Winter Pasture

by Li Juan

  On clear days without snow, the flock was unbearably hungry and thirsty.

  8.

  Cold

  WINTER ARRIVED. The sheep and goats grew new coats, the horses donned shaggy bell-bottoms, and the camels were given new felt blankets that Sister-in-law made for them (besides the pack camels, who remained in the buff). The cattle, it seemed, kept their same old short hair. As a result, the cattle were given the special treat of sleeping inside a burrow like us humans, while the horses, sheep, and camels all spent their nights beneath the stars. The most that could be done for the sheep was to raise the manure walls surrounding their pen a bit higher—but how much cold could that really keep out? It was more for keeping the wolves out, I imagine.

  The arrival of winter united us against the cold. Every day we stuffed ourselves at mealtime and scooped endless manure bricks into the stove (sheep manure is a weak fuel that burns up quickly). Early each morning, once the flock had been led out, those of us who were staying home would dig up the damp manure from the sheep pen and spread it out to dry. Then we filled it back up with dry manure. Next, we cleaned the cattle burrow, tossing the wet dung and frozen pee-soaked muck out through the high window before laying down dried manure. Shinshybek and his family went the extra mile—they brought the camels into the burrow settlement every night to check that their clothes hadn’t been lost or torn during the day.

  As the end of December neared, the days only got colder. Sheep walked around with mounds of snow on their backs and the horses were covered in frost, with long icicles hanging from the corners of their mouths. The cattle and camels grew white beards and eyebrows that made them look like wise old men. And anyone who went out on horseback returned with frozen eyelashes and eyebrows, their scarf and hat brim coated in white.

  It was during those days that the Kazakh-language radio station forecast announced a cold front in the first week of January, when the temperature in the winter pasture south of the Ulungur would drop to minus forty-three degrees Fahrenheit. They warned the herders not to lead livestock too far from camp. We started readying ourselves. With what little soil we had left, Cuma managed to mix enough mud to plaster over the heavily frosted walls, filling in any leaky corners. Our neighbors covered their cattle burrow with a plastic tarp, at last—until then it had no roof. It had been bothering me. Whenever their cattle came back to a cold home, they would simply cram into our cattle burrow, refusing to leave no matter what.

  We even braved the heavy snow to scrape up a dozen or so sacks of dry manure from around the sheep pen to pad the floor, making the thickest “mattress” yet.

  Sister-in-law brought back a bucket of dry manure to lay down a pad as thick as a bed, for our sickly sheep “patients.”

  When she milked the cows, she used a broom to sweep the snow off their backs.

  The four hand scoops of corn we had added to the horses’ diet was increased to five scoops.

  During morning tea, Sister-in-law placed a few cypress twigs on the top of the stove. She explained that the scent they emitted could prevent colds.

  * * *

  FINALLY, THE COLDEST OF DAYS arrived. In the morning and at night, the column of mercury on the thermometer hovered at around minus thirty-one (which was the lowest notch on the meter). I wondered how much lower the actual temperature would drop on the coldest nights, if the mercury would eventually be sucked back into the little ball at the bottom. But even if I had managed to wake up during the darkest hours, I would not have had the courage to leave the warmth of my bed to check.… Curled up under my blanket, the thought of their dog, Panda Dog, sleeping out on the roof was heartbreaking.

  Sometimes, at nine in the morning, the temperature rose to minus eleven degrees Fahrenheit, but at ten, it dropped by two degrees. One day, it was minus twenty-two at noon. So cold on such a sunny day! How odd.

  Perhaps the most unfortunate were those among us who were constipated … that meant frostbitten butts!

  Calves were so cold that they came home early. They bounded straight for their burrow without bothering to even drink their mother’s milk—their one and only proper meal of the day.

  On a minus-thirty-one-degree morning, no matter how much steaming-hot, pepper-spiced tea I drank, my feet were still freezing. Sitting barely three feet from the blazing fire, my breaths were white clouds. Moving two feet closer, still white clouds. Closer, a foot away, still white. I kept inching closer when Cuma said, “What are you trying to do? Eat the stove?”

  Outside, taking pictures of the wild landscape, I noticed some dust on the lens, so I blew on it out of habit. The humidity instantly froze on the glass, forming a layer of white frost. The more I wiped, the blurrier the lens became.

  I finally understood why the elders say, “Icy winds pierce eyeballs.” It was icy! It was piercing! Glancing up into the wind for mere seconds, I was covered in tears, my eyes in excruciating pain. My tears then vaporized in the cold, turning into steam that blurred my glasses, which in turn quickly froze, leaving me instantly blind. The wind wasn’t even a strong wind, barely more than a gentle breeze. It was that cold.

  And another thing I discovered: when it’s really cold, you can’t whistle. Stiff lips, perhaps?

  Our home, despite its substantial repairs, still leaked wind from every crevice. Snow left in a pot overnight refused to melt one drop.

  During dinner, I ignored every attempt urging me to drink tea—in fear of having to visit the toilet at night.…

  * * *

  ON ONE OF THOSE COLD DAYS, when Cuma returned home with the sheep and was shedding his thick, frosty layers of clothing and yanking off his enormous boots, he sneered, “This is brilliant! Just great! The colder it is, the happier I’ll be. Minus forty just doesn’t cut it, I’m waiting for minus sixty!” I asked him if anything was the matter and he replied, “The quicker my feet drop off, the sooner I can stop worrying about them freezing!”

  I asked, “Why don’t you buy felt overboots?” The neighbors had a pair that the two brothers took turns wearing. With boots and calves wrapped tightly in those bulky things, the entire foot looked warm and protected.

  Cuma mumbled, “Had ’em last year, not this year.”

  Last year, the snow had been a disaster. I asked, “Did you ruin them last year?”

  But all he said was, “I forgot them when I was over at my father-in-law’s.”

  Cuma typically rode back quite late. At five, with the sun long sunk behind the mountains, the flock was still nowhere to be seen. It was fast approaching six before we even heard them approaching in the dark. As the sheep finally came into view, I’d run down the sand dune to greet them. As I drew near, Cuma would give his horse a kick and gallop home, leaving me to slowly herd the sheep back by myself.

  But on the coldest day, Cuma didn’t even wait for me to appear before abandoning the sheep and galloping home. When he reached the northeast dune, which marked the final hundred or so meters, he dropped from his horse and flopped to the ground as if he couldn’t make it one more step. Sister-in-law walked over to tell him to rest inside. He muttered, “Wait a moment,” before slowly sitting up, lifting up his legs, and tapping them against one another. They were numb, perhaps even frostbitten.

  As I herded the sheep, my cheeks were so cold, they hurt like they’d been slapped a dozen times, and the back of my head felt like it had been beaten with a stick. Every day, after putting the sheep away and returning to our warm burrow, taking off my bulky coat and pulling off my hat and scarf was like shedding a shell of ice.

  After five bowlfuls of tea, Cuma finally said, “Tomorrow, I’m riding to Urumqi!”

  “What for?”

  “To buy overboots!”

  * * *

  EARLIER IN THE WINTER, Kama had been the one who stayed in bed the longest every morning. Now it was Cuma. When Sister-in-law snatched his blanket from him, he clung to it, whimpering, “Today is one day, tomorrow there will be another! Old woman! There’s tomorrow too!” He had an agreement
with Shinshybek: each of them would take the herd for five days and then switch. All Sister-in-law could do was rub his back and console him, but he could not keep the blanket.

  Before setting out each morning, Cuma spent a long time getting his gear on, especially his boots. Despite being two sizes larger than he would normally need, they still weren’t big enough for him to wear both wool and felt socks. Wearing both would cut off his blood circulation, making his feet even colder. After weighing the pros and cons of wool versus felt, he eventually settled on felt. Though the felt socks were uncomfortably stiff, they were more insulating. Then, he wrapped a length of camel hair around each ankle and went about cramming all this into each boot. Once dressed, he sat down with considerable difficulty to drink three bowls of hot tea before setting off.

  “Off he goes to get some exercise!” I announced.

  With a sudden seriousness, he stood up straight and began shouting slogans: “Streng-then body! Pro-tect country!!”

  Then, whip in hand, he marched out the door.

  * * *

  THE BROTHERS NEXT DOOR always came out of their burrow looking like thieves. From the felt overboots to the hats and gaiters, the only part exposed was their eyes. Cuma, by comparison, was scantily clad—in an old fur coat and two camel-hair sweaters. Before long, Apa had the vet deliver two lengths of raw sheep hide to us from the Ulungur encampment. I spent half a day sewing them into a pair of sheepskin pants. After that, Cuma’s life was much improved.

  But the sheepskin pants were made from the hides of two different sheep, one leg from an older sheep with a thin hide and the other from a young sheep with thick hide. He decided to wear the young sheep hide on his right leg, which had a chronic pain, leaving his left leg to bear the brunt of the cold. Following my recommendation, he cut a leg from an old pair of long johns and sewed it inside the thin sheep hide leg as a lining.

  Protected by his new invincible sheepskin pants, his mood soared. After accusing his neighbors of always leaving him to retrieve wandering camels and clean out the sheep pens, which he said was unfair, he cheerfully set out to clean out the sheep pen and retrieve wandering camels.

  Cuma said that before he had his sheepskin pants, he had to tear branches off saxaul shrubs every other hour and light a fire to warm his feet. Once, even though he was only half an hour from home, he still had to stop and light a fire before he could continue. He went on to say that the use of these wonderful burrows was a relatively recent advancement. The Kazakh herders used to spend their winters in yurts! When he was young, everyone sat around a large fire at the center of the yurt, which warmed their faces but left their backs shivering. Outside the yurt, it was winter everywhere. And as hard as it is to imagine, the Kazakh children were so poor back then that they could only wrap themselves in a sheep hide to get through the winter, with no pants or coats.

  Hearing this, I volunteered, “Which direction are you taking the sheep today? I’ll bring you hot tea in a thermos!”

  He replied, “Koychy!” No need!

  But coming home that evening, the first thing out of Cuma’s mouth was, “Didn’t you say you’d bring me tea? I was waiting all day.…”

  * * *

  BEFORE SETTING OUT FOR the winter burrow, my biggest concern had been the cold. There had been a rumor that this winter was to be a “thousand years’ freeze,” so nearly all my efforts were geared toward being prepared to keep out the cold. I wore more clothes than anyone else, which invited mockery from my companions.

  When I was preparing my clothes, I desperately tried to sew together three pieces of clothes into one. That way, I would have two fewer layers to bring. Following this strategy, the clothes I brought looked nothing like something anyone would wear. In my mother’s words, they looked “like something the Monkey King would wear.” But since my presence in the winter pasture was an aberration anyway, a bizarre outfit was only to be expected.

  I took apart a sheepskin vest and sewed the leather into a cotton coat. I then cut the sleeves off the coat to give my arms more room, resulting in a long cotton vest with a sheepskin lining. But it turned out to be too slim. My good friend Chunr gave me her son’s down anorak that he had grown out of. Kids’ clothing tends to be roomy and warm, easy to move around in, but the anorak was too short. I also prepared a pair of camel-wool long johns that were so wide that I could fit both of my legs into one side. But they were too long—when I put them on, they bunched up from my feet to my thighs. At least they would give when I walked, and climbing onto a horse would be easier too (in reality, they weren’t flexible enough and I still needed a hand to mount). On top of the long johns, I wore my mother’s pants. Inside and out, my clothes bulged in all directions. I imagined that having bulk would make me look taller, but in reality, I looked even shorter. So to hide the mess, I wore a coat on top of everything that covered me from my feet to my neck. Even the emperor’s robe couldn’t do more than that.

  I had a nice fur hat, but it was too thin. Getting creative, I sewed three not-so-nice yarn hats inside it, making it an inch thick. It was warm, kept me completely insulated from the wind, but now it was too tight, squeezing my head until it hurt … so I cut one side open and patched it with a triangular swatch of cashmere, which finally made it comfortable, but it looked rather odd.

  I had also brought a sleeping bag, which was supposed to be able to withstand temperatures down to five degrees Fahrenheit. Baloney. In fact, it couldn’t even handle fifty-nine degrees. Even crawling into it fully dressed—coat, hat, gloves on and wearing boots, it still didn’t live up to this claim. But at least it was windproof. Worst-case scenario, wrap a few pounds of wool blanket around it. Because I insisted on sleeping in a sleeping bag in spite of the hassle, Cuma decided to call me “gunnysack girl.” He kept saying, if a bear comes at night, how will you run?

  Even though from top to bottom, day and night, inside and out, I was a farce, I never caught a cold. I saw this as ultimate proof that reason was on my side. I was fine with the way I looked, so no one had the gall to say anything about it to my face. It was only when we went out together that they worried about me, about the embarrassment I was.

  * * *

  NO MATTER WHAT, with every new cold day the previous cold day became “a thing of the past.” For most of our lives, the four seasons cycle predictably—coldness isn’t a bolt from the blue, or an inexplicable natural disaster, or a permanent darkness. It is the destiny of every orbiting planet, the accepted rule of every living thing. Birds fly away. Larvae sleep deep in the earth. Those who remain on the earth’s surface, without exception, prepare thick coats and grow fat. Have I not been larding on about my layers and layers too? Coldness is unbearable, but coldness is a matter of course, so coldness must be dealt with.

  Cuma said that the most unbearable days of the winter always start around the end of December until the middle of January—there is no avoiding it. After that, as the days lengthen, it will gradually warm up, inevitably. It’s true, everything eventually passes. The fact that people feel “happiness” isn’t because life is comfortable, but because life is hopeful.

  One evening in early February, as I was collecting snow on a dune ridge to the north, I looked up and saw the sun hanging high above the desert. Previously, around the same hour, the sun had been half sunken beneath the horizon. And its angle of descent had shifted noticeably to the north. A constant wind was blowing across the land. I faced the wind to determine its direction. East, it was coming from the east!

  On the seventeenth of February, my journal noted the following: clear sky, very warm. When Kama came back, we went to collect snow together, not wearing our hats, only jackets. When we paused to rest, she said gleefully, “It’s like summer! It’s just like summer!”—as if she had already forgotten about the winter only a few days ago.

  Early morning, before the flock headed out to pasture, the goats jumped out of their pen.

  9.

  The Sheep’s Winter

  EVERY MORNIN
G, WHEN Cuma set out with the herd, he would stop his horse next to the dummy on the sand dune to the north and stare off into the distance. After a long time, he would reach for his Mohe tobacco, slowly roll a cigarette, then slowly smoke it. Sometimes, he would climb down from his horse, lay on his side next to the dummy, and continue to stare at some faraway place. Who knows what he was thinking about in those moments of stillness. What would send him into such silent, far-off bouts of contemplation.

  Herding is hard work. He set off around ten in the morning, driving the flock across the desert with no food and no water. He circled around until the sky verged on black before bringing the sheep back home.

  I asked Cuma, “What do you do when you’re out there herding?”

  He replied, “I herd.”

  Sorry I asked.

  The wildlands are vast and empty—what else was he supposed to do? Of course he sat on his horse and followed the sheep around! Cuma became emotional: “Like a fool! I’m just like a fool! Wherever the sheep go, I follow! Seven hours, seven hours a day!”

  Which was why, before he set out every morning, he spent a long time dawdling at the doorway … the loneliness that awaited him, you’d have to experience it to know.

  I asked, “When the weather’s warmer, will you let me herd them for a day?”

  He retorted, “If you were to herd, the sheep would never get enough to eat!”

  “How come?”

  “If it were you, the sheep would be home before two o’clock.”

  On a darkest of snowy nights, when there are no moon or stars, heaven and earth are indistinguishable. I stood beside the dummy on the dune ridge and waved a flashlight to the east, offering a beacon to the herder returning in the dark so that he would not get lost, making circles in the gloomy night. Had there been a thick fog, even the flashlight would not have helped. Cuma said, “In that case, the whole family would have to go on a search.”