‘No!’ you yell back. ‘The storm is on our side. Now is our chance to escape.’ Though the choking dust has blinded us, and the howling wind blown all sense of direction away, you drag me to my feet. ‘Run!’ you shout. ‘Run!’
We run into the storm, and the sand and rocks, the teeth of the vengeful wind, rip our robes and lacerate our skin. I don’t know where we are going. I don’t know if we will survive. All I know is wherever you go, I go. Even if you are leading us to a certain death.
We run and run until the howling wind dies down, the thickness of sand thins out and the sun reappears through the yellow haze. Storm-bludgeoned and concussed, we gaze at the empty dunes stretching around us, smooth and unmarred by a single hoof or footprint. The caravan is nowhere in sight. The thousand Jurchen slaves and hundred Mongol slave-drivers are gone.
‘At last,’ you say, ‘we are no longer slaves. We are free.’
But there’s no joy in your eyes, for we are still lost in the Singing Dunes, under the man-slaying sun. Your head is bleeding and gashed, as though you fought the storm and lost. I touch the soreness of my cheeks and my fingers come away bloody, and I know I look as battered as you.
We stagger on. We don’t speak, because there is nothing to say. There is not a bird in the sky, nor any other sign of life. Only the sun, blasting like a furnace in a crematorium, determined to reduce us to ash and bone. The sun knocks the breath out of us, our strength and will to go on, and my heart is breaking with the presentiment that we will perish here in this silent, godless place. In my grief my only consolation is that at least I will die by your side.
When the lake appears in the distance, shimmering in the dunes, I think I am hallucinating. But you are staring at the apparition too. My throat a cracked, aching pipe, I croak, ‘Let’s go there, Tiger.’
You look at me with deadened eyes, which life is slowly departing from. Your voice husky and low, you say, ‘The lake does not exist. Why waste our time chasing a mirage?’
‘But the lake is due north,’ I say, ‘on the way to the end of the dunes. So why not head there? What do we lose?’
As we stagger nearer and nearer, the lake of shimmering blue does not evaporate into the sky as expected. The illusion gains in substance and reality, separating into objects of the natural world. Trees. Plants. Rocks. Grasses. A lake in the shape of a crescent moon. We can’t believe our eyes. The miracle restores our strength and we start to run. We run and trip over, sprawling on to the sand. We laugh and stagger to our feet, and run again.
The Lake of the Crescent Moon
We drink the cool, clear water and our bodies rejoice. We drink and drink as though the lake could at any moment disappear. We drink until we can drink no more, then fall on our backs and laugh at the vast blue sky. The sun is no longer our mortal enemy now we have water and shade.
The lake is curved as a sickle and surrounded by trees. We strip out of our ragged robes and round our shoulders over our pitiful nakedness. We have been starved to mere shadows of our former selves — our skin so taut over starkly jutting bones we are painful to look at. But as we slide into the lake, the water laps forgivingly at our wasted bodies. The water caresses our sores and ulcers and festering wounds, and tears of gratitude well in my eyes. Though our limbs are weak we thrash them about in joy. The filth of slavedom dissolves, and we reclaim our bodies from Mongol chattels. We swim for a while, then emerge from the waters, purified and reborn, and go to sleep naked under a tree.
We wake up hungry at dusk and rummage through the vegetation around the lake. After the monotony of the yellow and rust-coloured Gobi sand, our eyes feast on the leafy greens of the foliage. We pick and eat the bitter-tasting leaves from a low plant, and though our empty stomachs can’t digest them, they cry out for more.
‘Look!’ you cry, pointing up at a tree.
Small brown birds are hopping about in the branches. The tree is not very tall, and you reach for a low bough and climb up, your legs dangling from the crotch of the tree as your head disappears into the leaves. You come down again with a bird’s nest of speckled eggs, and one newly hatched pink and featherless baby bird. The eggshells crunch between our teeth as we chew the slimy bird foetuses and swallow them down. The baby bird opens its tiny beak, chirping with fright as you lift him from the nest. You tear into the bird’s naked, defenceless body with your teeth, detaching the head, and handing the half with the feet to me. I chew up the raw and tender meat and newly formed bones, and swallow them down. I wish there was more.
‘The other trees will have nests too,’ you say, spitting out the bird’s tiny beak. ‘And tomorrow we can trap the bigger birds.’
The onset of darkness chases us back to the shore of the lake. The moon is silver and bright above, and its paler, terrestrial imitation sways upon the waters. You are half in shadow, half in moonlight as you lean back against a tree. Your handsome eyes drift over the rocks, plants and trees as you think your thoughts. Who are you, Tiger? I wonder. Where do you come from? Who mutilated your cheeks? Though we have survived so much together, you are still a mystery to me. I reach and stroke the iron-branded scars. I stroke the wildness of your hair, snagging my fingers in knots only a knife could get rid of.
‘Stop it, Turnip,’ you growl.
But I don’t, and you lunge for me. You knock me over and we wrestle each other on the ground. As we play-fight, exchanging cuffs and blows, I feel your stiffening against my thigh and my heart swells in anticipation of what is to come.
Beyond the Lake of the Crescent Moon and our fortress of trees, the sorrowful dirge of the sands has started up again. But it is not so loud and is easy to ignore.
At daybreak we go to the lake and drink and bathe. You are quiet and subdued, but your mood improves as we plot to capture the brown birds.
‘Right now we are too weak for the journey ahead,’ you say. ‘We need the meat to regain our strength.’
I nod, though I am dubious of this ‘journey ahead’. Here by our lake we have everything we need. Food, water, each other. Returning to the Singing Dunes is suicidal folly. But you will come round.
We gather reeds and weave them into bird-trapping cages. Then we lie on our stomachs under some bushes and wait for the birds to wander into the rigged, grub-baited traps. Though the birds are not used to predators, they are deft and quick. But we are patient and, after some hours, trap and kill six.
We return to the water’s edge and I pluck the feathered corpses as you make a fire out of wood. We skewer the birds by thrusting sticks down their throats, and roast them slowly over the flames. The meat is tender and satisfying. We strip the carcasses then lick the bones clean. You are silent as you eat. Moody and withdrawn. When you finally speak, you say, ‘I don’t like it here. The sooner we leave, the better. Something’s not right.’
I laugh at this. What a joker you are.
‘Yesterday we were dying in the dunes. Today we have water and shade and food. What’s not right, Tiger? This is paradise.’
You shake your head, but are unable to express your misgivings in words.
‘Think of all we have suffered,’ I continue. ‘First the famine and fall of Zhongdu. Then the Mongols lashing us with whips and forcing us to march. Then the mob of old men, baying for your blood. .’
You nod, turning your skewer of charred, sizzling bird over the flames.
‘Those old bastards would’ve murdered you,’ I say, ‘had I not stopped them. You should be happy, Tiger. You have much to be thankful for. .’
You stiffen and look up from your skewer. A strange look comes into your eyes as you say, ‘It was you, wasn’t it, Turnip? It was you who strangled Puppetmaker Xia and Stone-carver Peng.’