His happiness manifested in his squints, his open mouth, and his upturned tail. He often tried to get the dogs to come play with him, but they invariably ignored him. But on this day they came without being invited, all of them, including Yir, the bitch who hated the cub, and the cub was more excited than if he’d been given half a dozen fat mice. His fear was immediately forgotten as he rushed into the cloud of smoke and jumped onto Erlang’s back, then rolled around with one of the female puppies. Now the lonely wolf was part of a happy family. He smelled them, kissed them, and licked them all over and over. A happier wolf, Chen Zhen thought, would be hard to find.
With all the dogs and one wolf cub, the limited amount of smoke began to lose some of its potency, and the pen’s generous “master” was nudged out of the stream by the canine visitors to his territory. He tried to move back in, but the two male puppies blocked his way. He was obviously puzzled, and endured the attacks by mosquitoes as he tried to figure out the dogs’ behavior. A few moments later, the light of understanding shone in his eyes. The questioning look was gone. He knew that the dogs had come not for his company, but for the white smoke, smoke that he had feared but that was a comfort zone where none of the wretched mosquitoes dared to enter. But it was his place. For the first time in his young life, he had gotten the worst of a situation, and that made him angry. He charged into the cloud of smoke, claws poised and fangs bared, to drive the puppies out of his territory. One defiantly refused to budge and was dragged away from the smoke by his ear, crying out in pain. The cub recaptured his spot, where the smoke was thick enough to keep mosquitoes away but not thick enough to choke him, and lay down to enjoy in comfort the freedom from mosquitoes. The cub, whose inquisitiveness and need to get to the bottom of things were so well developed, kept his eye on the basin, fascinated by the way smoke spewed from it.
Chen heard the sound of approaching horse hooves. His horse too was seeking refuge in the white smoke. He ran up, removed the fetters, led the horse over to the far edge of the wolf pen, and then replaced the fetters. The thick layer of “rice husks” flew up into the sky, and the white horse snorted heavily, lowered its head, and fell asleep, its eyes still half open.
In the midst of the great mosquito plague, the mugwort basin, like a delivery of coal in a snowstorm, brought salvation to a wolf cub, an adult horse, and half a dozen dogs. The eight creatures were all Chen’s beloved animals, and he was comforted by the thought that he’d been able to come to their aid when they most needed it.
Mugwort fires were lit in all the brigade camps that night, hundreds of them releasing dense smoke in the moonlight and creating an image of giant dragons rolling and dancing in the air. It was as if the primitive grassland had suddenly entered the industrial age, with factory chimneys spewing white smoke to create a magnificent panorama. The smoke not only held off the crazed mosquitoes but also had an awesome effect on the wolves, who had been starving under the plague.
Sometime before dawn, Chen saw that a few of the distant camps were no longer burning mugwort. He then heard shouts from women on the night watch and the sounds of Beijing students driving their sheep home. Either they had used up all their mugwort or someone was hoarding his precious dried cow patties.
The mosquito swarms grew denser, the movement among them more intense, the buzzing louder. Peace no longer reigned at half the brigade’s camps, where human shouts and dog barks rose in the night, in which more and more beams from flashlights were visible.
Suddenly the night quiet was shattered by two rapid gunshots, and Chen Zhen’s heart sank. The wolf pack had struck again. After enduring unimaginable suffering from mosquito bites, they had spotted an opening. Chen sighed as he wondered whose head this calamity had fallen onto. At the same time, he was comforted by the thought of how his fascination with wolves had worked to his advantage. The more one understood the wolves, the less vulnerable one was to disaster.
The grassland returned to stillness after a while. Shortly before sunrise, dew began to settle, wetting the wings of the mosquitoes to keep them grounded. The fires died out gradually, but the dogs remained alert as always, making their rounds to see that all was well. It must be about time for the women to come out and milk the cows, Chen estimated, which meant that the wolf pack had retreated. He covered his head with a pair of thin fur jackets and fell fast asleep, the first real sleep he’d enjoyed over the last twenty-four hours. He slept for four solid hours.
The following day was sheer agony for Chen as he tended his sheep up on the mountain. Shortly before sunset, when he drove the flock back to camp, he felt as if the welcome mat had been laid out for him: back to camp, he felt as if the welcome mat had been laid out for him: There, stretched out on top of the yurt were two large sheepskins; the cub and all the dogs were joyfully feasting on lamb and large bones. He stepped inside to find strips of meat hanging from the rack where the bowls and utensils were kept and all along the sides of the yurt. A pot filled with meat was cooking on the stove.
“The flock at Olondun’s place up north was hit last night,” Yang told him. “Like Dorji, Olondun is a Mongol from northeastern China who came to the grassland years ago. A new bride from an area that’s half agrarian, half nomad had just come into the family, and she was still used to sleeping through the night. So after setting a few fires, she lay down and slept alongside the flock. Well, the fires went out and the sheep ran off into the wind. They met up with some wolves that killed a hundred and eighty of them and injured a few more. Fortunately, the dogs’ barks were loud enough to awaken the people in the yurts. The men grabbed their rifles and rode out, driving the wolves away with gunfire. If they’d been a little later, the whole pack would have been involved, and there wouldn’t have been many sheep left alive.”
“Bao Shungui and Bilgee were busy all day,” said Gao Jianzhong, “mobilizing all the manpower they could to skin and gut the dead animals. Half of them were trucked into town to sell cheaply to the cadres and the laborers; the rest were kept for us in the brigade, two per yurt, free, but the skins have to be returned. We brought back two big ones, one dead, one still alive. I don’t know how we’re going to finish off all this meat in such hot weather.”
Chen Zhen was speechless, and very happy. “Have you ever heard anyone who’s raising a wolf cub complain about too much meat?” Then he asked, “How is Bao Shungui going to punish that family?”
“They have to pay up. Half their pay will be deducted every month till Bao says they’ve paid enough. Gasmai and all the other brigade women tore into the stupid husband and his mother for letting a new bride from outside the area take the night watch during a mosquito plague. When we first came out here, Gasmai and the others went out at night with us for two months before they’d let us take the watch on our own. Bao also gave the couple a tongue-lashing, telling them that they’d brought shame to all Mongols from Manchuria. But he made sure the laborers from his hometown benefited from the disaster by handing a third of the dead sheep over to Old Wang, which pleased the hell out of his people.”
“That bunch really benefited from the wolf attack,” Chen said.
Gao Jianzhong opened a bottle of grassland liquor. “Eating the wolves’ meat,” he sang out, “will make this stuff taste especially good! Come on, you guys, drink up while we feast.”