.”

The horses slowed down, shying away from the sight as they approached Batu, who was sitting at the foot of the mountain smoking his pipe. The two new arrivals dismounted and saw a pair of untouched carcasses next to Batu; another pair was being torn apart by the dogs, who were sprawled on the ground, eating voraciously. Erlang and Bar were each feasting on a leg. The boars beside Batu were smaller than full-grown domestic pigs, no more than three feet long, and sparsely covered with spiky bristles. Their snouts were twice as long as domestic pigs’. They were fat, and with teeth of average length, they didn’t look particularly intimidating. There were fang marks on both their necks.

Batu pointed to the ravine. “The dogs picked up the scent of wolves and chased the boars all the way over to that ravine, where the ground was full of holes and bumps. We saw the carcasses of three or four boars that had been killed and eaten by wolves, and the dogs stopped there, not wanting to go after the wolves. Instead they followed the scent of the boars down the ravine, flushing out a group of piglets. Big boars have tusks and run like the wind. The dogs wouldn’t go after them, and I didn’t dare fire at them, since I didn’t want to alarm the wolves. The dogs eventually killed these piglets, so I let them have the two that were the most chewed up. The other two are for us.”

Bao Shungui rested his foot on one of the dead boars. “Good job,” he said with a smile. “The meat on this young one will be nice and tender, and delicious. I’ll treat you all to some good liquor tonight. Apparently, there are wolves around here, and it would be a good idea if you men go out tomorrow and bag a few.”

“These boars came from a forest hundreds of miles from here,” said Batu, “where there are lots of them. They followed the river to get here. If not for the wolves, they’d have destroyed this grassland a long time ago.”

Sanjai’s wagon pulled up and they loaded the carcasses. Batu signaled the men to let the dogs keep eating their kill while the hunters returned with the wagon. Since the bonfire was ready by the time they made it back to camp, they immediately gutted, skinned, and filleted the larger of the two boars. Before long, the fragrance of barbecued meat filled the air. Taking Bao’s lead, Yang Ke wrapped some lean meat in fatty lining, which produced loud sizzles as it cooked, and an aroma that beat anything they could get from domestic pigs. While the others were preparing the animal for cooking, Yang had picked wild onions and garlic and leeks; he’d learned the primitive method of barbecuing meat on the grassland, spicing it up with wild herbs, and was feeling quite proud of himself. Having seen the swans and the herbaceous peonies before Chen Zhen had a chance, and having learned how to barbecue boar out on the grassland, he could, when they got back to the yurt in camp, boast a bit about his rare sightings and the mouth-watering food.

As for Bao Shungui, while he was treating the hunters to good liquor, he regaled them with tales of imperial feasts where swan was served. They shook their heads, and he soon lost interest. The hunters ate only ground creatures, since they revered anything that could fly up to Tengger.

The hunting dogs returned to camp to patrol the area. The men, having eaten and drunk their fill, stood up and put the remains of the boar into a metal wash basin. Except for the heart and liver, they tossed the organs and the head onto the grassy ground for the dogs’ next meal.

Just before nightfall, Yang Ke went alone to a spot where he could observe what was happening on his swan lake. He sat down, elbows on his knees, and, through his telescope, drank in a sight that could well disappear before long.

Ripples appeared on the lake surface, those in the west mirroring the cold blueness of the night sky, while those in the east reflected the warm colors of sunset. The ripples spread slowly, concentric circles of agate red, emerald green, translucent yellow; then came crystal purple, sapphire blue, and pearl white, alternating cool and warm, the tones of noble quality. The view that spread out before him seemed to augur the sad yet enchanting death of the swans. Tengger had sent down the precious lights as a prelude to the parting of its beloved swans from the clear waters.

The ripples continued their slow march, like the overture to a tragic drama in which the audience can hardly bear to watch the lead actor. Yang wished that the ballet about to unfold would have a natural background and that the lead actor would never appear. But from amid the inky green reeds, one swan after another glided out onto the lake, its multicolored surface and the canopy of sky above creating an enormous stage. The swans had changed into blue evening wear, which turned the yellow spot on the crowns of their heads a cold purple. Their graceful, curved necks looked like bright question marks, questioning heaven, questioning earth, questioning the water, questioning people, questioning all living creatures on earth. They moved silently, then waited for answers. But none were forthcoming. The reflecting ripples on the surface shimmered slightly, transformed into their own question marks, until a breeze splintered them amid the light of tiny wavelets.

Yang thought he and Chen were undeniably the luckiest Han Chinese alive. If the brute force and wisdom of the wolves somehow grew even greater, perhaps they could further delay the expansion and encroachment of men and their livestock on the grassland. The driving force behind that expansion was a society of Chinese farmers whose population was out of control. Yang was deeply moved and deeply saddened. He was also deeply grateful to the wolves. Their imminent defeat would be the first sign of the grassland’s defeat, and the defeat of man’s concept of beauty. Tears blurred the lens of his telescope. The pristine swan lake faded slowly into the distance…

The next day the hunters went up into the mountain and searched one ravine after another, but came up empty. The day after that they went deeper; by afternoon, men and horses were exhausted. Then Bao Shungui, Batu, and Yang Ke heard a gunshot ring out not far away. They turned as one in the direction of the noise and spotted a pair of wolves on a ridge to the east. The animals were running and stumbling up the mountain, and when they discovered that there were men here as well, they turned and ran around a promontory. Batu trained his binoculars on the spot. “The main pack is long gone,” he said. “Those two lagged behind, too old to keep up.”

“Who cares?” Bao said excitedly. “Young or old, two pelts mean victory however you look at it.”

As he took off after the wolves, Batu mumbled, “How could he miss the fact that they haven’t shed the old coat on their back half? What a shame.”

Hunters and dogs ran up the mountain from two directions. One of the wolves was large, the other smaller. The front left leg of the larger wolf could not stretch out straight when it ran, which probably meant a torn tendon from a dog bite during a previous battle. The second wolf was an aging female, bony and old-age gray. When Bar, Erlang, and the other hunting dogs saw how old and crippled they were, they slowed down. All but one young adult male, that is; wanting to get the jump on the others, he took off at full speed, ignorant of what could happen.

The wolves ran into an area where the weathered surface created a complex terrain of outcroppings and loose, shifting layers of rock. Every step sent crumbling rock noisily down the mountainside. The going was too hard for the horses, so the hunters dismounted, rifles and poles in hand, and closed in from three directions.

The male wolf dashed over to a precipice about the size of a couple of tables, three sides of which were walls of stone; the only escape was a steep slope down the mountain. So it backed up against one of the walls, a shrewd and ruthless glare emanating from its rheumy eyes, took a deep breath, and readied itself to fight for its life. The dogs formed a semicircle, growling and barking, but holding back, fearful of losing their footing and falling over the side. Then the hunters arrived. Bao was delighted with what he saw. “Don’t anybody move,” he said. “Watch me!” He took the bayonet off of his rifle, rammed a bullet into the chamber, and went up to get a clear shot.

But no sooner had he reached the line of dogs than the wolf sprang from the precipice onto a slope with loose rocks, digging in with its claws and flattening out against the rocky ground to slide down the mountain, carried by the flow of rocks. As the rocks pressed into its body, a cloud of gray sand quickly swallowed the wolf up, all but buried it.

The men walked gingerly up to the edge of the precipice and looked down. When the dust settled, the wolf was nowhere to be seen. “What just happened?” Bao asked Batu. “Was it killed or did it get away?”

“What difference does it make?” Batu said glumly. “Either way it’s one pelt you’ll never get.”

Bao stood there speechless. Then loud, persistent barks from the dogs guarding the cave opening reinvigorated him. “There’s still one more,” he said. “Let’s get back there! One way or the other, we’re getting a wolf today.”

The hunting party reached the cave, which had been formed by erosion and was a refuge for all sorts of grassland animals. Petrified eagle droppings were visible on many of the rocks. Bao Shungui scratched his head as he sized up the cave. “Damn!” he said. “If we try to dig it out, there’ll probably be a cave-in, and we can’t smoke it out, because there are too many places where the smoke will dissipate. Any ideas, Batu?”

Batu probed the cave with his lasso pole. The sound of shifting rocks emerged. He shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do. The only thing that moving the rocks will do is bring them down on us and the dogs.”

“How deep is the cave?” Bao asked him.

“Not deep,” Batu replied.

“Then I say we smoke it out,” Bao said. “You fellows gather some sod. After we light it, we stop up any holes where smoke comes out. I brought some pepper along. That’ll drive it out. Go on, now, all of you! Yang Ke and I will keep watch here. If a hunting party with the best hunters can’t bag a single wolf after three days of trying, we’ll be a laughingstock.”

The hunters split up and went looking for kindling and dry sod, leaving Bao and Yang at the cave entrance. “This wolf is old and she’s sick, skinny as a rail. She hasn’t got long to live, that’s for sure. Besides, a summer coat has soft fur, and the purchasing station won’t be interested. I say let her go,” Yang said.

Bao’s face darkened. “I tell you the truth: people are no match for a wolf. I’ve led soldiers into battle, and there’s never been any guarantee against desertion or rebellion in the ranks. But why would a wolf rather die than come out of that cave? I’m not afraid to admit that the Olonbulag wolves are fine soldiers, that even the wounded, the old, and the females can strike fear into a man. But you’re telling me that no one wants a summer pelt, which proves there are things you don’t know. Back where I come from, no one uses a pelt with thick fur as a blanket, because you can get a bloody nose from overheating while you sleep. A light coat is everyone’s favorite. Don’t go soft on me now. In war it’s them or us. You need to back your enemy into a corner and then kill him, giving no quarter.”

Batu and some of the others walked up with bundles of dry branches; Laasurung and his party came up grasping the hems of their deels, which held sod. Bao piled the kindling up at the mouth of the cave and lit it, while the hunters knelt beside the fire and fanned the smoke into the opening with the hems of their deels. Thick smoke poured into the cave and seeped out between gaps in the rocks. The hunters began plugging up the holes with sod. It was a scene of frantic activity amid the sound of coughing, as smoke emerged from fewer and fewer gaps.

Bao Shungui threw a handful of half-dried peppers onto the fire, sending clouds of acrid smoke into the cave; the men and their dogs stood upwind. The cave was like the grate opening of a gigantic stove, and pepper smoke soon engulfed it. The hunters had left two small gaps unplugged to release wisps of smoke. When coughs from the old wolf emerged from inside, the hunters gripped their clubs, ready to strike; the dogs were prepared to pounce. The coughs grew more pronounced. But no sign of the wolf. Yang Ke was coughing so hard that tears were running down his face. “I can’t believe her capacity to endure,” he said. “Even the threat of death couldn’t keep a human being in there.”

Suddenly, the rocks slipped three feet or more, opening up gaps through which the smoke poured out, and before long smoke was emerging from all around. Several boulders broke loose and crashed down the mountain, barely missing the hunters who were fanning the flames. “The cave is collapsing,” Bao cried out. “Get out of the way!”

The coughing sounds inside the cave stopped and there was no movement. Peppery smoke billowed skyward instead of entering the cave. “It looks like you lost again,” Batu said to Bao. “You were up against a suicidal wolf. She loosened the rocks around her and buried herself. She wouldn’t even give you her coat.”

“Start moving rocks!” Bao barked angrily. “I’m going to dig that wolf out of there if it’s the last thing I do.”

Having worked hard for several days, the hunters stayed seated. Batu took out a pack of cigarettes and passed them around. As he handed one to Bao, he said, “Everyone knows you’re not hunting wolves for their pelts, but to eradicate what you consider to be a scourge. She’s dead, so you got what you came for, right? There are only a few of us here, and we could dig till tomorrow and still not get to her. We’re witnesses to the fact that you led a hunting party against a pack of wolves, killing two big ones, sending one over a cliff and suffocating the other in a cave. And don’t forget, summer pelts are pretty much worthless.” He paused, looked around, and said, “Are you all okay with that?”

They said yes. Bao, who was as tired as everyone, took a drag on his cigarette and said, “All right, we’ll rest awhile, then get out of here.”

Yang Ke stood stunned in front of the pile of rocks, as if a falling rock had driven his soul out of his body. He seemed about to kneel down and pay his respects to the Mongol warrior inside, but he just stood there stiffly. Finally he turned and asked Batu for a cigarette. After taking a few drags, he raised the cigarette over his head with both hands and bowed deeply toward the rock pile, then reverently wedged the cigarette between a couple of rocks, part of an apparent grave mound. Wispy smoke rose into the air, taking the old wolf’s soul skyward, up into the blue, to Tengger.

The hunters stood up but did not add their incense to the monument. Mongols considered smoked cigarettes to be fouled; they could not be used to pay respect to the gods. But they were not offended by Yang Ke’s well-intentioned, if unclean, act. After stubbing out their cigarettes, they stood straight and looked up to Tengger; though they said nothing, the purity of their gazes sped the old wolf’s soul to its glory more quickly than Yang’s cigarette had done. Even Bao refrained from smoking more of his cigarette, which burned down to his fingers.

“Today you’ve seen something new,” Batu said to Bao Shungui. “Genghis Khan’s warriors were like those two wolves, choosing to die in ways that kill their enemy’s spirit. You’re a descendant of our Mongol ancestors, your roots are here on the grassland, and you should be paying your respects to our Mongol gods.”

Yang Ke sighed with quiet emotion. “Dying can be a show of might,” he said. “The wolf totem has nurtured a willingness to sacrifice one’s life in countless Mongol warriors. Did the spirit of the people wither because of the extermination of the ferocious, magnificent wolf teacher?”

The hunting party had nearly reached the tent when Bao Shungui said to Batu, “You go on ahead. Boil some water. I’ll go get a swan and treat you to some good food and liquor.”

“Director Bao,” Yang pleaded, “don’t kill any of those swans.”

“I have to,” Bao said without looking back. “That’s the only way to purge the bad luck of these past few days.”

Yang Ke followed him to try to talk him out of it, but Bao’s horse was too fast. Waterbirds, wild geese, and ducks were circling low over the water, unconcerned about the man riding up with his rifle. Seven or eight large swans rose into the air, like a squadron of aircraft taking off in formation, but with wings that fanned the air gracefully; they cast oversized shadows down on the head of Bao Shungui, who had fired three times before Yang rode up. A large white bird fell to the ground in front of Yang, startling his horse, which reared up and threw him into the damp grass on the lakeshore.

The swan struggled, bleeding profusely. Yang had watched the death scene at the end of the ballet many times, but there was no grace, no beauty in the death throes of the bird he was looking at now. Its feet, like those of a common goose whose neck has been snapped, jerked spastically, and its wings flailed awkwardly as it tried vainly to right itself; the will to live remained strong, even as its life was slipping away. Blood spurted from the bullet wound in its snow white breast. Yang ran to catch it, but it jerked out of his reach time after time…

Finally, Yang was able to wrap his arms around the swan. Its soft abdomen was still warm, but the lovely neck had lost its power to form a question mark; now it was like a snake hanging limply across his wrist. He gently raised the swan’s head. A blue-black sky was frozen in its open eyes, as if it were glaring angrily at Tengger. Tears blurred Yang’s vision-a noble, pure, free soaring creature had ended up like a common chicken, killed by man.

Yang could barely control his grief. The thought of diving in and swimming over to the reeds to sound the alarm for the other swans actually occurred to him.

That night, as the last hues of sunset faded, Bao Shungui was accompanied only by a pot of boiled swan; no one spoke to him. The hunters ate roasted wild boar; Yang Ke trembled the whole time he picked at the meat with his knife.

In the sky above the lake, the sad plaints of swans carried on throughout the night.

Yang was awakened in the middle of the night by the wolf like howls of the dogs. Then they stopped and Yang heard faint, distant, intermittent sounds of mourning-desolate, weathered, and stifling. The bleak chill of the sorrowful howls tore through him. The old wolf that had gone over the precipice hadn’t died after all; after crawling half the night, severely injured, it made it over the mountain and was, no doubt, wailing in front of the burial spot of its mate, heartbroken, soul-stirred, devastated. He surely lacked the strength to move the rocks in order to see his mate one last time. A swan’s lamentation over the death of its mate and the heartbreaking cries of the old wolf came together in pulsating waves of mourning.

Yang Ke wept until daybreak.

Several days later, Laasurung returned from headquarters to report that Bao Shungui had taken half a cartload of herbaceous peony roots into town.