At this critical juncture, Bilgee, like a tribal leader, arrived on the scene to take charge; the herders, reinvigorated by the sight of their old wolf king riding up, launched an assault on the wolf pack, which had been caught unawares by the shouts and bright lights. They did, however, recognize Bilgee’s voice, it seemed, for the alpha wolf turned and beat a hasty retreat, all the others right behind him. Their objective was clear: they were heading back to the first killing field, where they would eat as much as they could before disappearing into the mountains.
Along with Bao Shungui and Uljii, Bilgee led a dozen or more sheep and cattle herders, as well as Beijing students, in bringing the horse herd together and racing off to the sandy refuge. He sent one of the herdsmen to tend to the injured herder. Chen Zhen rode up to Zhang Jiyuan to find out what had happened during the night and to tell him that Bilgee and Uljii, having anticipated an attack on the horses, had organized a rescue squad even before the weather had turned bad. “That was close!” Zhang said. “We could have lost the whole herd this time.”
Once they were safely on the sandy hill, the sky lightened. Herders rounded up some of the strays, but the losses to the herd had been substantial. Four or five of the old, sick, and disabled horses had been killed, as had twelve or thirteen of the two-year-olds. Foals had suffered the most, with fifty or sixty taken down by the wolves, making a total loss of over seventy members of the herd. Lightning strikes, wind, and mosquitoes had abetted the massacre this time, but the actual killer had, as always, been the wolves!
Bao Shungui surveyed the scene on the sandy hill and the marshland. “Didn’t I tell you that eliminating the wolves was our highest priority in setting up the new pasture?” he said angrily. “But you people wouldn’t listen. Well, look around-this is your punishment for not heeding my warning! From now on, anyone who speaks up for the wolves will lose his job and be sent to attend a study session. And make restitution for our losses!”
With one hand cupped over the other, Bilgee looked up into the sky; his lips were moving, and both Chen and Zhang had a good idea what he was saying.
“Mastering the grassland is too hard on a man,” Chen whispered, “and anyone who tries will likely wind up as a scapegoat for failures.”
Zhang went up to Bao Shungui. “No one could have held off a natural disaster of this magnitude,” he said. “I think we got off lightly, and we’re fortunate that Bilgee and Uljii had the foresight to send the herd over to this sandy area five days ago. We’d have lost the whole herd if they hadn’t.”
“I don’t care what you say,” Bao argued. “Those wolves killed a lot of our horses last night. Mosquitoes don’t kill horses, no matter how many there are of them. Would this have happened if we’d wiped out the wolves when I wanted to? The corps commanders have spent the last few days at brigade headquarters. If they saw all these dead horses, they’d demote me in a heartbeat. These packs are scourges, and we’re going to keep killing wolves until there are none left. That’s the only way to protect our livestock. The corps is getting ready to move into our pasture, and if you won’t kill off the wolves, I’ll ask them to do it. It’ll be easy, with their trucks, jeeps, and machine guns.”
The herdsmen went out in groups to clear the scene of slaughter, which kept them busy and depressed all morning.
The surviving foals trembled when they saw the bodies of those that had died. This lesson in blood would make them more vigilant and courageous the next time they were caught in the middle of a calamity of this nature. But a disturbing thought occurred to Chen Zhen: Will there even be a next time?
30
A cold autumn rain abruptly ended the short summer on the Inner Mongolian grassland and froze the mosquitoes.
Staring intently at the quiet grassland, Chen Zhen thought he understood why the mosquitoes and the wolves would be in such a frenzied state. Summers are short out there, but the fall is even shorter, followed by a six-month-long winter, the season of death for animals that do not hibernate, including the mosquitoes, half of which would die out even if they managed to hide in the marmots’ caves. Without fat and thick fur, the wolves cannot survive the winter, when most of the scrawny, old, sick, and wounded are killed off. That is also why mosquitoes must take advantage of the short growing season to suck as much blood as possible; the crazed attacks are their way of saving their own lives. The wolves too must engage in bloody battles to prepare for the winter and possible famine in the following spring.
Two stinking front legs and the entrails remained from the foal allocated to Chen Zhen’s yurt. The cub had been able to enjoy a period of full stomachs, and even now the rotting meat was enough to last him a few more days. His nose told him there was still food left, so he was in a good mood. He liked his meat fresh and bloody but did not mind when it was rotten and crawling with maggots, which he swallowed along with the meat. “He’s fast becoming our trash can,” Gao commented.
What surprised Chen more was that the cub never got sick, no matter how foul, rotten, or dirty the food was. Chen and Yang admired the cub’s ability to endure cold, heat, hunger, thirst, foul odors, filth, and germs. One had to be impressed by a species that had survived millions of years of selection in an unimaginably inhospitable environment.
The bigger the cub grew, the handsomer and more magnificent he looked. Now he was a grassland wolf in every respect. Chen gave him a longer chain and tried calling him Big Wolf. But the cub preferred to stick to his old name. Whenever Chen called out “Little Wolf,” the cub ran over to play with him, licked his hands, rubbed up against his knees, jumped onto his stomach, even lay down on the ground and exposed his belly for Chen to scratch him. But he ignored Chen if he called him Big Wolf. He’d look around to see who Chen was calling.
Chen laughed at him. “You’re a foolish wolf. Will I still have to call you Little Wolf when you’re old?” The cub stuck his tongue out, as if teasing Chen.
Chen admired every part of the wolf’s body. For a while, he enjoyed playing with his ears. Being the first part of him to grow to adult size, they stood straight up, sturdy, clean, unmarred, and alert. And the cub had a growing sense of self-awareness that was instinctual of grassland wolves.
Inside the pen, Chen would sit cross-legged and play with the cub’s ears. But the cub would only let him do that after Chen had scratched the base of his ears and his neck, which made him tremble contentedly. Chen liked to fold the ears backward and then watch them spring to their upright position again. If he bent both at the same time, they sprang back one after another, never together, making popping sounds that startled the cub as if he’d heard enemy movements.
For some time, Chen had noticed an increased number of military vehicles on the grassland, raising trails of dust, a sight that distressed him. He realized that he belonged to the first, and perhaps the last, group of Han Chinese to actually live and observe the lives of nomadic herdsmen in the farthest reaches of Inner Mongolia. He was not a journalist or tourist; he enjoyed the proud status of a nomadic shepherd. He also had an observation site that he could be happy with-the Olonbulag, hidden away in a spot where large numbers of wolves still roamed. And he was raising a wolf cub he had personally taken from a den.
He vowed to memorize his observations and contemplations, not leaving out the tiniest detail. In the future he’d tell his story to friends and family over and over, until the day he departed this world. It was a pity so much time had passed since the Yellow Emperor’s descendants had left their grassland origins. A nomadic lifestyle would soon come to an end, and the Chinese would never have a chance to return to the pristine place of their origin to pay tribute to their ancestral matriarch.