The Jeep continued in the dry, dusty wind for over five hundred miles, and by the time they were close to the Olonbulag their arms were tanned and prickly from the sun. They entered the Olonbulag the next day, and finally saw connected patches of sparse pastureland, since this was, after all, a border area corner of the Great Ujimchin Steppe. But they could not bear to look down at their feet, for just beneath the grass, sand and surface, rocks met their eyes. Sometimes there were long, thin gray mushrooms that looked like bean sprouts. In the past, decomposing fertilizer from livestock droppings would be at the base of the dense grass.
Chan and Yang were worried. They knew that farther on there was a thousand-year-old river, with water that came up to the horses’ knees or even their bellies. Big trucks had been the only vehicles that could cross it, and Jeeps like theirs had to speed up if they had any chance of crossing. During the rainy season, the flood river would cause the suspension of mail delivery and create shortages of food and other necessities for two weeks, even a month. As Chen and Yang talked about how they were going to cross the river, they reached the near riverbank. One look ended the discussion. The fast-flowing water of the old days had receded until the rocky riverbed was exposed; nothing but wet sand and a few wormlike streams crisscrossed the dry rocks. The Jeep crossed the river easily, but their hearts grew heavier.
Shortly after crossing the river they felt as if they’d entered a battlefield; cement posts and wire fences were all over the once vast and lush Olonbulag, and the Jeep had to travel down passages created by chain-link fences. Chen studied the fences, which enclosed areas of several hundred acres each. The grass inside the enclosure was much taller than that outside, but the overall appearance was still of a sparse pastureland, for sandy soil was visible under the grass.
Yang Ke said, “Those are what they call grass kulun. After receiving a parcel of pastureland and some livestock, herdsmen build fences around them for lamb birthing and don’t live here during the other three seasons.”
“How could so little grass be enough?” Chen asked.
Yang replied, “I’ve heard that the herdsmen have been reducing the number of livestock, some cutting the total in half.”
They passed a few more of the grass kulun areas, where they saw three or four redbrick houses with tiled roofs and birthing pens. But obviously, no one lived there at the moment, for no smoke rose from the chimneys, nor were there any dogs or calves by the front doors. The people might have herded their livestock deep into the mountains, where the animals were free to roam.
As he looked at the chain-link fences, Chen said emotionally, “In the past, who would dare build a fence on a grassland famous for its Ujimchin warhorses? At night, a horse could get tangled up in it and, in the worst cases, die struggling. But the horses whose hooves once shook the world have been driven off the Mongolian grassland. I’ve heard that sheepherders now use motorcycles, a sign of prosperity they show on television. Actually, that was because the grassland could no longer feed the horses, which disappeared after the wolves. The cows and sheep will soon follow, I’m sure. Horseback races have turned into motorcycle races, and may one day evolve into a race of ecological refugees. We’ve witnessed the ‘impressive victory’ of an agrarian society over a nomadic herding society. Current government policy has developed to the stage of ‘one country, two systems,’ but deeply rooted in the Han consciousness is still ‘many areas, one system.’ It doesn’t matter if it’s farmland or pastureland, forest or river, city or countryside; all they want to do is mix them all up to create a ‘unified’ flavor. With the ‘impressive victory’ has come a tremendous amount of subsidies, but the grassland could not return even if the subsidies continued for the next century.”
They rode along a dirt path leading to the site of their previous company headquarters, eager to see the herdsmen or, for that matter, anyone. But they crossed the familiar mountain ridge, only to see the old site replaced by a dying yellow sandy grassland overrun by mice whose tracks snaked across the ground amid piles of dry sand. The row of brick and rammed-earth houses was gone. As Chen drove around the once bustling company headquarters, he didn’t have to worry about running into any walls, but he got stuck several times in collapsed mouse dens. It had only been two decades, but the remains of the past were completely covered by yellow sand, as if wiped off the face of the earth.
Chen sighed. “Mice are kings on a wolfless grassland. They dig deep holes and store up large quantities of food, giving them hegemony over the grassland. We like to say that everyone shouts ‘Kill it!’ when a mouse crosses the street, but deep down we worship the mouse and place it at the head of our zodiac.”
Yang took the wheel and sped off to a nearby hill. They looked to the north, where they spotted some cows and a few houses with chimney smoke, but still no yurts. Yang headed toward the nearest chimney smoke.
They had been driving for a dozen li when a column of yellow dust rose up on a dirt path in the distance. Chen hoped it would be a herder on a fast horse, but when it drew close enough, they saw it was a shiny Yamaha motorcycle. The rider was a Mongol teenager wearing a jacket-like shirt and a baseball cap. The motorcycle screeched to a stop by the Jeep. Chen was shocked to see a small-caliber rifle slung over the youth’s shoulder and a medium-sized hawk tied to the seat, dripping blood. Chen was reminded of the startled and fearful look in Bilgee’s eyes when he first saw one of those weapons, and was surprised to see a young Mongol boy in possession of one, not to mention that he was riding an advanced, imported two-wheel vehicle.
Yang greeted the boy in Mongolian and identified himself. A distant look of indifference appeared on the fair-skinned boy’s face. Staring at the Cherokee, he told him in Chinese with a Shandong accent that he was Chulu’s youngest son and was spending his summer break from a high school in the league capital. It took Chen a moment to recall that Chulu had been an outsider, a minor cadre in charge of basic construction at the old pasture headquarters. Zhang Jiyuan and other old classmates had told him that the pasture employees and retired soldiers from the corps who stayed behind were all given land and livestock after the grassland system was changed. They became Han-style herders, adding an additional 30 percent of Han settlement pastureland to the Olonbulag.
Chen asked the youngster, “Why’d you shoot the hawk?”
“For fun.”
“You’re a high school student. Don’t you know you’re supposed to protect wild animals?”
“The hawks take the lambs, so why can’t I shoot them? There are so many mice here that hawks fly over from Outer Mongolia. So what if I kill a few of them!”
Yang asked about Batu and Gasmai’s house. The boy pointed to the north and said, “On the other side of the border highway, the last and biggest stone pen in the north.” Then he spun around and sped off to the hills with his hawk, not looking back.
Chen and Yang suddenly felt like outsiders; they sensed they were not welcome there. Yang said, “Let’s go to Batu’s. Only with him and Gasmai will we not feel like we belong.”
The Jeep sped up and headed toward the border highway on the ancient path they’d taken when moving to a new pasture. Chen scanned the hills for marmots but didn’t see a single one, even after driving dozens of li. “Do you really think you’ll find marmots now that teenagers have hunting rifles?” Yang asked. Chen stopped searching.
They passed some occupied houses, but few dogs ran out, and those that did were small. No more scary scenes of being surrounded, chased, and nipped at by a dozen or so big furry dogs when they passed a yurt. Even the barking was devoid of the ferocity that had been so effective in repelling wolves.
Yang said, “Now that the wolves are gone, the dogs will disappear, and when they’re gone, there’ll be no more battles. Without battles, only sloth and inertia remain. Grassland dogs may become pampered pets even before the dogs in Beijing.”
The Jeep entered Section Two’s golden treasure land—the spring birthing pasture. But what greeted them was
a monochrome of barren land and sandy grass, with yellow dust and grainy salt in the air. Chen’s eyes reddened as he stared at far-off Black Rock Mountain to the northeast of the grass fields, wishing he could ask Yang Ke to head straight for the foothills.
Yang said, “I’ve watched Animal Kingdom on TV for twenty years, and the more I watch, the angrier I get at you and at myself. If not for you, I wouldn’t owe the grassland so much. Those seven cubs were the finest, each a precious, rare specimen of its kind, and they all died at our hands. I was your number one accomplice. Even my son, whenever he mentions it, calls me stupid and ignorant. Peasants! Cruel! From the legal perspective, I have to shoulder substantial responsibility, because I supported you when you wanted to raid the wolf den. If I hadn’t gone with you that night, you wouldn’t have had the courage to do it alone. We committed a crime, and that will never change.”
Chen was silent.
Yang went on, “You’ve spent twenty years studying systems models, economic politics, and urban and rural issues in China and abroad. Why, in the end, did you return to the topic of national character?”
“Do you think other problems can be solved if that one can’t be?”
Yang gave the question some thought before answering. “I guess you’re right. We haven’t found a solution to this problem since Lu Xun brought it up more than half a century ago. We Chinese seem incapable of ridding ourselves of that flaw. It’s been twenty years since the launching of the reforms, and we’ve made quite a bit of progress, but we’re still on shaky legs.”
The Jeep reached a high point on the highway from which they could look down on the seemingly unending border, a sight that made them stare wide-eyed. The twenty-li-wide military zone and no-man’s-land had been breached by growing human and livestock populations and had become a lively pasture. It was the first place deserving of being called a pasture they’d seen, after driving five hundred miles.
The grass was about half the height of what they’d been used to seeing, but it maintained the dark green color. Protected by the military restricted zone for decades, this part of the grassland showed no obvious signs of desertification. The moisture from the primitive grassland across the border might also have helped lend the land a dewy, moist, tender shade of green, replacing the dry, withered scenery that had greeted them along the way.
There were redbrick houses with tiled roofs on land that was dotted with stone pens and sheds, like fortresses spread across the border. The houses were all built on higher ground, clearly the center of the pasture settled by each family. Dozens of flocks of sheep and herds of cows were grazing. What amazed the two men was the size of the sheep flocks, likely three thousand in each, some reaching four thousand. Nomadic herding had clearly been replaced by settlement grazing to have flocks that big.
Yang took out a pair of binoculars and scanned the area carefully. “These flocks are way too big,” he said. “You and I never herded any this size. There are twice as many sheep than we herded. Won’t the shepherds die of exhaustion?”
Chen said, “The flocks we used to herd belonged to the collective. With a privately owned flock, size isn’t a problem. If an individual can’t handle it, he can hire people to tend to the flock and create jobs. Profits always increase the incentive to work harder.”
Facing such a vibrant settlement pasture, Chen’s knees went wobbly. He felt that what they were seeing was actually a false prosperity, just before the Inner Mongolian grassland died off.
Two motorcycles and a fast horse rushed toward the Cherokee; Chen Zhen finally saw a horse rider, something he hadn’t seen in a long time. The motorcycles reached them before the horse, and a brawny man in a blue deel was on one of them. Chen and Yang shouted at the same time, “Bayar! Bayar!”
When they jumped off the Jeep, Bayar gave Chen a bear hug. “Chen Zhen!” he shouted. “Chen Zhen! Aniang—Mother—knew it was you when she saw the vehicle, so she told me to come show you the way.” He gave Chen another hug before moving on to hug Yang Ke. “Aniang knew you’d be with Chen Zhen. Come, you can both stay with us.”
With Bayar were two teenagers, one sixteen or seventeen, the other fourteen or fifteen. Bayar said, “Say hello to Grandpa Chen and Grandpa Yang.” The boys greeted them and circled the Cherokee to check it out. “They’re on summer break,” Bayar said, “back from school in the league capital. I’d like them to go to college in Beijing so that you two can keep an eye on them. Get in your Jeep. Aniang is almost sick from waiting for you to arrive, has been ever since she heard from Zhang Jiyuan that you were coming back.”
The Jeep followed the motorcycles and the horse as they raced toward the farthest chimney smoke. Batu and Gasmai, now both gray-haired, had walked two li to welcome them. Chen leaped off the Jeep. “Aniang! Aniang! Batu!” They hugged each other as hot tears streamed down their faces. Gasmai’s tears fell on Chen’s shoulder, as she pummeled him with both fists and said indignantly, “It took you twenty years to return! Other students have been back more than once. I thought I’d die before you came.”
“You can’t die,” Chen said. “I’m the one who deserves to die, so let me go first.”
Gasmai wiped off his tears with her calloused hands and said, “I knew you’d forget everything, even Papa and Eeji, once you buried your nose in a book, so how could you remember your grassland home?”
“I’ve thought about the grassland every day over the past twenty years,” Chen said. “I’m writing a book about this place and your family. I could never forget my home on the grassland. I’ve been living here, with you, all along.”
Chen helped the two of them into the Jeep and drove them back to their house. They had a gigantic stone pen, twice the size of the one back at the herding team. As they passed the pen he saw, to the west of the fence, a row of spacious new houses, equipped with TV antennae and wind-powered generators. Beneath a window was an old Beijing Jeep with a faded canvas top. Sandy soil covered the area; nothing grew there except for sparse, waist-high wild vegetation. Chen parked by one of the houses, feeling intense disappointment that now, twenty years later, he could not step into the yurt where the old man had lived.
Chen and Yang unloaded cigarettes and liquor, canned drinks, jellies and milk candy, shawls, knee patches, leather belts, lighters, and other gifts, like pesticides. They took everything into the Mongolian-style living room, which was over a hundred square feet, furnished with sofas, tea tables, a TV and VCR, a liquor cabinet, and drinking paraphernalia. In the middle of the wall hung a large yellow tapestry showing Genghis Khan from the waist up. The Great Khan’s slanting eyes seemed to be observing his Mongol descendents and their guests with a tender look. Chen spent a few respectful moments before the picture.
Gasmai said, “A relative of Papa’s brought that over from Outer Mongolia when he visited the Olonbulag. He said we were doing well over here and our roads were nice, but our education and pasture weren’t as good as theirs.”
They all sat down to some milk tea and fresh dairy products. Gasmai had outgrown her love for the milk candy, but she appreciated their thinking of her. She said with a smile, “You remembered! Back then you gave the candy to the dogs, not to me.”
Gasmai quickly found a new favorite in the fruit gelatin, which she tried for the first time. Mimicking Chen Zhen, she squeezed the gelatin squares into her mouth, one after the other, and laughed. “How did you know I lost all my teeth? These are perfect for a toothless old woman.”
Chen touched the side of his head and said, “I’m getting old too. See the gray hair here? I’ve lost a few teeth too. But how could I have forgotten you? I’ve told lots of people in Beijing about how you grabbed a wolf’s tail and even broke its tailbone, all by yourself. Many of them want to come to the grassland to meet you.”
Waving her hands, she said, “No, no. Our Outer Mongolian relative said that they have a special preserve for the wolves and have banned wolf hunting. On TV here they’re also talking about banning wolf hunting. So why do you ke
ep telling people about the bad thing I did?”
It was getting dark, and from outside came the familiar sounds of sheep hooves. Chen and Yang went outside, where they were surrounded by sheep that rushed toward them like a flood. A shepherd dressed in Chinese clothes was herding the flock on horseback. Chen thought that the man must be a new employee on the grassland. They went up to help him herd the flock into the pen. Batu smiled. “I see you two haven’t forgotten your old profession. Even after twenty years you remember not to herd sheep too fast when they’re full.”
Chen laughed. “I’ll never forget anything about the grassland. This is a huge flock. How many are there?”
Batu said, “Nearly four thousand.”
Yang whistled and said, “If they bring in an average of a hundred and fifty yuan or more, you’re talking about nearly seven hundred thousand yuan for the sheep alone. Add in the cows, the houses, the cars, and the motorcycles, and you’re a millionaire.”
“Assets on sandy land aren’t reliable,” Batu replied. “If this pasture turns into a desert, like those of the outsiders, then we’ll be poor herders again.”
“How many sheep can your pasture support?” Yang asked.
As he closed the gate of the pen, Batu said, “With enough rainwater, the pasture can support over two thousand sheep, but only a thousand if there’s a drought, which we’ve had regularly in recent years. We haven’t had enough rainwater for four or five years. Keeping even a thousand is very hard.”
Chen was shocked. “Then why are you still raising so many?”
“You’re probably going to talk about capacity, right? The herders here are from Gasmai’s herding section and were trained by Papa. They understand the importance of capacity and take good care of the grassland. I’ll raise half of the flock for only six months and will sell two thousand before the snows come. That means selling fourteen hundred or more big lambs born this year, plus a few hundred brown sheep, and the old ewes. Then we’ll have enough grass to feed the remaining flock for most of the winter, and make up the difference by buying a big pile of dry green grass with some of the money from the sale of the sheep. In late summer or early fall, I’ll take the sheep into the mountains. Because of the droughts, most of the mosquitoes died out, so the sheep can survive and put on some fat in the mountains.”