by Li Juan
I asked, “What if the people doing the searching can’t find their way back either?”
He said, “If that person is Li Juan, then it’s too bad. Sitting at home all day, never herding a sheep, what’s the use of coming back anyway?”
As non-herding people, Sister-in-law, Kama, and I cleaned the cattle burrow and sheep pen every day, hauled snow, made nan, embroidered … but even if we worked from morning to evening, it still wouldn’t have been nearly as tiring as herding.
I asked Cuma, “Where you go to herd, do you pass by any homes?”
“No,” he replied, before saying to Sister-in-law in Kazakh, “She thinks when I herd, I can just pop in at people’s houses and have some tea!” They all laughed.
I suggested he take a thermos of tea with him the next time he went out. He could fasten it to the back of the saddle. Or take a kazan pot and sajayaq (tripod) along with tea pellets and salt, so whenever he got cold, he could collect snow and make tea.
That’s when he told me the story of the “Han shepherd.” Once, at the Red Flag Dam (a dozen or so miles downriver from Akehara), there was a Han, herding for the first time. He had with him steamed bread, pickled vegetables, and water. He ate the salty pickled vegetables with steamed bread for lunch, and then, when he took the lid off the bottle, the water was frozen and not a drop would come out. He even tried to melt it by wrapping the bottle in layers of clothes.… After delivering the punch line, Cuma cackled.
It wasn’t particularly funny, but picturing the Han’s chagrin, his pathetic, adorable effort … I ended up laughing anyway.
Cuma’s point was this: if you want to make it in the wildlands and survive its winters, any fear of pain or hardship will be met with derision.
* * *
THE HERDER’S WINTER is harsh and lonely, and equally, the sheep’s is long and grueling. Every day, from December to March or April of the following year, the flock must leave their pen precisely at first light to wander the wildlands, scouring for withered grass. After they leave, the damp and warm sheep pen steams with white mist. During the day, while the sheep are out, bits of frozen snow float about. The sky is always overcast, the sun always gloomy.
At dusk, when the sheep should be on their way home, Sister-in-law and I clamber through the heavy snow to gaze east from the top of a sand dune. The world is a dim blur. Muffled calls reach us as if in a dream. After some time passes, camels emerge into view, galloping toward our burrow settlement. As darkness deepens, the snow picks up. The plastic tarp that once protected the sheep pen from snow has long become the roof on Shinshybek’s cattle burrow, leaving snow to accumulate in the pen … but the sheep are still nowhere to be seen. From the burrow comes the sound of crying; Baby Karlygash has woken alone. But Shinshybek’s family is out herding cattle, tying down camels, too busy to attend to her. Finally, at half past five, Sister-in-law is the first to spot something and calls for me to follow her east. As I walk, I find myself thinking, good thing it’s snowing, if we get lost, surely we’ll be able to follow our footprints back, right? But on second thought: with this much falling snow, won’t our footprints get covered up? … The night is bigger than the land itself. To be swallowed by such “bigness” is much more horrifying than to be literally swallowed by anything “ferocious.” But then I see the sheep—they were really there, not so far away, undulating through the dark, all covered in thick blankets of snow. What had they experienced that day? To be so quiet.
* * *
BEFORE SETTING OUT EACH DAY, Cuma would squeeze his way through the crammed sheep pen to check for signs of illness. If he found one with pus-filled yellow sores around its mouth, he would scratch off the crust with his fingernail to expose the bloody flesh beneath. Then he would call me over to pour saltwater over the wound, always turning a perfectly good mouth into a bloody, dripping mess that stuck out of the flock like a sore thumb. On such a cold day—it made me nervous, like it was something that wasn’t right, but I was powerless to stop him. He had been herding sheep all his life after all, so it must have been something you could only understand with experience.
On the coldest days, Cuma would walk around with a kettle in his hand, looking for something. Every now and then, he’d grab a sheep, straddle it, pry its mouth open, and sprinkle water in it. I asked what he was doing. He replied, “Brushing its teeth.” You wouldn’t believe the things he says, you should see for yourself. I watched carefully until I learned that he was feeding the sheep pills. Only then did he admit that he was curing the sheep’s “cold.” When I asked how he knew which sheep had a cold, he said, “Runny nose, sneezing.” Of course, his words should be taken with a pinch of salt, but my own observations were no better either.
As for when to apply the delouser … I couldn’t figure that one out at all. I noticed that he rubbed the stuff mostly across their backs, but sometimes on their bellies as well. Maybe he determined the location of the bugs according to where the wool was messier? Where a sheep itched, they’d rub against the pen wall. Ah, on such a cold day, sheep’s wool was like a thick, warm blanket. The lice must have been living in comfort, with a warm home and plenty to eat.
For an outsider like me, a sheep’s existence seemed fragile and full of misery. Disaster lurked around every corner: the endless treks, the cold, the hunger, the pain of disease … but after all these thousands of years, they still managed to survive. Most of the time, what we observed were flocks wandering optimistically over the earth. So let us speak no more of their misery—it is only life’s inevitability.
Besides, a sheep’s fate so seamlessly dovetails with the rest of nature—how they resemble plants! They sprout in spring, grow lush in summer, set seed in autumn, and harbor that seed all winter long, pregnant, waiting.… While chasing the flock through the wildlands, I often thought about how most of them were with child, how most were calm, content mothers. Suddenly I felt the winter’s significance running deep and far.
* * *
ONE DAY, AFTER BRINGING the sheep back, Cuma didn’t immediately drop from his horse to hurry home. Instead, he reined his horse to one side and watched us herd the flock into the pen. Then, he pointed to a brown lamb with parted bangs that was sluggishly following behind the rest, and said, “That one, it’s struggling, take it home and have a look.” So Sister-in-law and I grabbed two legs each, flipped the lamb on its belly, and carried it into our burrow.
The lamb with the parted bangs looked frail; its ribs jutted out beneath the flesh. Cuma said that earlier in the day it was so weak, it was wobbling. But after examining it with a flashlight, we found no external injury, so perhaps it was just too weak. We decided to keep it “under observation” for a time. Like that, our burrow acquired a new member.
We set up a nest near the head of the bed and dug up a sack of dry manure to give it a “mattress.” Every day, it was given a patient’s meal—kernels of corn. Even so, it couldn’t adjust to this new life. After returning each evening, the patient did all it could to resist our invitation inside. Sister-in-law and I struggled for three days carrying it inside. On the fourth day, Sister-in-law furiously seized the sheep’s middle and swung it over her shoulder, gripping its front hooves in her right hand and its hind hooves in her left, hoisting it inside. By the fifth day, she simply grabbed one hind leg in each hand and pushed it inside like a wheelbarrow.
Sheep are weak, but they’re no less stubborn than a cow or camel. The lamb with parted bangs not only refused to follow us into the burrow, it rejected the hot stove and corn, preferring instead to curl up in a corner looking lonely and stressed. It didn’t eat or drink, lying beneath the window until morning, chin perched on the edge of the bed, eyes wide and unmoving. Its body tensed up at the slightest noise, ready to defend itself. But how could we just leave it alone? Every day, Cuma and Sister-in-law had to fight to shove half a bowl of corn into its mouth. A few times we even fed it our own food—cracked wheat. Husband and wife teamed up, one person would pry the lamb’s mouth open while the oth
er shoved corn down its throat. Then they clamped its lips shut so it couldn’t spit anything back out. But somehow, it was able to do just that, spitting up however much we fed it, wasting a large amount of food. Sister-in-law was so angry, she slapped it in the face. Cuma, just as angry, declared, “Might as well be dead! Good riddance!” And, “That’s one day of food we won’t be eating!” (half a bowl of cracked wheat can yield a whole pot of porridge).
Sister-in-law tried feeding it salt, but the sheep still refused, sending granules across the manure floor. We were truly at a loss. What sheep doesn’t eat salt?
Even though it was breaking our hearts, we still didn’t give up on the lamb. Every night, when the sheep returned, we patiently searched for it beneath the stars for a long, long time (finding one sheep in a flock of three hundred near-identical others was a miracle as far as I’m concerned …). When it was cloudy, we had to use a flashlight. At that time, a cold front was passing over us. It was so cold.
I suggested that we put a marker on its body somewhere, maybe spray-paint some lines on its back, something that would make it stand out in the crowd. But they didn’t take my suggestion. It wasn’t until the following day, when heavy snow coated the sheep in blankets of white that I understood why.…
So I suggested tying a piece of red cloth or some sort of colorful fabric around its neck. Sister-in-law considered it for a long time before she agreed. She rummaged through the yurt beside the burrow for a long time before finding a red neckerchief her children used when they were little. Wearing the neckerchief, the lamb immediately acquired a sort of gravitas. It had become a glorious Young Pioneer.
A week later, our Young Pioneer had finally gotten used to this weird, warm space and began exploring its every corner, sniffing and ramming everything it came across. Later, it even mustered the courage to sniff my hand and nibble my toes, but it still refused to eat the fanciest of feeds, corn. How ridiculous! If any other sheep was given even the smallest kernels of corn, I guarantee that it would’ve been smiling ear to ear.
I asked, “Could its throat be swollen? Maybe it can’t swallow?”
Cuma barked, “I saw it eat grass today!”
Incredulous, I tore off a leaf of napa cabbage to give to the sheep. After a sniff, it swallowed it whole.
Now, I was angry: “Corn’s too hard for you then!”
But how could we feed it cabbage? We only had half a head left, and we only used a few leaves a day to boil with the family’s evening dinner. So we forced the sheep to eat the tough corn.
Finally, on the tenth day, our Young Pioneer finally seemed to have figured it out. It finally understood that we weren’t trying to hurt it. It finally realized how good corn is! And after it took its first bite, it began chomping like a hungry wolf. We were delighted. After eating its fill, it ran over to the tin pot at the other side of the stove to drink some water. That was our water for cooking! But no one said anything; we just made sure it didn’t drink too much. Drinking too much water with a belly full of dried cereal can make you burst. After it had had enough to drink, we tied it to a post. The next day we let it drink some more. From then on, the lamb’s standard of living had greatly improved—there was no need to crunch snow anymore.
Having adjusted to domestic life, the Young Pioneer no longer needed to be pushed or dragged. It only needed a few pats on the back before it began trotting straight for the burrow with its warm stove and corn kernels.
Once inside, it hopped down the step and casually traipsed over to the bedside. The pink cat would come to welcome it with a kiss. Then it went over to the right-hand corner of the room to drink the clean water we’d left for it. It felt right at home! If we didn’t tie it to the post by the time it was done wandering about the room, it would have jumped onto the bed and stomped around.
On quiet, cozy nights, as we ate and chatted, it stood a couple of feet away, peeing—pssh pssh pssh. It was a peaceful coexistence not without its small joys.
But right as Red Neckerchief settled into this new life, becoming dependent on it even, Cuma decided that it was time for the Young Pioneer to be discharged from the hospital. He said, “Look, all cured!”
During one of Cuma’s days of rest, he and Sister-in-law built a small pen in the corner of the main pen. They covered the top with a plastic tarp and hung felt curtains around it, making it much warmer than the outside pen.
I asked, “Who will be living here?”
Without looking up, he said, “Li Juan will.”
I had such patience. “It’s for the pregnant sheep, yes?”
Head still down: “Yes.”
And yet, that evening, when I went to look—what? It was clearly for the goats!
After observing for a good while, I noticed that while some of the goats were fighting to get in; others stayed out as if their life depended on it.
So I said to him, “I bet it’s for this year’s kids!”
But he replied, “Big ones, little ones, they can all use it.”
Question: “So, it’s for the unhealthy goats?”
Answer: “Sick ones, healthy ones, they can all use it.”
In the end, I never did figure out which of the sheep or goats would be staying in the shelter. The Young Pioneer, however, who had its “burrow residency status” revoked, was staying there for certain. Upon its discharge, Sister-in-law sewed a small corn mask for it. The corn mask was a small cotton bag tied with string. The bag is filled with corn and placed on the lamb’s mouth, the rope tied behind its ears. This way, when it ate its special meal, no other sheep could steal from it. Cuma assigned me a new task: when the sheep return, put the mask on Young Pioneer and wait for it to finish eating before putting it in the pen.
He announced to everyone, “All right, from now on, this will be Li Juan’s only responsibility!”
I complained, “But that’s a difficult job.”
He asked why. I said, “It takes a long time to find the sheep, a long time to put the mask on, a long time to wait for it to eat the corn, then take the mask off, then run it into the shelter—all in the freezing cold!”
He laughed as he translated my words for Sister-in-law, gesticulating and embellishing. Then he added, “This winter, Li Juan will herd one sheep!”
In reality, there was no need to search for Young Pioneer. As soon as I dangled the corn mask in front of the flock, the red neckerchief emerged, rushing toward me, nibbling my hand, ramming my waist, harassing me incessantly.
But all good times come to an end. One day, Cuma said, “Don’t give it any more corn! Look at how high it hops, it’s completely cured!”
I didn’t care and continued to give it the special treatment … after all it was a lamb that almost didn’t make it through the long winter! It nearly died, so it deserved endless comforting.
* * *
EVER SINCE THE SHELTER was created, herding sheep into the pen became strenuous work. Once they were inside, we had to pick out the sick sheep one by one and enforce social welfare upon them. Fortunately, a few days of the good life was all it took before the sick began making their own way into the shelter. But a couple of dummies, their brains apparently frozen, forced Cuma and Sister-in-law to look for them in the dark with flashlights and manually drag the ingrates where they belonged.
On those coldest nights, the clear black sky was only lit with a gradually waxing new moon and a light they called “Chulpan” (even though it was the planet Venus). Using our flashlight, we searched for the last few sick sheep that slipped through. We searched again and again, silent and patient. Despite the howling wind, squeezing among a flock of sheep left us feeling warm and at ease. When all the patients had been gathered, we drew the curtain around their corner, closed off the main pen’s exit, carefully sealed the cracks with pieces of felt to prevent the sheep sleeping near the exit from catching a cold, and left. Soon, the sheep crouched down, one by one, and drifted off to sleep. The night is long. Keep warm and wait for the light.
* * *<
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TOWARD THE END OF JANUARY, Cuma started to carry a felt bag with him to pasture for the expecting ewes—it was to wrap up the newborn lambs. Even though the best lambing season wasn’t until the warmer months of April and May, there were always a few disobedient little ones who arrived early. These lambs enjoyed the same special treatment as the Young Pioneer, starting their lives in the burrow.
In February, the days began to lengthen and the weather gradually warmed. It was time for the two families to clean out the sheep pen once more. They dug down a foot deep, using the manure to thicken the walls to more than three feet and increasing their height a fair bit too. This was to prepare for the impending windy season.
In mid-February, the “hospital wing” was torn down. When the flock returned in the evening, only the goats went into the main pen, while the sheep lay for the time being halfway up the sand dune to the east. It wasn’t until the middle of the night, when the temperature reached its lowest, that the rest of the flock was herded inside. Cuma said as the days get warmer, the bellies of the pregnant sheep get bigger, the pen gets smaller, and being squeezed too close together will make them too hot.…
Whenever we discussed the future, Cuma would talk about the spring pasture. Our spring pasture ran beside the national highway through a place called Sanchakou. Setting out from the banks of the Ulungur River to the north, it was a three- to four-day walk (without newborn lambs, it would have only been two days). The flock would stay there for a little over a month. After the spring lambing was finished, they’d continue north toward Kiwutu and proceed into the summer pasture from there.
Kama gleefully listed off all the good things about Sanchakou: no need to stay in a burrow or a yurt, we would sleep in a brick house instead! And there’s cell-phone signal by the road! … And how Kiwutu was great too, good cell signal, and warm enough to wear a T-shirt … and how great the summer pasture was, the water was good, the grass was good—even Apa would be living with them there … all which set my imagination ablaze, giving me the urge to follow them one season after the next! But Cuma had to be a jerk about it, always talking about how I only herded one sheep all winter long.…