Yang had learned that the migrants could argue with the best of them, and he didn’t know what to say.
When the swan was dragged ashore, Yang saw an arrow in its chest. A large bow made of thick bamboo and a quiver of arrows lay in the raft. No wonder he hadn’t heard gunfire. He realized that a bow and arrow could be a more lethal weapon than a firearm, since it would not startle other swans or waterbirds, making it easy to kill more of them. Reminding himself to take these people seriously, he decided that strategy rather than firmness was the only way to stop them.
Forcing himself to keep his anger in check, Yang changed his expression as he picked up the bow. “What a great bow. Really great, good and stiff. Is this what you used?”
Seeing that Yang had decided to be more reasonable, Old Wang boasted, “What else? I made it out of a bamboo wool-teasing bow I found in the brigade yurt. It’s so powerful it could easily kill a man.”
Yang took out an arrow. “Can I try it?”
Old Wang was sitting on a grassy knoll at the water’s edge watching Ershun unload the dead swan. As he puffed on his pipe, he said, “Arrows take a lot of time to make, and I need to hold on to what I’ve got to hunt with. You can shoot one, but that’s all.”
So Yang Ke took a moment to get the feel of the bow, which was made of thick bamboo and was three fingers in width. The string, constructed of thin strips of cowhide twisted together, was the thickness of a pencil. The arrow had been carved out of willow branches, with wild-goose feathers on one end. Yang was surprised to see that the tip was made from a tin can; he could even make out the word braised on it. A triangle had been cut out of a can and wrapped around the willow branch, the tip of which had been whittled to a point; then the ends had been nailed together. Yang tested the tip with his finger; it was firm and very sharp. He checked the heft of the arrow; the shaft was light, but the tip was heavy, so it wouldn’t sail when fired.
The bow was so stiff he had to strain to pull the string halfway. After fitting the arrow on the string, he took aim at a grassy knoll thirty or forty feet away and let go. The tip of the arrow was buried in the knoll. Yang ran over and carefully extracted it from the dirt, then cleaned it off and saw that the tip was sharp as ever. At that moment he fantasized that he had been transported back in time to when the Mongol hordes were armed with bows and arrows.
Yang walked back to Old Wang. “How far away were you when you shot the swan?”
“No more than seven or eight paces.”
“And the swan never saw you?”
Old Wang knocked the ashes out of his pipe and said, “Yesterday I went into the reeds and found the nest. This morning we got up very early, camouflaged ourselves with reeds, and rowed our way in. Fortunately, it was so misty the swan couldn’t see us. The nest was as tall as us. The swan was inside sitting on her eggs, while the male was swimming around nearby for protection.”
“Which one did you shoot, the male or the female?”
“We had to stay low in the raft, so we couldn’t get a shot at the female inside the nest. We waited for the male, and when it glided up near us, I fired. Got it right in the heart. It flapped around weakly and died. When the female heard the racket outside the nest, she flew off, and that’s when we got the eggs.”
The ability of these migrants to survive and to wreak havoc is considerable, Yang was thinking. They have no guns, so they make a bow and arrow; they have no boat, so they make a raft. To top it off, they’re good at concealing themselves; they hit their target on the first try. Supply them with guns and ammunition and a tractor, and there’s no telling what they’d turn the grassland into. Their ancestors were herders, but after they were conquered and assimilated, they became enemies of the Mongolian grassland. For over a thousand years the Chinese have taken pride in their ability to assimilate other races. But they’ve only been able to assimilate people with a lower level of civilization, and they’ve never been willing to discuss the often catastrophic consequences of the assimilation. As Yang Ke was now witnessing those consequences, his heart bled.
After Ershun had cleaned off the raft, he sat down to rest. Yang couldn’t get those two swan eggs out of his mind. Since the female was still alive, he felt compelled to take the eggs back to her nest, hoping that once the young birds were born, they’d fly off with their mother, all the way to Siberia.
With a broad if not natural smile, Yang said to Old Wang, “You’re good at that. I hope someday you’ll teach me some of your skills.”
Old Wang smiled proudly. “I’m not good at much, but you won’t find many better than me at hunting birds and marmots and wolves, or at setting traps, finding herbs, and digging up mushrooms. We used to have all those back home, but too many Chinese moved into the area. You students from Beijing have been given local household registration. How about speaking up for us outsiders when you get a chance? That way the local Mongols won’t drive us away. They’ll listen to you. If you’ll do that, I’ll teach you a thing or two. I guarantee you can earn a thousand a year with what I teach you.”
“Well, then, I’ll just call you my teacher from now on.”
Old Wang edged close to Yang and said, “I hear that you and the herdsmen have lots of sheep oil. Think you could get some for us? There are forty or fifty of us involved in backbreaking labor, and we have to pay black-market prices for the grain to go along with the wild vegetables we pick, all without a drop of oil. But you use it in your lanterns. What a waste! How about selling us some at a good price.”
Yang laughed. “No problem,” he said. “We’ve got two vats of the stuff. Tell you what. I like the looks of those two swan eggs, so how about trading them for half a vat of oil?”
“They’re yours!” Old Wang replied. “I’d just take them home and fry them, which is the same as eating five or six duck eggs. Go ahead, take them.”
Yang quickly took off his coat and wrapped the eggs in it. “I’ll bring the oil over tomorrow.”
“I trust you,” Old Wang said. “You Beijing students are as good as your word.”
Yang exhaled loudly and said, “It’s still early. Can I borrow your raft? I’d like to go see that nest. I find it hard to believe it could be as tall as you.”
Old Wang glanced over at Yang’s horse. “How’s this?” he said. “I’ll trade you my raft for your horse. I have to get this swan over to the kitchen, and it’s almost as heavy as a sheep.”
Yang stood up. “It’s a deal… But hold on-tell me where you found the nest.”
Wang stood up and pointed to the reeds. “Go east,” he said, “and when you reach the end, head north. You’ll find a path through the reeds where the raft went. Just keep going, and you’re bound to find it.
“When you get back,” Old Wang instructed him, “be sure to tie the raft the way you found it.” He picked up the dead swan and laid it across the saddle. Then he climbed on, sat behind the bird, and headed slowly toward the work site, Ershun following behind, lugging the heavy basin.
Yang waited until the men were far enough away for him to go back to the shore, pick up the coat with the eggs inside, and put it in the raft. Then he rowed as fast as he could, heading east.
Yang was breathing fast and his hands were shaking as he rowed unsteadily toward the nest, pushing floating reeds out of his way with the spade, wanting to approach it as slowly as possible.
Yang stood before the nest almost in a state of shock. It was the biggest, the tallest, and the most unusual bird’s nest he’d ever seen. After assuring himself that the female was away, he began examining the nest closely. He pushed against it with both hands; like a three-foot-thick tree trunk, it didn’t budge. Though it was built on the water, its roots were as deep as a banyan tree’s.