Bao agreed enthusiastically. So Batu and a couple of hunters rode off to the mountain, taking the big dogs with them. Bar and Erlang, who had hunted gazelles in that area, raced ahead, driven by their hunting instincts.
Yang Ke was so fascinated by the swans out on the lake that he reluctantly, even painfully, passed up the chance to go hunting with Batu so that he could sit on a slope and gaze down at his swan lake. In order to keep watching the swans, he’d pestered Bao Shungui and Bilgee for two days to let him come ahead of the brigade-all the people, the horses, and the livestock. He wanted to take full advantage of the opportunity to drink in the beauty of the swan lake scenery, which easily eclipsed Chen Zhen’s descriptions. He sat on the ground, took out his telescope, and watched breathlessly. Sitting all alone, he was immersed in tranquil thoughts when he heard a horse ride up behind him.
“Hey!” It was Bao Shungui. “I see you’re studying the swans too. Let’s go, just you and me-we’ll bag one and get something good to eat. The herdsmen won’t eat fowl, not even chicken. I tried to get them to go with me, but they said no. They won’t eat it, but we will.”
Yang turned to see Bao holding up his semiautomatic rifle and nearly wet himself. Waving his arms, he stammered, “Swans… precious, rare creatures… can’t kill them! Please, I beg you. I’ve loved Swan Lake since I was a kid. During the three difficult years I cut school one day and went hungry so I could stand in line late at night just to buy a ticket to watch a performance by a joint troupe of young Soviet and Chinese dancers. It’s truly beautiful. Educated people and great men everywhere love swans, so how could we come to a true swan lake just to kill and eat them? If you need to kill something, kill me.”
Bao was shocked that anyone could be that ungrateful. He glared at Yang, his enthusiasm dampened. "Swan Lake-what the hell is that all about? Capitalist hogwash. You’re a high school graduate, and you think that makes you better than me? We can’t stage The Red Detachment of Women till we drive Swan Lake off the stage.”
When Laasurung saw Bao heading toward the lake with a rifle, he galloped over to stop him. “Swans are a sacred bird, given to us by Mongol shamans. You can’t shoot them, you can’t. Besides, Chairman Bao, it’s wolves you want to kill, isn’t it? Well, when the wolves up in the mountains hear gunfire, they’ll take off, and we’ll have come for nothing.”
That stopped Bao. He reined his horse in, turned to Laasurung, and said, “It’s a good thing you alerted me to that, or I might have done something stupid.” He handed his rifle to Laasurung, and then turned back to Yang Ke. “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll scout the area around the lake.”
Yang listlessly saddled his horse and followed Bao. As they drew up to the lake, flocks of ducks, wild geese, and a variety of waterbirds soared into the air and dropped water on their heads as they flew over. Bao grabbed the horn of his saddle and stood up in the stirrups to look over the reeds as a pair of swans stretched their wings, thrust out their necks, and skimmed the tops of the reeds, frightening him by passing no more than ten feet above his head. He sat down hard in the saddle, startling his horse, which burst forward and nearly threw its rider. The swans, apparently unafraid of people, soared lazily above the basin, circled the lake, and disappeared behind the reeds.
Bao got his horse back under control and adjusted the saddle. He laughed. “This must be the easiest place anywhere to hunt swans. All you need is a slingshot. They’re the emperors of birds. One bite of their flesh makes life worth living. But we’ll wait till we’ve finished off the wolves; then we’ll come back for these.”
Yang Ke said tentatively, “When you saw those peonies a while ago, you said they were a treasure and needed to be protected at all costs. Those swans are national treasures, international treasures, so why won’t you protect them?”
“I’m a farmer,” Bao replied, “and I look at the practical side of things. Treasures are things people can get their hands on. If you can’t, they’re not. Peonies have no legs, so they’re not going anywhere. But swans have wings, and when the people and the livestock arrive, they’ll fly north and wind up as pan-fried treasures for the Soviet or Mongolian revisionists.”
“The Soviets will treat them as treasures; they won’t kill and eat them.”
“If I’d known how unenlightened you are,” Bao said testily, “I wouldn’t have brought you along. You wait and see. I’m going to turn your swan lake into a watering hole for horses and cows.”
Yang swallowed his response. He’d have loved to pick up a rifle, fire into the air, and send the startled swans flying out of the grassland, out of the country, and all the way to the nation that produced the ballet Swan Lake. That’s where you find people who love swans, he thought. How could this nation, where even sparrows have been eaten nearly to extinction, where the only things left are toads, be a place for swans?
Laasurung signaled for the two of them to return, so they rushed back to camp, where Sanjai, who had come from the southeastern mountains, was harnessing up his wagon. Batu and his party had shot wild boars up in the mountains and sent him for a cart to haul the carcasses to camp. They told him to bring Chairman Bao back with the cart. Bao could barely contain his delight. He slapped himself on the leg. “Are you telling me there are edible wild boars here on the grassland? That’s a surprise. They’re better eating than domestic pigs. Let’s go.” Yang had heard of hunters bagging wild boars, but he hadn’t seen one since coming to the grassland. So he and Bao rode off in the direction Sanjai pointed out for them.
They saw where the wild boars had rooted the ground even before they reached Batu. Acres of rich soil by a stream, at the foot of the mountain, and in the ravine, looked as if they’d been plowed by an out-of-control ox. The fat, big-leafed stalks of tall grass had been eaten, leaving the area around them strewn with dry leaves and stalks; much of the foliage was buried in the rich soil. Fine grazing land now looked like a potato patch in which pigs had been let loose. The sight infuriated Bao Shungui. “Those damned boars are a menace! If we plant crops here one day, they could be very destructive.”
The horses slowed down, shying away from the sight as they approached Batu, who was sitting at the foot of the mountain smoking his pipe. The two new arrivals dismounted and saw a pair of untouched carcasses next to Batu; another pair was being torn apart by the dogs, who were sprawled on the ground, eating voraciously. Erlang and Bar were each feasting on a leg. The boars beside Batu were smaller than full-grown domestic pigs, no more than three feet long, and sparsely covered with spiky bristles. Their snouts were twice as long as domestic pigs’. They were fat, and with teeth of average length, they didn’t look particularly intimidating. There were fang marks on both their necks.
Batu pointed to the ravine. “The dogs picked up the scent of wolves and chased the boars all the way over to that ravine, where the ground was full of holes and bumps. We saw the carcasses of three or four boars that had been killed and eaten by wolves, and the dogs stopped there, not wanting to go after the wolves. Instead they followed the scent of the boars down the ravine, flushing out a group of piglets. Big boars have tusks and run like the wind. The dogs wouldn’t go after them, and I didn’t dare fire at them, since I didn’t want to alarm the wolves. The dogs eventually killed these piglets, so I let them have the two that were the most chewed up. The other two are for us.”
Bao Shungui rested his foot on one of the dead boars. “Good job,” he said with a smile. “The meat on this young one will be nice and tender, and delicious. I’ll treat you all to some good liquor tonight. Apparently, there are wolves around here, and it would be a good idea if you men go out tomorrow and bag a few.”