Wolf Totem

23

With his back to the noisy, chaotic work site, Yang Ke gazed quietly at the swan lake. He didn’t have the heart to look at the work going on behind him. Ever since Bao Shungui had killed and eaten the swan, he’d been troubled by dreams in which only blood came out of the lake, in which the surface of the water had turned from blue to red.

The three dozen or so laborers from the farming areas of Inner Mongolia had put down roots in the new grazing site, and with lightning speed had built sturdy adobe houses. These men had spent years engaged in full-time or seasonal work in pasturelands, but their grandparents had been herders and their parents had spent half their time farming and the other half herding in areas where Mongols lived alongside Han Chinese. Most of that grassland had turned into poor, sandy farmland in their time, and it could no longer provide for them. So, like migratory birds, they came out here. Fluent in Mongolian and Chinese, they were also conversant in both husbandry and farming. Compared to the Han Chinese in agrarian areas down south, they had considerably more intimate knowledge of the grassland; they knew how to utilize local materials and possessed the unique talent of building agricultural facilities. Every time Chen Zhen and Yang Ke led their sheep to drink at the lake, they stopped by the work site to chat. There was so much to do in a very short time that Bao Shungui had ordered that the temporary warehouse and medicinal dipping pool had to be completed before the rainy season. Apparently, they hadn’t had time for the swans-not yet.

Yang had to admire the laborers’ construction skills. Outer walls for a row of adobe houses appeared on what had been a vacant lot only the day before. And as he rode around for a closer look, he saw how they had transported bricks they’d made from clay dug out of the grassy alkali lakeshore. The bricks, with grass mixed in, were double the width and thickness of those used to build the Great Wall. The soil was grayish blue and very sticky, and when completely dry, the brick walls would be sturdier and stronger than rammed-earth walls. And the supply of bricks was virtually inexhaustible. When he kicked a finished adobe wall with his riding boot, it felt like reinforced concrete.

The bricks were laid with the grassy side down, showing the roots. After they were smoothed over, they were further flattened with a spade before the next layer was added. Divided into three shifts, the builders were able to complete the walls in only two days. Roofs and beams would be added once the walls were completely dry. The grassy marshland from which the bricks were taken was transformed into a muddy pool looking like a rice paddy before planting, forcing the livestock to skirt the area on their way to the lake.

The hillside stone quarry was also shaping up. On the Mongolian grassland hills, all one has to do to get weathered stone slabs and rocks is to clear away the thin layer of grass-covered sandy soil and pebbles. Stone and rocks can be pried off with a carrying pole. No need for a hammer, pickax, or explosives. Seven or eight laborers were moving stones from the pit, creating huge piles on the green hillside, like grave mounds.

Within days, two dozen more laborers were driven up on trucks, and construction work was at full speed. Gaudy, colorful bundles and luggage filled the trucks; the workers had brought their wives and children, even domestic geese from northeastern China, as if they were putting down roots on the grassland. Nearly heartbroken, Yang complained to Chen, “This pristine pasture will soon become a dirty little farming village, and the swan lake will become a pond for domestic geese.”

With a frown, Chen replied, “The most important thing for an overpopulated race is to stay alive. There can’t be any nutrients left over to feed aesthetic cells.”

Yang learned that the laborers mostly came from Bao Shungui’s hometown, and that he hoped to move half the village out to the grassland.

A few days later, Yang saw several laborers plowing the land near their houses. Four deep furrows formed a large vegetable garden, and within a few days, vegetables began to sprout: cabbages, radishes, turnips, cilantro, yellow melons, green onions, and garlic. Beijing students were already lining up to place orders for Chinese vegetables that were unavailable on the grassland.

Winding oxcart paths were straightened out by tractors used for carting lamb’s wool. The tractors brought more family members to gather wool and apricot pits, to dig up medicinal roots, and to cut wild leeks. It was like opening a treasure box that attracted migrants from the farming areas; their northeastern-accented, Mongolian-influenced Chinese was heard deep in the grassland.

“The agrarian Han civilization assimilated the Manchus of the Qing dynasty,” Chen said to Yang, “because the three northeastern provinces, the Manchus’ ancestral land, had vast stretches of fertile black soil, which made it easy to adopt an agrarian lifestyle. That sort of assimilation isn’t such a big problem. But if they attempt that here, we’ll be looking at a true ‘yellow peril.’ ”

Bao Shungui spent nearly all his time at the construction site. Already aware of the new grassland’s potential for reclamation, he planned to move all four brigades over the following year, turning the place into the sole summer pasture and leaving the black soil in the original pasture for farming. That way they would have both grain and meat whenever they wanted, and he would be able to move all his friends and family to this treasure land, with its perfect feng shui, and set up a Bao Family Agri-pasture Land. Not surprisingly, the laborers readily accepted Bao’s tough demands on the construction progress.

Bilgee and other old-time herders fought with the workers almost daily, asking them to fill up the furrows around their vegetable garden, since their horses often fell into them at night. The furrows were filled in, but a waist-high rammed-earth wall appeared before long. Uljii walked around with a clouded look, beginning to wish he’d never opened up the new grazing land.

Yang Ke turned his back to the clamorous, chaotic work site and concentrated on the scenery in front of him. He stood there for a long time admiring the swan lake, wanting to burn the sight into his memory. In recent days, his infatuation with the lake had grown stronger even than Chen Zhen’s infatuation with wolves. He was worried that before the year was out, the opposite shore and grassy slopes would be crowded with livestock belonging to the other three brigades and, even worse, big ugly work sites created by the laborers. If the reeds along the shore were cut down, the surviving swans would lose their green curtain of protection.

Yang rode toward the lake to see if there were any cygnets swimming there. It was the season for the females to have their young. Luckily, except for the few oxen, there was no livestock near the lake; the clean flowing water from the stream washed away the filth they deposited there while bringing spring water from a distant forest to turn the lake crystal clear. He hoped the birds would enjoy a spell of peace and quiet.

But a flock of waterbirds suddenly took flight, followed by startled cries and calls. Wild ducks and geese skimmed the surface heading southeast; the swans quickly rose into the air and headed for the marshland to the north. Yang took out his binoculars to search the area in the reed, worried that someone was out there hunting for swans.

The lake surface remained still for many minutes. Then into his lenses sailed a camouflaged raft of the type used during the war with Japan. The raft quietly glided out with its two occupants, both wearing camouflage caps made of green reeds, and capes of the same material draped over their shoulders. Stalks of cut reed were strewn across the raft, making it look like a floating cluster of reeds; without careful scrutiny it was hard to tell the reeds from the raft. It appeared that the men on the raft had made a kill. One man was removing his cap and cape while the other, using a spade as an oar, was rowing slowly toward the shore.

As the raft drew closer, Yang saw that it was actually constructed of six inner tubes and several door planks. He knew who the men were: Old Wang and his nephew, Ershun, who was moving the green reeds away to reveal a metal basin filled with bird eggs of various sizes, including two the size of small melons, their shells smooth and shiny, as if carved from fine jade. His heart fell. Swan eggs! He felt like crying out. What he feared but could not help seeing was the partially exposed swan under the reed cape, red stains on the bright white feathers. Yang’s blood rushed to his head, and he could barely stop himself from running up and overturning the raft. But he knew he must control his anger. The swan was dead. He could do nothing about that, but he had to try to save the eggs.

As soon as the raft reached the shore, he ran up to it. “Who said you could kill swans and take their eggs? Come with me; you can explain yourself at brigade headquarters.”

Short and stocky, with a black beard that was neither Mongolian nor Han, Old Wang was actually quite shrewd. He glared at Yang. “Director Bao told us to. What’s your problem? With game like this to eat, the construction team can save you lots of cows and sheep.”

“All Chinese know that ugly toads love to eat swans. Are you Chinese or aren’t you?”

Old Wang sneered. “No Chinese would let a swan fly over to the Russians. How about you? Do you want to deliver the swans to them?”

Yang had learned that the migrants could argue with the best of them, and he didn’t know what to say.

When the swan was dragged ashore, Yang saw an arrow in its chest. A large bow made of thick bamboo and a quiver of arrows lay in the raft. No wonder he hadn’t heard gunfire. He realized that a bow and arrow could be a more lethal weapon than a firearm, since it would not startle other swans or waterbirds, making it easy to kill more of them. Reminding himself to take these people seriously, he decided that strategy rather than firmness was the only way to stop them.

Forcing himself to keep his anger in check, Yang changed his expression as he picked up the bow. “What a great bow. Really great, good and stiff. Is this what you used?”

Seeing that Yang had decided to be more reasonable, Old Wang boasted, “What else? I made it out of a bamboo wool-teasing bow I found in the brigade yurt. It’s so powerful it could easily kill a man.”

Yang took out an arrow. “Can I try it?”

Old Wang was sitting on a grassy knoll at the water’s edge watching Ershun unload the dead swan. As he puffed on his pipe, he said, “Arrows take a lot of time to make, and I need to hold on to what I’ve got to hunt with. You can shoot one, but that’s all.”

So Yang Ke took a moment to get the feel of the bow, which was made of thick bamboo and was three fingers in width. The string, constructed of thin strips of cowhide twisted together, was the thickness of a pencil. The arrow had been carved out of willow branches, with wild-goose feathers on one end. Yang was surprised to see that the tip was made from a tin can; he could even make out the word braised on it. A triangle had been cut out of a can and wrapped around the willow branch, the tip of which had been whittled to a point; then the ends had been nailed together. Yang tested the tip with his finger; it was firm and very sharp. He checked the heft of the arrow; the shaft was light, but the tip was heavy, so it wouldn’t sail when fired.

The bow was so stiff he had to strain to pull the string halfway. After fitting the arrow on the string, he took aim at a grassy knoll thirty or forty feet away and let go. The tip of the arrow was buried in the knoll. Yang ran over and carefully extracted it from the dirt, then cleaned it off and saw that the tip was sharp as ever. At that moment he fantasized that he had been transported back in time to when the Mongol hordes were armed with bows and arrows.

Yang walked back to Old Wang. “How far away were you when you shot the swan?”

“No more than seven or eight paces.”

“And the swan never saw you?”

Old Wang knocked the ashes out of his pipe and said, “Yesterday I went into the reeds and found the nest. This morning we got up very early, camouflaged ourselves with reeds, and rowed our way in. Fortunately, it was so misty the swan couldn’t see us. The nest was as tall as us. The swan was inside sitting on her eggs, while the male was swimming around nearby for protection.”

“Which one did you shoot, the male or the female?”

“We had to stay low in the raft, so we couldn’t get a shot at the female inside the nest. We waited for the male, and when it glided up near us, I fired. Got it right in the heart. It flapped around weakly and died. When the female heard the racket outside the nest, she flew off, and that’s when we got the eggs.”

The ability of these migrants to survive and to wreak havoc is considerable, Yang was thinking. They have no guns, so they make a bow and arrow; they have no boat, so they make a raft. To top it off, they’re good at concealing themselves; they hit their target on the first try. Supply them with guns and ammunition and a tractor, and there’s no telling what they’d turn the grassland into. Their ancestors were herders, but after they were conquered and assimilated, they became enemies of the Mongolian grassland. For over a thousand years the Chinese have taken pride in their ability to assimilate other races. But they’ve only been able to assimilate people with a lower level of civilization, and they’ve never been willing to discuss the often catastrophic consequences of the assimilation. As Yang Ke was now witnessing those consequences, his heart bled.

After Ershun had cleaned off the raft, he sat down to rest. Yang couldn’t get those two swan eggs out of his mind. Since the female was still alive, he felt compelled to take the eggs back to her nest, hoping that once the young birds were born, they’d fly off with their mother, all the way to Siberia.

With a broad if not natural smile, Yang said to Old Wang, “You’re good at that. I hope someday you’ll teach me some of your skills.”

Old Wang smiled proudly. “I’m not good at much, but you won’t find many better than me at hunting birds and marmots and wolves, or at setting traps, finding herbs, and digging up mushrooms. We used to have all those back home, but too many Chinese moved into the area. You students from Beijing have been given local household registration. How about speaking up for us outsiders when you get a chance? That way the local Mongols won’t drive us away. They’ll listen to you. If you’ll do that, I’ll teach you a thing or two. I guarantee you can earn a thousand a year with what I teach you.”

“Well, then, I’ll just call you my teacher from now on.”

Old Wang edged close to Yang and said, “I hear that you and the herdsmen have lots of sheep oil. Think you could get some for us? There are forty or fifty of us involved in backbreaking labor, and we have to pay black-market prices for the grain to go along with the wild vegetables we pick, all without a drop of oil. But you use it in your lanterns. What a waste! How about selling us some at a good price.”

Yang laughed. “No problem,” he said. “We’ve got two vats of the stuff. Tell you what. I like the looks of those two swan eggs, so how about trading them for half a vat of oil?”

“They’re yours!” Old Wang replied. “I’d just take them home and fry them, which is the same as eating five or six duck eggs. Go ahead, take them.”

Yang quickly took off his coat and wrapped the eggs in it. “I’ll bring the oil over tomorrow.”

“I trust you,” Old Wang said. “You Beijing students are as good as your word.”

Yang exhaled loudly and said, “It’s still early. Can I borrow your raft? I’d like to go see that nest. I find it hard to believe it could be as tall as you.”

Old Wang glanced over at Yang’s horse. “How’s this?” he said. “I’ll trade you my raft for your horse. I have to get this swan over to the kitchen, and it’s almost as heavy as a sheep.”

Yang stood up. “It’s a deal… But hold on-tell me where you found the nest.”

Wang stood up and pointed to the reeds. “Go east,” he said, “and when you reach the end, head north. You’ll find a path through the reeds where the raft went. Just keep going, and you’re bound to find it.

“When you get back,” Old Wang instructed him, “be sure to tie the raft the way you found it.” He picked up the dead swan and laid it across the saddle. Then he climbed on, sat behind the bird, and headed slowly toward the work site, Ershun following behind, lugging the heavy basin.

Yang waited until the men were far enough away for him to go back to the shore, pick up the coat with the eggs inside, and put it in the raft. Then he rowed as fast as he could, heading east.

Yang was breathing fast and his hands were shaking as he rowed unsteadily toward the nest, pushing floating reeds out of his way with the spade, wanting to approach it as slowly as possible.

Yang stood before the nest almost in a state of shock. It was the biggest, the tallest, and the most unusual bird’s nest he’d ever seen. After assuring himself that the female was away, he began examining the nest closely. He pushed against it with both hands; like a three-foot-thick tree trunk, it didn’t budge. Though it was built on the water, its roots were as deep as a banyan tree’s.

As the wind over the lake cooled, the green color of the reeds deepened. Yang held the two eggs close to his chest, trying to give them a bit of warmth from his body. He carefully climbed up and held on to the edge with one hand, while gently putting one of the eggs back into the nest. He took the second egg out from under his coat and put it back with equal care. Then, as he stepped back onto the raft, he breathed a sigh of relief, believing that the eggs, resting on the totem pole of a nest post, would, like two giant gemstones, shine brightly among the reeds and send their brilliance into the sky to call back the swan queen soaring through the air.

Finally a white dot appeared and circled in the sky. Yang quickly untied the rope and quietly rowed the raft into the waterway. He straightened the reeds flattened by the raft and pushed away the floating stalks and leaves with his spade, hoping that new reeds would grow in the area to shield the exposed nest.

He saw a swan’s hurried descent before he left the reedy path; when he came ashore, the swan was no longer in the sky.

Yang Ke walked back to the construction site kitchen, where Ershun told him that his uncle had ridden over to Section Three to buy sick oxen. Outside the kitchen was a makeshift stove, on which sat a giant pot. On the ground was a pile of wet feathers. Steam rose from the pot, where pieces of swan meat the size of a fist were cooking. He saw the bird’s head bobbing in the boiling water. A young woman dressed like a Han was sprinkling a handful of Sichuan peppers, cut green onions, and chopped ginger into the pot. She poured half a bottle of cheap soy sauce over the swan’s head. Overcome by dizziness, Yang Ke collapsed against an oxcart.

“Quick,” the woman said to Ershun, “take him inside. We’ll give him a bowl of the broth to bring him around.”

With a wave of his hand, Yang pushed Ershun away; he was so angry he felt like knocking over the pot. He couldn’t stand the smell coming from it, but he didn’t dare kick it over or otherwise let them see how angry he was. Ershun, after all, was a peasant, while he was one of the “mongrel bastards” sent “up to the mountains and down to the countryside” for reeducation.

When he returned to camp, Yang Ke told Chen Zhen and Gao Jianzhong what he’d seen and felt that day.

Chen was too upset to say anything. It took him a while to calm down. “What you’ve told us is a microcosm of what has happened between nomads and farmers in East Asia over thousands of years. The nomads become farmers, then turn around and destroy the grassland, inflicting damage on both nomads and farmers in the process.”

“Why does it have to be like that?” Yang asked. “They’re born of the same roots, so why are they so quick to fight? Why can’t both the nomads and the farmers stick to their own lifestyle?”

Chen said coldly, “It’s a small world, and everyone wants the good life. Human history is essentially a chronicle of fighting over and safeguarding living space. The small farmers of China have devoted their lives to taking care of the tiny piece of land they farm, making them narrow-minded individuals with tunnel vision. If we hadn’t come here, wouldn’t we be looking at the world through the beady eyes of a mouse, believing we’re always right?”

Early the next morning, Yang, Chen, and Gao were awakened by gunfire at the lake. They stamped their feet in anger and regret. As if crazed, Yang leaped onto his horse and stormed toward the lake. Chen asked Gombo to watch his sheep before following with Gao on horseback.

They waited anxiously for the raft to come ashore, and what they saw made them feel as if a member of the family had died. On the raft lay another swan, along with several wild geese and ducks, plus two blood-splattered eggs. Obviously, it was the female swan who, to protect her precious eggs, had not flown away from the lake of terror in time and had ended up like her mate. Her head shattered by bullets, she was a worse sight than the male. She had died on top of her unborn cygnets, giving them the last bit of warmth from her own blood.

Yang’s face was bathed in tears. If he hadn’t returned the eggs to the nest, the female swan might have been spared.

As he was thinking, Little Peng, the barefoot doctor, jumped breathlessly off his horse, snatched up the two bloody eggs, put them in a bag stuffed with lamb’s wool, remounted, and galloped off.

In a holiday mood, the workers carried their loot back to the kitchen, under the bewildered and angry glare of the herders, who could not understand why these Mongols, who dressed like Chinese, could be so cruel to sacred grassland birds. How did they have the nerve to kill and eat creatures that could fly up to Tengger? Bilgee, who had never witnessed anything like this before, was so angry his goatee quivered. He cursed Wang for the slaughter, for being disrespectful to a shaman, the sacred bird, and for forgetting his Mongolian roots.

Yang later heard that Peng, who had swapped oil for the swan eggs, turned out to be a collector of rare and precious objects, someone who knew a technique for keeping the eggshells intact. After punching a little hole in the bottom of the egg with a syringe, he sucked out the contents and then sealed the hole to prevent the shell from rotting or exploding. The two beautiful eggs, though the lives inside were lost, could now be preserved forever. He also went to the pastureland carpenter shop, where he made two cases out of wood and glass. He then added yellow silk padding to cradle the eggs, creating rare and exotic works of art. He stashed his two precious cases in his trunk, never showing them to anyone. Years later, he gave them to an official who had come to recruit students for the Workers, Peasants, and Soldiers College. And that was how Little Peng, on wings borrowed from the swans, was able to fly back to the city and enter college.