Wolf Totem: A Novel (51 page)

Chen filled Yang in on that day’s activities. “We’ve got to get our hands on some meat,” he said. “The cub won’t grow big and strong without it. Erlang hasn’t been hanging around recently, which makes for a dangerous situation.”

Yang said, “I had a meal of roasted marmot up in the mountains today, thanks to Dorji. If he manages to trap a lot of them, we can ask for one for the cub. The problem is, the shepherds and their flocks have raised hell out there, scaring the marmots and keeping them out of the traps.”

Weighed down with anxieties, Chen said, “I’m worried that the wolf pack will come at night and create a bloodbath with our sheep. You can’t find a more vicious female anywhere than a mother wolf. And the craving for revenge after the loss of her offspring has probably driven this one nearly insane. If she brought the pack for a nighttime raid on our flock and slaughtered a bunch of them, we’d be screwed.”

Yang Ke sighed. “The herdsmen all say that the females will come sooner or later. This year on the Olonbulag we raided dozens of dens, and all those females are looking for a chance to avenge the loss of their young. The herdsmen are united in their desire to kill this cub, and the students in all the other units are against keeping it. I almost got into a fight with one of them today. They say that if anything happens, it’ll make things hard for all the students. We’re getting hammered from all sides. What do you say we quietly let it go and say it broke the chain and ran off? That would solve our problems.” Yang picked up the young wolf and rubbed his head. “But I’d hate to give him up. I’m not this close to my own kid brother.”

Chen clenched his teeth and said, “We Chinese are afraid of the wolf in front and the tiger behind. Since we went into the den and got this cub, we can’t give up halfway. If we’re going to raise him, let’s do a good job of it.”

“It’s not the responsibility that bothers me,” Yang quickly replied. “It’s just that seeing him chained up all day like a prisoner is heartbreaking. Wolves demand freedom, but we keep him shackled the whole time. Doesn’t that bother you? Me, I’m totally in the wolf totem camp, and I can see why Papa doesn’t want you to raise the cub. He considers it blasphemy.”

Chen was conflicted but could not show it, so he got in Yang’s face and said, “Do you think I’ve never thought of setting him free? But not yet—there are still lots of things I need to know. If the cub is freed, that makes for one free wolf, but if one day there are no wolves on the grassland at all, what sort of freedom is that? You’d feel more remorse than anyone.”

Yang thought about that for a moment, and decided to compromise, though with a bit of hesitation. “Okay, we’ll keep at it, and I’ll find a way to get my hands on some firecrackers. Wolves are like men on horseback: they hate firecrackers; the sound freaks them out. If we hear Erlang tangle with a wolf, I’ll light off a string of crackers and you throw them into the middle of the pack.”

“If you want to know the truth,” Chen said, softening his tone, “you’ve got more wolf in you than I do. You’re not afraid of taking a chance. Do you really plan to marry a Mongol girl? I hear they’re tougher than wolves.”

Yang Ke waved him off. “Don’t tell anybody,” he pleaded. “If you do and some Mongol girl gets the wild idea to come after me like a wolf, I won’t be able to fight her off. First I have to get my own yurt.”

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.