Wolf Totem

20

On the highlands, the early-summer sun lit up an archipelago of floating clouds above the basin, so bright the people below could barely open their eyes. The air was filled with the smell of mountain onions and wild garlic as sheep and their lambs grazed the land, heavy and acrid. The people had to blink to moisten their burning eyes. Chen Zhen closely observed the new grassland and the camp, still fearful that the mother wolf would come looking for her cub and take her revenge on his sheep.

More than thirty yurts belonging to Second Brigade had been thrown up at the base of a gentle mountain slope on the northwestern edge of the basin, the two-yurt hots separated from one another by less than a thousand feet. The camp occupied a small fraction of the area, on the orders of Bilgee and Uljii, as a precaution against attacks by wolves, both from the new camp and the old, even, perhaps, a combined attack. There was no way, Chen felt, that an Olonbulag wolf pack could penetrate the line of defense. If they tried, dogs from all corners would launch a counterattack. That thought lessened his worries, and he squinted a bit to take in the beauty of the grazing land.

Herds of cattle and horses and flocks of sheep and goats were already making their way onto the new grazing land; what had been virgin land only the day before was now a pasture on which sounds of singing, whinnying, bleating, and lowing were carried on the wind; joy was in the air, emanating from the people, the horses, the sheep and goats, and the cows.

Chen and Yang’s flock, exhausted after their long trek, was grazing on a slope not far from the men’s yurt. With an emotional sigh, Chen said, “This new summer land and the old one are as different as night and day. I feel a sense of pride, as if we were reclaiming new land somewhere, the rewards far outweighing the losses. Sometimes I think it’s all a dream and that we’ve taken our flock to the Garden of Eden.”

“That’s how I feel,” Yang said. “This is an almost otherworldly place, a grassland of swans. All that keeps it from being perfect is the presence of Bao Shungui, the Chinese students, and the other outsiders. The Olonbulag shepherds would have no trouble living in peace and harmony with the swans. Just think how romantic it would be to tend our flock as swans glided across a blue sky. In a few years, marrying a Mongol girl brave enough to grab a wolf by the tail, and fathering some half-breed kids who wouldn’t shy away from crawling into a wolf den is all I’d need in life.” He breathed in the smell of fragrant grass.

“If even a Tang prince wished he could be a grassland Turk,” he said, “why not me? Out here dogs are needed and are loved, unlike places like Beijing, where all you hear is people talking about ‘smashing someone’s dog head.’ For a ‘reactionary academic authority’ like me, a ‘damned cur,’ there’s no place better to put down roots and start a family than the grassland.”

“You say it’d be better without the Chinese students, but you’re one, aren’t you?”

“Ever since I prostrated myself at the feet of the wolf totem,” Yang said, “I’ve been a Mongol. These people place the big life of the grassland above their own lives. I can’t help seeing people who come from farming districts as evil. No wonder the nomadic shepherds have fought farmers for thousands of years.”

Chen said, “Farmers and shepherds have been doing that throughout history, stopping only long enough to intermarry and live together peacefully for a while. Truth is, we’re all descendants of unions between people on the Central Plain and those on the grassland. Uljii said that this new grazing land will serve the people and their livestock for four or five years. He should be reinstated as a reward for what he’s done here. What worries me is whether he and Bilgee have the power to overcome the forces that want to make the grassland theirs.”

“You’re a dyed-in-the-wool Utopian!” Yang exclaimed. “My father told me once that China’s future lies in reducing its peasant population to under five hundred million. But I’m afraid the population explosion among peasants can’t be brought under control, not by the Mongols’ Tengger and not by our Old Man in Heaven. Over the past two decades, vast numbers of peasants have gone to work in factories, moved into cities, and started school, and then they’ve done all they can to drive the intellectuals into the countryside to become second-class peasants. They forced millions of students like us out of the cities. What power do a couple of Mongols like Uljii and Bilgee have? It’s the mantis trying to stop a wagon.”

Chen glared at him. “Apparently, you don’t see the wolf as a real totem after all. Do you really know what it is? It’s the spiritual power of one to ten, or a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand. It’s what protects the big life of the grassland. Heaven has always seen that the big life manages the little life, that the heavenly life manages the human life. Without heavenly or earthly lives, what kind of tiny life would there be for people? If you truly revere the wolf totem, then you need to stand by heaven and earth, by nature, by the big life of the grassland, and you must struggle as long as a single wolf exists. Trust in the concept that fortunes change. Tengger will protect the grassland. By standing on the side of the big life, the worst that can happen is you’ll die along with the force trying to destroy the big life, and your soul will ascend to Tengger. That is a worthy death. Most grassland wolves die in battle!”

Yang Ke was silent for a long spell.

Chen leashed the cub on orders from Uljii. The leash was fastened to a leather collar around the cub’s neck on one end and a metal ring placed loosely around a three-foot mountain elm post that was buried two feet in the ground. A metal cap atop the pole, strong enough to hold an ox, kept the ring from sliding off the post; the cub could run around without shortening the leash or being choked.

And so a week before the move, the cub lost his freedom, became a prisoner restrained by a five-foot-long metal chain. It pained Chen to watch the little wolf turn his anger on the leash, which he did all that week, his slobber dripping from half its length. Try as he might, he could neither bite through the leash nor uproot the post, and he was forced to pass the days in an open-air circular prison, ten or twelve feet in diameter. Chen kept increasing the amount of time he spent walking the cub to make up for torturing him with a leash. The cub was happiest when a puppy was let into the pen to play with him, though he inevitably wound up sending his playmate scurrying off with a series of yelps and painful bites, and was once again all alone. Erlang was the only adult dog who occasionally wandered into the wolf pen, sometimes to rest for a while and let the cub jump on top of him or nibble at his ears or tail.

The cub’s most important daily activity was staring at his food dish, which rested beside the yurt, waiting impatiently until it was filled and carried over to him. Chen could not tell if the cub knew why he had become a prisoner, but the hateful glare in his eyes was unmistakable, as if he were saying, “The puppies get to run free; why can’t I?” He took his anger out on the dogs, occasionally drawing blood. Given the primitive, nomadic conditions, raising a wolf near dogs, sheep, and men required inhumane treatment. If Chen let his guard down for even a moment, the wolf was likely to attack the sheep or the men, and that would seal his doom. He whispered this to the cub many times, but of course that had no effect. Chen and Yang began to worry that this sort of treatment might adversely affect the young wolf’s development. Depriving him of his freedom by tethering him to a chain removed both the conditions and opportunity for his personality to develop naturally. Would a wolf raised under such conditions still be a real wolf? Chen and Yang felt, however dimly, that they had, as the saying goes, mounted the wolf and didn’t know how to get off. Maybe the seeds of failure had been sown in their experiment from its inception. Yang was inclined to give up, but Chen would have none of it. In truth, Yang too was growing increasingly attached to the cub.

It was time for the cattle to mate. One of the bulls came frighteningly close to the wolf cub, sending him cowering into a clump of tall grass. Then when the frenzied bull mounted one of the cows, the cub was so frightened he burst out of the grass, trying to get away, but was jerked to a halt by the taut chain, which nearly strangled him; his tongue shot from his mouth, his eyes rolled back. Not until the bull took off chasing another cow did he calm down.

By this time the cub had more or less gotten used to his prison site and had begun to romp and tumble in his pen. The ground was covered by grass that grew a foot or more, making the pen much more comfortable than his first pen, with its dry, sandy ground. Here he could lie on his back, looking up into the sky, or lazily chew the grass; he could play for half an hour all by himself. So full of vitality, he had found a spot and a sport that would let him come alive, and so he began a regimen of running in the pen several times a day, hugging the outer wall and running around and around, seemingly never tiring.

First he’d make a complete turn in one direction, screech to a halt, and then reverse direction. When he finally wore himself out, he’d sprawl in the grass, mouth open, tongue lolling to the side, panting and slobbering. Chen discovered that the cub was spending more time and making more revolutions every day, and he realized that the little wolf was making his body work harder in order to shed his old coat for the new one coming in. The first time a wolf sheds its coat, Bilgee had said, comes later in the year than mature animals.

Zhang Jiyuan galloped up on his horse, his forehead bandaged in white. Chen and Yang, surprised by the unexpected visit, ran out to greet him. "No!” Zhang cried out. "Stand clear!” The horse he was riding, spooked by the movement, was bucking and kicking, keeping everyone at bay. Obviously, the horse had only recently been broken, so they kept their distance to let Zhang get down as best he could.

Mongol horses are fiery animals, especially the high-strung Ujimchin. They cannot be broken until the spring of their third year. Though they’re thin at that time of the year, they’re big enough to accommodate a rider. If this moment is lost, the horse will never take a saddle or bit. It will remain a wild horse.

Each spring, the horse herders chose three-year-olds that were relatively tame and gave them to the cowherds and shepherds to break. Those who were successful could ride that horse for a year. If, after a year, the rider determined that the horse was inferior to his other horses, he could return it to the herd, at which time it was given a name. Traditionally, each horse was named after the person who tamed it, with a color added. Bilgee Red, Batu White, Lamjav Black, Laasurung Gray, Sanjai Green, Dorji Yellow, Zhang Jiyuan Chestnut, Yang Ke Yellow Flower, and Chen Zhen Green Flower were notable examples of names those horses would carry throughout their lives. Having several horses with the same name on the Olonbulag was a rarity.

Horses were the lifeblood of grasslanders. Lacking good horses or a sufficient number of them made it hard for people to escape the ravages of snowstorms, wildfires, and enemy attacks; to make timely deliveries of medical personnel and medicine; to sound the alarm in time to ward off military or natural disasters; to catch a wolf; or to catch up to panicky herds of horses and cattle or flocks of sheep during a white-hair blizzard. Bilgee once said that a grasslander without a horse was like a two-legged wolf.

As Zhang Jiyuan rubbed his horse’s neck, he gently slid one foot out of the stirrup and, with the horse’s attention diverted, jumped to the ground. The startled animal bucked several times, nearly throwing its saddle, so Zhang quickly grabbed the reins and jerked the horse’s head toward him to keep from getting kicked. It was a struggle, but somehow he managed to lead the horse over to a wagon, where he hitched it to the axle. The animal fought to break loose, making the wagon rock and creak.

Chen and Yang breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re courting disaster,” Yang said. “Do you really think you can subdue a horse that wild?”

Zhang rubbed his forehead and said, “It threw me this morning and I took a hit on the head from one of its hooves. It knocked me out, but thankfully Batu was there with me. Lucky for me it’s still young, and its hooves haven’t rounded out yet, so I got off without a broken nose. If it had been an older horse, I probably wouldn’t be here now. But it’s one hell of a horse, and in a few years it’ll have quite a reputation. Out here you have to put your life on the line if you want a truly fine horse. It’s the only way.”

“You know, you’re starting to make us worry about you. The day you can get control of a fine horse without bandages all over you is the day you’ve finally arrived.”

“Give me two more years,” Zhang said. “This spring I broke six young geldings, all good horses. In the future, when you go hunting, if you’re short of horses, look me up. My plan is to swap all your present horses for good ones.”

The new grazing land offered plenty of fresh grass and water, all for a single brigade’s livestock, so they decided to let the horses graze in the proximity of cattle and sheep, at least for a while. With no one to the proximity of cattle and sheep, at least for a while. With no one to move them along, the horses lowered their heads and began grazing.

Chen and Yang were captivated by the sight of all those big, powerful young stallions with shiny new coats. With each movement, the muscles under the satiny coats rippled, as if carp were swimming beneath the skin.

The most notable difference between Mongolian stallions and other horses is their long mane, which covers their eyes, necks, chests, and upper legs. The hair grows longest around their necks and on their shoulders, some of it reaching their knees, their hooves, even the ground. The mane flows when they lower their heads to eat, covering half of their bodies and turning them into headless, faceless, hairy demons. When they run, heads held high, that mane billows and flows in the wind, like a Mongol battle flag in all its fullness, the sight of which can throw an enemy into headlong, panicky retreat. Given their violent, mercurial nature, they are horses no one dares try to tame, or rope, or ride. They have two functions on the grassland: stand at stud, and defend the herd. Possessing a strong sense of family responsibility, they never shy from danger; they are mean and tenacious. Stud bulls are idlers that move on after mating, but stallions are the great heads of grassland households.

It didn’t take long for a fight to break out among the horses. Once each year, the fillies were driven out of the herds in anticipation of a mating war, and this time it occurred right below where the three men were standing.

They sat on the ground by the wolf pen to watch the battle unfold, joined by the cub, crouched at the end of his chain to watch the action, shuddering like a starving wolf in a snowbank but not otherwise moving. He instinctively feared the powerful stallions yet watched them in utter fascination.

The herd, which numbered in excess of five hundred horses, was made up of more than a dozen families, each led by a stallion. The largest families had seventy or eighty members, the smallest as few as ten. The families comprised the sons and daughters of the stallions and their wives and concubines. Mating conditions among the ancient horse herds had evolved to a level of civilization greater even than that for humans. The horse herds were able to survive in the cruel grassland environment, surrounded by wolves that could attack at any time, by ruthlessly eradicating the possibility of inbreeding, which prevented a deterioration of the breed and a lessening of fighting ability.

At the onset of summer, three-year-old females approach sexual maturity, and the stallions abandon their fatherly airs by ruthlessly driving their daughters out of the family, refusing to allow them to remain by their mothers’ sides. Angry, nearly maniacal long-maned fathers drive their complaining daughters away, biting at their flanks as if they were chasing wolves, creating chaos in the herd. For those that find their way back to their mothers’ side, their fathers run up to them, fuming with anger, before the young females can catch their breath. They kick them, nip at them, do whatever it takes to ward off any resistance, until the young horses have no choice but to leave the family herd. They whinny pitifully, begging their fathers for leniency. But the stallions glare, snort, and paw the ground threateningly, refusing to allow them to remain with their mothers, who also suffer the rage of their mates when they try to protect their daughters. In the end, the mothers take a neutral stance, having come to understand what lies behind their mates’ actions.

Once the daughter banishment wars have run their course, the real battles, the cruel combat over mate selection is launched; it is a true volcanic eruption of male unruliness. The young females who have just been driven away from their families and have nowhere to turn quickly become the objects of contention among stallions of other families; as the males rear up on their hind legs and engage in mortal combat, they tower above the rest of the herd. Their powerful hooves are their weapons, which they wield like hammers, like fists, like axes. Amid the thudding of hooves and clashing of teeth, weaker horses flee in defeat, but well-matched combatants fight on and on. If hooves don’t win the day, they use their teeth, and if that doesn’t do it, they turn and kick with their hind legs, weapons that can crush the skull of a careless wolf. Some of the horses fight on even with their heads split open, or their chests bruised and swollen, or their legs badly injured.

If the young females take advantage of the chaos to return to their mothers, they now face the wrath of their fathers as well as stallions who would have them as mates, now comrades-in-arms, who chase them back to where they belong.

One beautiful, robust young female attracted the attention of two of the most ferocious stallions. The filly’s snow white coat shimmered; she had big, beautiful, deerlike eyes. She was tall and slender, and had the light gait of a deer when she ran. Yang Ke was completely taken by her. “What a beauty,” he said. “If I were one of those stallions I’d fight for her.”

The stallions fought like lions in the Colosseum, caught up in mortal combat. Zhang Jiyuan unconsciously stamped his foot and wrung his hands. “Those two have been fighting over her for days. She’s such a beauty I call her Princess Snow White. But she’s a little princess you have to feel sorry for. One day she’s forced to stay with the family of one stallion, the next day she’s taken away by another. Then those two males fight over her, and who knows where she’ll wind up the next day. When the first two have worn themselves out, a third comes up to take them on. And our princess goes to another home. Now she’s nothing but chattel to be taken at will, first by one stallion, then by another, not even given time to graze on the fresh grass. Look at her-she’s skin and bones. It’s like this every spring. When some of the fillies learn they can’t stay with their own family, they go straight to the family with the most powerful stallion for protection, which keeps them above the fray and provides less wear and tear on their bodies. They’ve seen what wolves can do to a horse, and are smart enough to realize that without a family, without the protection of a powerful father or mate, they’re in danger of becoming the next meal for a pack of wolves. In the end, it’s no exaggeration to say that wolves are behind the wild, ferocious nature of Mongol stallions.

“Stallions are grassland despots,” Zhang continued. “They worry that a wolf pack might attack their mates and offspring, but other than that, they fear nothing, not wolves, and certainly not humans. We used to talk about working like an ox or a horse, but that has nothing to do with these stallions. There isn’t much difference between a Mongol herd of horses and a wild herd, except, of course, for the geldings. I’ve spent a lot of time with horses, but I still can’t imagine how primitive people went about domesticating them. How did they figure out that they could ride a horse by gelding it?”

Chen and Yang exchanged looks and merely shook their heads. Pleased by the silent response, Zhang continued, “I’ve thought about that for a long time, and here’s what I think. The early inhabitants of the grassland found ways to catch wild stallions that had been wounded by wolves. After nursing them back to health, they couldn’t ride them, even if they had some modest success with horses that were still small. So they kept trying, one wounded horse after another, generation after generation, until one day the horse they caught had had its testicles bitten off, a new two-year-old. This one they were able to ride after it grew to maturity… That led them to the obvious conclusion. However it happened, it was complex and it must have taken a very long time. And a lot of early grasslanders must have died trying. That’s one of the great advances in the history of man, much more significant than China’s four great inventions of paper, printing, the compass, and gunpowder. Without horses, life in ancient times would have been unimaginable, far worse than getting by without automobiles, trains, and tanks in modern society. And that’s why the contributions to mankind by ancient nomads are incalculable.”

Chen Zhen broke in excitedly: “I agree a hundred percent. It was a lot harder for the grasslanders to first break wild horses than for ancient farmers to domesticate wild rice. Rice, at least, can’t run away, it can’t buck and rear up, and it can’t kill or injure you with its hooves or drag you to your death. Domesticating crops is peaceful labor, but domesticating wild horses and oxen is a battle bathed in blood and sweat. Farming people are still enjoying the fruits of the nomad people’s magnificent battles.”

Chen sighed. “The way I see it, the most advanced people today are descendants of nomadic races. They drink milk, eat cheese and steak, weave clothing from wool, lay sod, raise dogs, fight bulls, race horses, and compete in athletics. They cherish freedom and popular elections, and they have respect for their women, all traditions and habits passed down by their nomadic ancestors. Not only did they inherit their courage, their militancy, their tenacity, and their need to forge ahead from their nomadic forebears, but they continue to improve on those characteristics. People say you can tell what a person will grow up to be at the age of three and what he’ll look like in old age at seven. The same holds true for a race of people. In the West, primitive nomadic life was their childhood, and if we look at primitive nomads now, we are given access to Westerners at three and at seven, their childhood, and if we take this further, we get a clear understanding of why they occupy a high position. Learning their progressive skills isn’t hard. China launched its own satellite, didn’t it? What’s hard to learn are the militancy and aggressiveness, the courage and willingness to take risks that flow in nomadic veins.”

“Since I’ve been herding horses,” Zhang said, “I’ve felt the differences in temperament between the Chinese and the Mongols. Back in school I was at the top in just about everything, but out here I’m weak as a kitten. I did everything I could think of to make myself strong, and now I find that there’s something lacking in us…”

Chen sighed again. “That’s it exactly!” he said. “China’s small-scale peasant economy cannot tolerate competitive peaceful labor. Our Confucian guiding principle is emperor to minister, father to son, a top-down philosophy, stressing seniority, unconditional obedience, eradicating competition through autocratic power, all in the name of preserving imperial authority and peaceful agriculture. In both an existential and an awareness sense, China’s small-scale peasant economy and Confucian culture have weakened the people’s nature, and even though the Chinese created a brilliant ancient civilization, it came about at the cost of the race’s character and has led to the sacrifice of our ability to develop. When world history moved beyond the rudimentary stage of agrarian civilization, China was fated to fall behind. But we’re lucky, we’ve been given the opportunity to witness the last stages of nomadic existence on the Mongolian grassland, and, who knows, we might even discover the secret that has led to the rise in prominence of Western races.”

Out on the grassy field, as the horses fought on, with no end in sight, the lovely Princess Snow White was taken by an opportunistic stallion into its family herd. But there was no surrender in the losers, which raced over and kicked the princess to the ground. Not knowing where to turn for rescue, she lay there emitting long, sad whinnies. Her anxious mother made as if to go to her, but was sent back into the herd by the flying hooves of her almost demonic mate.

Yang had seen enough. He nudged Zhang Jiyuan. “You’re a horse herder-why don’t you do something?”

“Do what?” Zhang asked. “Go over there, and they’ll stop fighting. Leave, and they’re back at it. Herders play no role in the herd’s battles for survival. They’ve been doing this for centuries. If the stallions don’t drive their daughters out of the herd in the summer and fight to diversify the herds, these fights will go on forever. The most powerful stallions emerge from these summer wars, ensuring a successive generation of fast, smart, ferocious horses. The battles produce fine horses, year after year, increasing the stallions’ courage and fighting skills, and their families flourish. This is where the stallions hone their skills for fighting and killing wolves. Without these drills, the herds of Mongol horses could not survive on the grassland.”

“It seems to me,” Chen said, “that the Mongol warhorses that shocked and amazed the world must have been a product of their battles with wolves.”

“You said it,” Zhang agreed. “Wolves out here do more than just foster Mongol warriors; they also foster Mongol warhorses. Ancient China’s regimes had massive mounted armies, but their horses were, for the most part, raised and trained in ranchlike surroundings. We’ve been sent out to labor in the countryside, so we know how they raise horses in farming villages. They’re let out into a pen, where they’re watered and fed and given extra hay at night. Those horses have never seen a wolf and they’ve never engaged in horse wars. During the mating season, there’s no mortal combat, since there’s always someone around to take care of matters. They tether the female to a post, then lead a stud horse up to her. When the coupling is over, the female doesn’t even know what her mate looks like. What kind of nature and fighting spirit can a horse from this mating have?”

Yang Ke laughed. “Whatever comes from arranged marriages is bound to be stupid! We’re lucky we didn’t come from arranged marriages, so there’s still hope for us. Arranged marriages in farming villages are still common, but what comes out of them is at least better than plow horses, and the young ladies at least know what the men look like.

“In China we call that progress,” Chen said.

“Horses belonging to the Chinese,” Zhang said, “are animal coolies. They work all day and sleep at night, just like the peasants. So in this regard the Chinese are laboring peasants and their horses laboring horses, which is why they’re no match for Mongol fighters and Mongol warhorses.”

With a sigh, Yang said, “There’s no way a stupid horse can win on the field of battle. But the main reason the horses are stupid is stupid people.”

Smiles of resignation all around.

Zhang Jiyuan continued, “A fighting spirit is more important than a peaceful laboring spirit. The world’s greatest engineering feat, in terms of labor output, our Great Wall, could not keep out the mounted warriors of one of the smallest races in the world. If you can work but you can’t fight, what are you? You’re like a gelding, you work for people, you take abuse from them, and you give them rides. And when you meet up with a wolf, you turn tail and run. Compare that with one of those stallions that uses its teeth and its hooves as weapons.”

Yang Ke was in total agreement. “Ai, the work on the Great Wall was dead labor, while those battles on the grassland were full of life.”

Gao Jianzhong rode up on an oxcart. “We’ve struck it rich!” he shouted excitedly. “I stole a bucketful of wild duck eggs!” His three comrades ran over and took down a water bucket filled with seventy or eighty duck eggs, yellow liquid seeping out through the cracks of the broken ones.

“You’ve just wiped out a flock of wild ducks,” Yang Ke said.

“I wasn’t alone. Wang Junli and a bunch of the others were doing the same thing. Near the southwestern lake, in the grass by a little stream, you couldn’t walk more than ten steps without coming upon a nest of a dozen or so duck eggs. The first people there stole buckets of them. Actually, they saved them from horses that were trampling the grass on their way to the water. The area is littered with eggshells and yolks. What a waste.”

“Are there any left?” Chen asked. “We can go get more and salt the ones we don’t eat now.”

“No more around here,” Gao said. “How many do you think were left after four herds of horses had passed by? But there might be some on the eastern shore.”

“Come on, all of you,” Gao ordered. “Separate the broken eggs from the unbroken ones. I haven’t eaten a fried egg in a couple of years at least. Let’s put away as many as we can. Fortunately, we’ve got plenty of mountain onions in the yurt. Wild onions and wild eggs, a true, and absolutely delicious, wildwood meal. Yang Ke, you go peel the onions; Chen Zhen, you break open the eggs; Zhang Jiyuan, you get a basket of dried dung. I’ll do the cooking.”

About half of the eggs were broken, giving each of the friends eight or nine. It was a party atmosphere, and in no time the fragrant, oily smell of onion-fried duck-egg pancakes filtered out of the yurt and was spread by the wind. Dogs picked up the scent and crowded up to the yurt entrance, salivating and wagging their tails; the wolf cub strained noisily against his chain, jumping up and down and growling viciously. Chen decided to save a little for the cub to see if he’d eat something fried in sheep fat.

While the men were gobbling up pancakes, they were interrupted by a shout from Gasmai outside. “Aha, all that good food and you didn’t invite me over!” She opened the door, walked in with Bayar, and pushed the dogs out of the way. Chen and Yang made room for them in the seat of honor.

Chen handed them both some pancakes and said, “I didn’t think herdsmen ate stuff like this. Here, try it.”

“I smelled this all the way over at my place, a good thousand feet away, and it made me drool. So here I am, my little mutt and all. Not eat these? I sure do.” She picked up a pair of chopsticks and dug in. “They’re delicious,” she said. Bayar wolfed his down, never taking his eyes off the stove, worried there wouldn’t be more. Herdsmen eat a morning meal of curds, meat, and tea, then don’t eat again until the main meal in the evening. So mother and son were hungry.

“This is really good,” Gasmai said, “like eating ‘restaurant food,’ without having to go into town. Today I’m going to stuff myself.”

“I’ve got a bucketful here,” Gao said with a little laugh. “If we run out of broken eggs, we’ll cook the whole ones. You won’t leave hungry, I guarantee it.” Putting the broken eggs to one side, he cracked open half a dozen whole ones and made pancakes just for Gasmai and Bayar.

“But Papa won’t eat these,” Gasmai said. “He says that eggs belong to Tengger and should be left alone. What that means is, I’ll have to come over here to eat.”

Chen said, “Last year I was there when Papa asked the family of someone at headquarters for a dozen chicken eggs. What was that for?”

“One of the horses was sick,” Gasmai said. “Too much internal heat. He pinched the animal’s nose closed so it would raise its head, then broke a couple of eggs against its teeth and poured the contents down its throat. After he did that a few times, the horse was cured.”

Yang Ke leaned over and whispered to Zhang Jiyuan, “Now we’ve done it. Thanks to us, the herdsmen will start eating things they never used to eat. In a few years, not only swans but even wild ducks will disappear from the grassland.”

Bayar’s spirits rose with each bite. With grease running down his chin, he said, “I know where there are more of these. Make us one more serving, and tomorrow I’ll take you there. You’ll find plenty in abandoned marmot holes on hillsides. I saw some by a stream when I was looking for stray lambs this morning.”

“Great!” Gao Jianzhong exclaimed. “There’s a hillock near the stream with lots of holes in the sand, which means the horses will stay clear of the place.” While he was frying the pancakes, he told Chen to break open a few more eggs. In no time, a new thick, oily egg pancake came out of the pan. Gao cut it in two and gave half to Gasmai and half to her son. Sweat beaded their heads as they ate. Oily smoke rose from the pan, into which the next bowlful of eggs was dumped with a sizzle.

After Chen took out the spatula, he said, “Now I’m going to treat you to something different.” First he put in some sheep fat, then broke a couple of eggs, frying them until they were lightly cooked. Gasmai and her son got up on their knees to look into the pan. They stared wide-eyed at what they saw. Chen gave each of them one of the fried eggs, over which he sprinkled a bit of soy paste.

“This is even better than the pancakes,” Gasmai said. “Two more, please.”

“In a minute,” Yang said with a laugh, “I’ll fry you some eggs with leeks, and when you say you’re full, we’ll have old Zhang make a bowl of egg-drop soup. We all have our special dishes.”

Fragrant, oily smoke filled the yurt as the six people ate until they could eat no more and laid down their chopsticks. The wildwood feasters had gone through more than half of the eggs in the bucket.

Gasmai said she had to leave; there was much to do in the wake of the recent move. She belched contentedly and said with a laugh, “Don’t breathe a word about this to Papa. Come over to my place in a few days, and I’ll treat you all to a meal of curds mixed with fried rice.”

Gao reminded Bayar, “Don’t forget to take me looking for more eggs tomorrow.”

Chen ran out and stuffed a big piece of egg pancake into Bar’s mouth. Bar spat it onto the ground; but after inspecting it, sniffing it, and licking it, he decided it was edible. Beaming happily, he picked it up and ate it slowly, wagging his tail in thanks to Chen.

Once their guests had left, Chen ran over to see how his cub was doing.

It was gone! Chen broke out in a cold sweat. Panicked, he ran up close, where he discovered that his cub was hiding in the tall grass. He figured that the two strangers and all those unfamiliar dogs had frightened him. Obviously, he knew instinctively how to hide from danger. Chen breathed a sigh of relief. The cub looked around and, seeing that the strangers were gone, jumped to his feet and began sniffing Chen’s body, heavy with the aroma of fried eggs. He licked Chen’s oily hands.

So Chen went back inside, asked Gao for half a dozen eggs, which he threw into the pan with plenty of oil, and made egg pancakes for the cub and the dogs. That wasn’t nearly enough to fill them, but he felt a need to at least let them have a taste. Grassland dogs seemed to prefer snacks over regular meals, and giving them snacks was one of the best ways to bond with them. When he was finished, Chen divided the pancakes into four large pieces and three smaller ones. The large pieces were for the three dogs and the cub, the three smaller ones for the puppies. The dogs were still hanging around the doorway, refusing to leave, so Chen held back the piece for the cub, crouched down, and tapped each dog on the head with his spatula to have it wait its turn and not take food from one of the other dogs. He gave the biggest piece to Erlang, who took it in his mouth and wagged his tail spiritedly.

After the dogs had left to frolic in the grass, and the pancakes had all cooled down, he put the last big piece in the cub’s bowl and walked over with it. Yang Ke, Zhang Jiyuan, and Gao Jianzhong followed, all wanting to see if the cub would eat the egg pancake, something no grassland wolf had ever seen or eaten. “Little Wolf,” Chen called out, “Little Wolf, time to eat.” He’d no sooner placed the bowl into the pen than the cub came running as if it were chasing down a newborn lamb, grabbed the oily pancake in its mouth, and gobbled it down; it took no more than a second.

The men looking on were disappointed. “I feel sorry for the thing,” Zhang said. “He’s content just to have food in his belly. Look up wolf in the dictionary, and you won’t find the word savor.”

Looking pained, Gao said, “All those good duck eggs gone to waste.”

“Who knows,” Chen explained to ease their disappointment, “maybe wolves’ taste buds are in their stomach.”

That got a laugh out of them.

Chen went back into the yurt to straighten things up after the move. His friends decided to go tend to their animals, but before they left, Chen said to Zhang, “Want me to grab your horse by the ears to help you climb into the saddle?”

“No need,” Zhang replied.

He picked up some clean clothes, borrowed a copy of Jack London’s The Sea Wolf, and went outside.

He mounted up and led the horses in the direction of the mountains to the southwest.