Chen and his friends quickly put up their yurt. Gasmai sent Bayar over with two baskets of dry cow dung. After the two-day trek, the three friends could finally make a fire to cook and to boil water for tea. Yang Ke made it back before dinner, with a surprise for everyone—a rotten cart shaft he had dragged back with him, enough fuel to cook a couple of meals, which finally appeased Gao Jianzhong, who had been sulking over the dung that Chen had thrown away.
The three men walked up to the prison cart. When they removed the felt blanket, they were shocked to see a hole the size of a soccer ball in one side of the willow basket, made by the cub with his blunted claws and dulled fangs.
Chen looked closer and saw bloodstains on the chewed-up willow branches. He and Zhang quickly unloaded the basket, and the cub scrambled onto the grass-covered ground. Chen untied the other end of the chain and carried the cub up next to the yurt, where he sank the post, looped the chain, and placed the cap over it. The cub, after all the torture and shock, seemed to still be feeling the effects of the moving cart, for he quickly lay down in the grass. That way, his injured paws weren’t touching anything hard; he was so tired he could barely lift his head.
Chen grabbed hold of the cub and forced open his mouth with his thumbs. There wasn’t much blood from his throat wound, but one of his teeth was bleeding. Gripping the cub’s head tightly, Chen told Yang Ke to feel the tooth. Yang moved it back and forth. “The root’s loose, so the tooth is probably useless.” To Chen, it felt worse than losing his own tooth.
For two days the cub had struggled, causing a number of serious injuries to his body and ruining a tooth. Chen let go of the cub, who kept touching the bad tooth with his tongue, a clear sign that it hurt. Yang carefully applied some medicine to the cub’s paws.
After dinner, Chen prepared a basin of semisolid food, using leftover noodles, small pieces of meat, and soup. After it cooled off, he gave it to the young wolf, who gobbled it down. Chen could tell, though, that the animal was having trouble swallowing; it was as if something was stuck in his throat. Then he went back to touching the bad tooth with his tongue, soon began coughing, and spit out some bloody, undigested food. Chen’s heart sank; the cub not only had a bad tooth but something was wrong with his throat as well. But where would he find a vet who would examine a wolf cub?
“Now I understand something,” Yang Ke said to Chen. “The wolves are unyielding, not because the pack has no ‘traitors’ or wimps, but because the merciless environment weeds out the unfit.”
“This cub has paid too high a price for his wild, untamed nature,” Chen said sadly. “You can see what a person will be like as an adult when he’s only three, and what he’ll be like as an old man when he’s seven, but with wolves, it only takes three months to foresee an adult wolf and seven months to see into his old age.”
The following morning, when Chen was cleaning the wolf pen, he saw that the usual grayish droppings had been replaced by black ones. Startled, he quickly opened the cub’s mouth and saw that his throat was still bleeding. He got Yang Ke to hold the cub’s mouth open while he tried smearing some medicine on the wound with a chopstick and a piece of felt . But it was too deep for the chopstick to reach. They tried everything, all the home remedies, until they were both exhausted, regretting that neither of them had studied veterinary science.
On the fourth day, the color of the droppings started to lighten, and the cub regained his vitality. The two men breathed sighs of relief.
34
Bilgee was never again invited to attend the corps or division production meetings. Chen often saw him at home, silently doing leatherwork in his yurt.
The leather bridles, reins, bits, and hobbles belonging to the horse, cow, and sheep and horse herders’ horses had all been softened in the summer and autumn rains; after drying in the sun, the leather had stiffened and cracked, making it less durable. It was not uncommon for a horse to snap its reins or break its hobbles and run back to the herd.
With time on his hands, Bilgee was able to make new leather fittings for his family, the section’s horse herders, and the Beijing students. Chen Zhen, Yang Ke, and Gao Jianzhong often took time out to learn leatherwork from the old man. After a couple of weeks, they were able to produce passable bridles and whips. Yang even managed to make a hobble, which was hardest of all to make.
The old man’s spacious yurt was transformed into a leather workshop. Finished work was piled high; the smell of leather salt permeated the air. All they needed to do now was to apply marmot oil.
Marmots produced the best oil on the grassland. During severe winters, oil from sheep and other animals solidified; marmot oil, the sole exception, could be poured even at thirty degrees below zero. It was a grassland specialty found in the homes of all herdsmen. When the white-hair blizzards blew in the depths of winter, all the people had to do to keep their faces free from frostbite was to smear on a layer of marmot oil. Mongolian flour cakes fried in marmot oil were golden brown and delicious; they usually only appeared at wedding banquets or for special guests. And on burns the oil was as effective as badger fat.
Marmot oil and pelts were two important sources of income for herdsmen. In the fall, when the marmot skins were at their thickest, herdsmen went into the mountains to hunt them, keeping the meat for themselves and sending the skins and oil to the purchasing station to swap for bricks of tea, silk, batteries, boots, candy, and daily necessities. A large skin sold for four yuan, and a catty of oil fetched at least one. Ideal for women’s coats, the skins were exported for foreign exchange.
But income from hunting was not steady. Wildlife on the grassland is no different from fruit trees in other parts of China; there are good years and bad years, determined by weather, growth of grass, and natural disasters. But the herders on the Olonbulag knew how to control the scale of their hunting and never set a growth rate for each year. They would hunt often if there were many animals, less often if there were fewer, and stop altogether when there were none. It had gone on like that for thousands of years, which was why there were always animals for them to hunt. Most of the time they sold the marmot skins but not the oil, for it was used widely, mostly on leatherwork, turning it a rich brown color, soft yet resilient. The leather would retain its salt if marmot oil was regularly applied during the rainy season, thus prolonging its life and reducing the frequency of accidents. They often ran out before hunting season arrived.
With an eye on his leatherworking tools, one day Bilgee said to Chen, “I only have half a bottle of oil left, and I have a craving for marmot meat. It tastes best at this time of year. In the old days, aristocrats wouldn’t eat mutton around this time. Tomorrow I’ll take you out hunting for marmot.”
“When he brings them home,” Gasmai said, “I’ll treat you to some tea and cakes fried in marmot oil.”
“That’s great news,” Chen said, “but I can’t keep coming here for food.”
Gasmai laughed. “Once you started raising the cub, you pretty much forgot about me. How often have you come for tea over the past few months?”
“You’re the section leader, and I’ve already caused you trouble over that cub. I haven’t dared come to see you.”
“If not for me,” Gasmai said, “your cub would have been killed by herdsmen long ago.”
“What did you say to them?”
Gasmai smiled. “I said that the Chinese hate wolves and they eat them, all but Chen Zhen and Yang Ke, that is. The cub is like their adopted child. They’ll be just like us Mongols once they learn everything about wolves.”
Filled with gratitude, Chen thanked her effusively.
Gasmai laughed out loud. “You can thank me by making some dumplings for me. I also like your mutton-stuffed flat bread.” That made Chen happy. She then signaled with her eyes and pointed to the dejected old man. “Papa likes those Chinese mutton cakes too.”
Chen laughed. “We still have half a bundle of the green onions Zhang Jiyuan bought at the brigade office. I’ll bring it over tonight
, and you and Papa can eat all you want.”
A faint smile appeared on the old man’s face. “No need to bring any mutton; we just killed a sheep. Gao Jianzhong’s mutton cakes are much better than those sold in the restaurants. Make sure you ask Yang Ke and Gao Jianzhong to come drink with us.”
That night, Gao taught Gasmai how to make the fillings, roll the wrappings, and fry the cakes. Then they sang, ate, and drank until the old man abruptly put down his bowl and said, “The corps wants the herdsmen to settle in one place, saying that way we wouldn’t get sick so often and our workload would be reduced. What do you think? You Chinese like to settle in one place, right?”
“We’re not sure the herdsmen can change their nomadic lifestyle after all these years,” Yang Ke said. “I personally don’t think so. The shallow grass here can’t stand trampling, so the people and their livestock have to move to a different site after a month or two. If we settled in one place, it wouldn’t take a year for the surrounding area to turn to sandy land, and the place would be nothing but a desert. Besides, how and where is each family supposed to choose a place to settle down?”
The old man nodded. “It’s crazy to promote settlements on the grassland. People from farming areas know nothing about it. They like to settle down, and that’s fine. Why force others to do the same? Everyone knows that life would be easier if we didn’t keep moving. But we’ve been doing that for generations. It’s what Tengger wants us to do.
“Take the pastureland, for example. Every seasonal pasture has its separate function. The spring birthing pasture has good grass, but it’s short. The livestock would die if a winter snowstorm covered the grass. We can’t settle there. There’s tall grass on the winter pastureland, but it wouldn’t last long if the livestock grazed there through the first three seasons. The summer pasture has to be close to water, or the animals would die of thirst. But those are all in the mountains and the animals would freeze to death in the winter. We move to an autumn pasture for the grass seeds, but would there still be seeds left if the livestock stayed to graze in the spring and summer? Every pasture has many downsides and one advantage. The whole point of nomadic herding is to avoid the downsides and make good use of the advantage. If we settle in one spot, we’ll face all the downsides, with no more advantage. Then how do we keep herding?”
The three Chinese students nodded in agreement. Chen, of course, could find one advantage in settling down—it would make raising his cub easier—but he kept silent.
The old man drank a lot and ate four big cakes stuffed with green onions and mutton, but his mood seemed to worsen.
Chen exchanged shifts with Yang Ke the following morning so that he could go hunting with Bilgee. A gunnysack with dozens of traps was tied behind the old man’s saddle. Marmot traps are very simple: a two-foot wooden pole and a steel noose made of eight thin wires twisted together. A hunter sets the trap by planting the wooden pole near a marmot’s den and places the noose about two inches above the ground at the entrance. When a marmot leaves the den, it is caught by the neck or hind leg.
“The last time I used your traps,” Chen said, “I didn’t catch any big ones. Why’s that?”
Bilgee chuckled. “I didn’t teach you the secret of trapping marmots, that’s why. Olonbulag hunters never reveal their secrets to outsiders, afraid they’ll kill off all the animals. But I’m getting old, so I’ll teach you my secret. The outsiders use fixed traps, but the marmots are smart—they scrunch up their bodies to slip out of the noose. My traps are flexible and will tighten at the slightest touch. Once a marmot is caught, by either the neck or the hind leg, it’ll never get away. So before you set a trap, you need to make the noose smaller, then enlarge it. When you let go, watch the noose spring back.”
“How do you make it stay open?”
“You have to make a tiny hook with the wire, then loop the opening of the noose through the hook and bend the hook gently, but not too gently. If the hook isn’t bent enough, the wind will blow the noose close. But if the hook is bent too much, the noose won’t close by itself and you won’t catch a marmot. It has to be just right, and flexible. When a marmot goes through the trap, it touches the wire at some point and the noose snaps shut. Do it that way, and you’ll get seven big marmots with ten traps.”
Chen slapped his forehead. “Ingenious!” he said. “No wonder my traps never worked. The marmots could come and go as they wished.”
“I’ll show you later. It isn’t easy, because you also have to take into consideration the size of the den and the animal’s tracks. There’s one additional trick. You can watch me; then you’ll know how to do it. But don’t reveal this to anyone else.”
“I won’t,” Chen promised.
“One more thing. You hunt only males, or females with no young. If you catch a mother and her babies, you have to let them go. No grassland Mongol would break the rules of our ancestors, which is why, after hunting marmots for hundreds of years, we still have marmot meat to eat, marmot skin to sell, and marmot oil to use. The marmots damage the grassland, but they benefit us. In the past, poor herdsmen survived the cruel winters by hunting marmots. You Chinese will never know how many poor Mongols the marmots have saved.”
The horses sped through the dense autumn grass, their hooves kicking up moths in various colors: pinks, oranges, whites, blues. There were also green, yellow, and multicolored grasshoppers and other autumn insects. A few purple swallows circled overhead, singing in their shrill voices; sometimes they darted right past the horses, and sometimes they shot up into the sky, enjoying the insect feast provided by the horses and humans. When they’d gorged themselves, a new batch appeared to eat its fill. The old man pointed at the hills ahead with his club and said, “That’s the Olonbulag marmot mountain. The animals there are fat and furry; to us it’s a treasure mountain. You’ll also find plenty of them on a small marmot hill on the south and another to the north. In a few days, the herdsmen’s families will come, since marmots will be easy to catch this year.”
“Why is that?”
The old man’s eyes darkened as he heaved a long sigh. “With fewer wolves, the marmots are easily trapped. The wolves fatten themselves up with marmots in the fall; without the fat, they wouldn’t survive the winter. They only kill the big ones, so they’ll have marmots to eat every year. Out here, only the herdsmen and the wolves understand the rules set by Tengger.”
As they neared the marmot mountain, they spotted some tents in one of the gulleys. Cooking smoke was rising by the tents, where a large cart and a water wagon gave the impression of a temporary work site.
“Oh, no! They’re one step ahead of us again.” The old man’s face darkened as he rushed toward the tents, his eyes burning bright with anger.
They could detect the aroma of marmot meat and marmot oil even before they reached the tents. They quickly dismounted to see a giant pot on the stove. It was half filled with boiling marmot oil in which the carcasses of large marmots were stewing after having been fried and their fat removed. The meat was golden brown and crispy. After scooping out a fried marmot, a young worker was adding another skinned and gutted animal to the pot. Old Wang and another worker were sitting on a rickety wooden box, beside which lay a bowl of yellow sauce, a dish of salt and pepper, and a plate of green onions. They were happily drinking from a bottle and chewing on meat.
A large wash basin nearby was filled with skinned marmots, mostly young foot-long animals. Set up on the grass were several door planks and a dozen willow baskets. Marmot skins of various sizes, as many as two hundred of them, had been laid out to dry. Chen walked into one of the tents with the old man and saw more than a hundred dried skins piled waist-high. In the middle of the tent was a three-foot gas can half filled with marmot oil; there were also a couple of smaller cans.
The old man ran out of the tent and walked up to the basin, where he brushed aside the smaller marmots on top with his club. Below them were a few thin female marmots with little fat, the sight of which so angered t
he old man that he banged on the basin with his club and shouted at Old Wang, “Who said you could kill the females and their babies? This is brigade property; these marmots have survived thanks to the efforts of generations of herdsmen. How dare you! Look how many you’ve killed without permission!”
Old Wang, who was half drunk, continued eating. “I wouldn’t dare kill marmots on your territory,” he said casually. “But this is not your territory anymore, is it? Your brigade is now part of the corps, right? We were sent here by Chief of Staff Sun, who said that marmots not only destroy the grassland but also serve as the main source of food for the wolves before winter sets in. If we kill all the marmots, the wolves won’t survive the winter. So marmots are included in our wolf-extermination campaign. The doctors at the division hospital also say that marmots carry the plague. With so many people coming here, will you take the responsibility if someone dies from one’s bite?”
Bilgee was quiet for a while, but soon he was no longer able to contain his anger. “That should not be done, even if the order came from the corps!” he shouted. “What will the herdsmen use to make leather goods if you kill all the marmots? Who will be responsible if someone’s reins break, startling the horse and injuring the rider? You are sabotaging production.”
Old Wang belched. “We have orders from our superiors, so naturally someone will take the responsibility. Go talk to them if you want. Why yell at those of us who do the hard work?” He glanced at the gunnysack on the old man’s saddle. “You came to hunt marmots, didn’t you? So you can, but we can’t, is that it? You don’t raise these animals, so whoever kills them gets to keep them.”