“Since I’ve been herding horses,” Zhang said, “I’ve felt the differences in temperament between the Chinese and the Mongols. Back in school I was at the top in just about everything, but out here I’m weak as a kitten. I did everything I could think of to make myself strong, and now I find that there’s something lacking in us…”
Chen sighed again. “That’s it exactly!” he said. “China’s small-scale peasant economy cannot tolerate competitive peaceful labor. Our Confucian guiding principle is emperor to minister, father to son, a top-down philosophy, stressing seniority, unconditional obedience, eradicating competition through autocratic power, all in the name of preserving imperial authority and peaceful agriculture. In both an existential and an awareness sense, China’s small-scale peasant economy and Confucian culture have weakened the people’s nature, and even though the Chinese created a brilliant ancient civilization, it came about at the cost of the race’s character and has led to the sacrifice of our ability to develop. When world history moved beyond the rudimentary stage of agrarian civilization, China was fated to fall behind. But we’re lucky, we’ve been given the opportunity to witness the last stages of nomadic existence on the Mongolian grassland, and, who knows, we might even discover the secret that has led to the rise in prominence of Western races.”
Out on the grassy field, as the horses fought on, with no end in sight, the lovely Princess Snow White was taken by an opportunistic stallion into its family herd. But there was no surrender in the losers, which raced over and kicked the princess to the ground. Not knowing where to turn for rescue, she lay there emitting long, sad whinnies. Her anxious mother made as if to go to her, but was sent back into the herd by the flying hooves of her almost demonic mate.
Yang had seen enough. He nudged Zhang Jiyuan. “You’re a horse herder-why don’t you do something?”
“Do what?” Zhang asked. “Go over there, and they’ll stop fighting. Leave, and they’re back at it. Herders play no role in the herd’s battles for survival. They’ve been doing this for centuries. If the stallions don’t drive their daughters out of the herd in the summer and fight to diversify the herds, these fights will go on forever. The most powerful stallions emerge from these summer wars, ensuring a successive generation of fast, smart, ferocious horses. The battles produce fine horses, year after year, increasing the stallions’ courage and fighting skills, and their families flourish. This is where the stallions hone their skills for fighting and killing wolves. Without these drills, the herds of Mongol horses could not survive on the grassland.”
“It seems to me,” Chen said, “that the Mongol warhorses that shocked and amazed the world must have been a product of their battles with wolves.”
“You said it,” Zhang agreed. “Wolves out here do more than just foster Mongol warriors; they also foster Mongol warhorses. Ancient China’s regimes had massive mounted armies, but their horses were, for the most part, raised and trained in ranchlike surroundings. We’ve been sent out to labor in the countryside, so we know how they raise horses in farming villages. They’re let out into a pen, where they’re watered and fed and given extra hay at night. Those horses have never seen a wolf and they’ve never engaged in horse wars. During the mating season, there’s no mortal combat, since there’s always someone around to take care of matters. They tether the female to a post, then lead a stud horse up to her. When the coupling is over, the female doesn’t even know what her mate looks like. What kind of nature and fighting spirit can a horse from this mating have?”
Yang Ke laughed. “Whatever comes from arranged marriages is bound to be stupid! We’re lucky we didn’t come from arranged marriages, so there’s still hope for us. Arranged marriages in farming villages are still common, but what comes out of them is at least better than plow horses, and the young ladies at least know what the men look like.
“In China we call that progress,” Chen said.
“Horses belonging to the Chinese,” Zhang said, “are animal coolies. They work all day and sleep at night, just like the peasants. So in this regard the Chinese are laboring peasants and their horses laboring horses, which is why they’re no match for Mongol fighters and Mongol warhorses.”
With a sigh, Yang said, “There’s no way a stupid horse can win on the field of battle. But the main reason the horses are stupid is stupid people.”
Smiles of resignation all around.
Zhang Jiyuan continued, “A fighting spirit is more important than a peaceful laboring spirit. The world’s greatest engineering feat, in terms of labor output, our Great Wall, could not keep out the mounted warriors of one of the smallest races in the world. If you can work but you can’t fight, what are you? You’re like a gelding, you work for people, you take abuse from them, and you give them rides. And when you meet up with a wolf, you turn tail and run. Compare that with one of those stallions that uses its teeth and its hooves as weapons.”
Yang Ke was in total agreement. “Ai, the work on the Great Wall was dead labor, while those battles on the grassland were full of life.”
Gao Jianzhong rode up on an oxcart. “We’ve struck it rich!” he shouted excitedly. “I stole a bucketful of wild duck eggs!” His three comrades ran over and took down a water bucket filled with seventy or eighty duck eggs, yellow liquid seeping out through the cracks of the broken ones.
“You’ve just wiped out a flock of wild ducks,” Yang Ke said.
“I wasn’t alone. Wang Junli and a bunch of the others were doing the same thing. Near the southwestern lake, in the grass by a little stream, you couldn’t walk more than ten steps without coming upon a nest of a dozen or so duck eggs. The first people there stole buckets of them. Actually, they saved them from horses that were trampling the grass on their way to the water. The area is littered with eggshells and yolks. What a waste.”
“Are there any left?” Chen asked. “We can go get more and salt the ones we don’t eat now.”
“No more around here,” Gao said. “How many do you think were left after four herds of horses had passed by? But there might be some on the eastern shore.”
“Come on, all of you,” Gao ordered. “Separate the broken eggs from the unbroken ones. I haven’t eaten a fried egg in a couple of years at least. Let’s put away as many as we can. Fortunately, we’ve got plenty of mountain onions in the yurt. Wild onions and wild eggs, a true, and absolutely delicious, wildwood meal. Yang Ke, you go peel the onions; Chen Zhen, you break open the eggs; Zhang Jiyuan, you get a basket of dried dung. I’ll do the cooking.”
About half of the eggs were broken, giving each of the friends eight or nine. It was a party atmosphere, and in no time the fragrant, oily smell of onion-fried duck-egg pancakes filtered out of the yurt and was spread by the wind. Dogs picked up the scent and crowded up to the yurt entrance, salivating and wagging their tails; the wolf cub strained noisily against his chain, jumping up and down and growling viciously. Chen decided to save a little for the cub to see if he’d eat something fried in sheep fat.