The cub’s most important daily activity was staring at his food dish, which rested beside the yurt, waiting impatiently until it was filled and carried over to him. Chen could not tell if the cub knew why he had become a prisoner, but the hateful glare in his eyes was unmistakable, as if he were saying, “The puppies get to run free; why can’t I?” He took his anger out on the dogs, occasionally drawing blood. Given the primitive, nomadic conditions, raising a wolf near dogs, sheep, and men required inhumane treatment. If Chen let his guard down for even a moment, the wolf was likely to attack the sheep or the men, and that would seal his doom. He whispered this to the cub many times, but of course that had no effect. Chen and Yang began to worry that this sort of treatment might adversely affect the young wolf’s development. Depriving him of his freedom by tethering him to a chain removed both the conditions and opportunity for his personality to develop naturally. Would a wolf raised under such conditions still be a real wolf? Chen and Yang felt, however dimly, that they had, as the saying goes, mounted the wolf and didn’t know how to get off. Maybe the seeds of failure had been sown in their experiment from its inception. Yang was inclined to give up, but Chen would have none of it. In truth, Yang too was growing increasingly attached to the cub.
It was time for the cattle to mate. One of the bulls came frighteningly close to the wolf cub, sending him cowering into a clump of tall grass. Then when the frenzied bull mounted one of the cows, the cub was so frightened he burst out of the grass, trying to get away, but was jerked to a halt by the taut chain, which nearly strangled him; his tongue shot from his mouth, his eyes rolled back. Not until the bull took off chasing another cow did he calm down.
By this time the cub had more or less gotten used to his prison site and had begun to romp and tumble in his pen. The ground was covered by grass that grew a foot or more, making the pen much more comfortable than his first pen, with its dry, sandy ground. Here he could lie on his back, looking up into the sky, or lazily chew the grass; he could play for half an hour all by himself. So full of vitality, he had found a spot and a sport that would let him come alive, and so he began a regimen of running in the pen several times a day, hugging the outer wall and running around and around, seemingly never tiring.
First he’d make a complete turn in one direction, screech to a halt, and then reverse direction. When he finally wore himself out, he’d sprawl in the grass, mouth open, tongue lolling to the side, panting and slobbering. Chen discovered that the cub was spending more time and making more revolutions every day, and he realized that the little wolf was making his body work harder in order to shed his old coat for the new one coming in. The first time a wolf sheds its coat, Bilgee had said, comes later in the year than mature animals.
Zhang Jiyuan galloped up on his horse, his forehead bandaged in white. Chen and Yang, surprised by the unexpected visit, ran out to greet him. "No!” Zhang cried out. "Stand clear!” The horse he was riding, spooked by the movement, was bucking and kicking, keeping everyone at bay. Obviously, the horse had only recently been broken, so they kept their distance to let Zhang get down as best he could.
Mongol horses are fiery animals, especially the high-strung Ujimchin. They cannot be broken until the spring of their third year. Though they’re thin at that time of the year, they’re big enough to accommodate a rider. If this moment is lost, the horse will never take a saddle or bit. It will remain a wild horse.
Each spring, the horse herders chose three-year-olds that were relatively tame and gave them to the cowherds and shepherds to break. Those who were successful could ride that horse for a year. If, after a year, the rider determined that the horse was inferior to his other horses, he could return it to the herd, at which time it was given a name. Traditionally, each horse was named after the person who tamed it, with a color added. Bilgee Red, Batu White, Lamjav Black, Laasurung Gray, Sanjai Green, Dorji Yellow, Zhang Jiyuan Chestnut, Yang Ke Yellow Flower, and Chen Zhen Green Flower were notable examples of names those horses would carry throughout their lives. Having several horses with the same name on the Olonbulag was a rarity.
Horses were the lifeblood of grasslanders. Lacking good horses or a sufficient number of them made it hard for people to escape the ravages of snowstorms, wildfires, and enemy attacks; to make timely deliveries of medical personnel and medicine; to sound the alarm in time to ward off military or natural disasters; to catch a wolf; or to catch up to panicky herds of horses and cattle or flocks of sheep during a white-hair blizzard. Bilgee once said that a grasslander without a horse was like a two-legged wolf.
As Zhang Jiyuan rubbed his horse’s neck, he gently slid one foot out of the stirrup and, with the horse’s attention diverted, jumped to the ground. The startled animal bucked several times, nearly throwing its saddle, so Zhang quickly grabbed the reins and jerked the horse’s head toward him to keep from getting kicked. It was a struggle, but somehow he managed to lead the horse over to a wagon, where he hitched it to the axle. The animal fought to break loose, making the wagon rock and creak.
Chen and Yang breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re courting disaster,” Yang said. “Do you really think you can subdue a horse that wild?”
Zhang rubbed his forehead and said, “It threw me this morning and I took a hit on the head from one of its hooves. It knocked me out, but thankfully Batu was there with me. Lucky for me it’s still young, and its hooves haven’t rounded out yet, so I got off without a broken nose. If it had been an older horse, I probably wouldn’t be here now. But it’s one hell of a horse, and in a few years it’ll have quite a reputation. Out here you have to put your life on the line if you want a truly fine horse. It’s the only way.”
“You know, you’re starting to make us worry about you. The day you can get control of a fine horse without bandages all over you is the day you’ve finally arrived.”
“Give me two more years,” Zhang said. “This spring I broke six young geldings, all good horses. In the future, when you go hunting, if you’re short of horses, look me up. My plan is to swap all your present horses for good ones.”
The new grazing land offered plenty of fresh grass and water, all for a single brigade’s livestock, so they decided to let the horses graze in the proximity of cattle and sheep, at least for a while. With no one to the proximity of cattle and sheep, at least for a while. With no one to move them along, the horses lowered their heads and began grazing.
Chen and Yang were captivated by the sight of all those big, powerful young stallions with shiny new coats. With each movement, the muscles under the satiny coats rippled, as if carp were swimming beneath the skin.
The most notable difference between Mongolian stallions and other horses is their long mane, which covers their eyes, necks, chests, and upper legs. The hair grows longest around their necks and on their shoulders, some of it reaching their knees, their hooves, even the ground. The mane flows when they lower their heads to eat, covering half of their bodies and turning them into headless, faceless, hairy demons. When they run, heads held high, that mane billows and flows in the wind, like a Mongol battle flag in all its fullness, the sight of which can throw an enemy into headlong, panicky retreat. Given their violent, mercurial nature, they are horses no one dares try to tame, or rope, or ride. They have two functions on the grassland: stand at stud, and defend the herd. Possessing a strong sense of family responsibility, they never shy from danger; they are mean and tenacious. Stud bulls are idlers that move on after mating, but stallions are the great heads of grassland households.