by Li Juan
And yet, even after the sun set, the crescent moon remained at the same angle in the sky. Why didn’t the moon also turn? It was a mystery to me.… Then I thought, astronomers couldn’t possibly be wrong about these sorts of things. Maybe it has something to do with the way the earth’s atmosphere refracts light?
After the sun had fully set beyond the mountains, the sky, like a pristine lid, covered the earth. Where sky and earth met was a gradient shifting from cyan to red. Then it turned gradually white, then blue, until there was no more daylight. Above, the only things visible were the bright moon and the lonely Chulpan (Venus).
As I walked, I couldn’t help but sing too.
* * *
SOMETIMES, KURMASH WOULD JOIN me in welcoming back the flock. Along the way, the young man would ask me about everything, not caring whether or not I understood his questions. There was nothing I could do about it. Whatever he would say, I would reply with a smile, which seemed to satisfy him. After that, we made our way in silence.
One time, he suddenly asked, “How much was your coat?”
I said it cost one hundred and fifty yuan.
He waited in anticipation.
So I asked, “And how much was your coat?”
He said, “Mine was a hundred.”
Then he pinched my arm. “Not bad, thick material.”
I didn’t know how to reply, so I felt his sleeve as well. “Not bad either, pretty thick too.”
Then, silence. The flock was still nowhere to be seen.
He started to sing.
Walking through a hollow, he suddenly stopped and pointed at a trail of Ping-Pong ball-sized footprints stretching across the snow. He said to me that, not long ago, a black-tailed gazelle had passed through.
He had never seemed as lonely as he did in that moment.
* * *
EVER SINCE THE NEIGHBOR’S son, Rahmethan, had joined us in the wilderness, it was usually the two of us walking together. Oddly, he also kept asking me the same questions: “How much were your clothes? How much were your shoes? How much do you make a month?”
Moreover, he really wanted to know what I did for a living, but I couldn’t explain it very well. So every day, he would ask again.
One day, out of nowhere, he asked me where Huanghe, the “Yellow River,” was. I pointed toward the southeast. Then he asked me where Beijing was and I pointed in the same direction. His steps slowed as he stared in that direction, as if he could really see the Yellow River and Beijing. It wasn’t a yearning exactly, more like astonishment—so far away!
It reminded me of a joke. An old shepherd went to Beijing as a model of an ideal worker. When he returned, everyone asked him, “Is Beijing as good as they say?” With a sigh, he said, “It is good, but, sadly, it’s just too remote.”
That’s right. Beijing, so what? Yellow River, so what? In that moment, the burrow settlement upon which the dummy fixed its gaze was the center of the world.
* * *
GOING WITH NURGÜN to greet the sheep was a much livelier affair. The little girl sang and skipped and talked and played. She was constantly asking me if I knew so-and-so. I would say no. So then she would ask, how about so-and-so? But I still wouldn’t know this person. After that, she rattled off a long list of names, all which, of course, I had never heard of. She was disappointed that I wasn’t a part of her social circle.
Walking in the dusk with Kama was a rare occurrence because she had chores to do at home—like cooking and looking for the camels.
On those rare occasions, she was always singing. What little confidence she had to perform could only be expressed in the wilderness. Yet, even there, she still felt awkward about it and pretended like she simply wanted to hear some singing—so she asked me to sing. I said, “Why don’t you take the lead?” She sang one song after another, each with more passion than the one before.
I adore the way Kama sings. Her voice, though plain, is full of feeling. The melodies she weaves are always so graceful. Out on the open plain, the sound was especially powerful.
We walked along on opposite sides of the silent flock. From the other side, her voice flowed steadily and soulfully, an outpouring of feelings that could not be put into words. Once, as she sang, she suddenly stopped to say to me, “Out here, when Kazakh girls reach twenty-two, they are considered old maids.” And she was about to turn twenty.…
Kama was suspended in that delicious limbo of youth, after which she would either become a wife or an old maid. But sadly, she still didn’t have a boyfriend, or even anyone to pine for. She said her family didn’t receive many suitors because they were poor and she wasn’t exactly a catch herself.…
Immediately, she changed the subject and began listing off all the places where the flock would go next: in March, once the snow had melted, they’d head north. After a few days camped beside the Ulungur River, they would cross into the wide-open desert scrubland and slowly make their way toward the “ninety-two-kilometer point” of Interstate Highway 216, where they’d wait for the lambs and calves to be born. A month later, they’d wade through the Irtysh River and stop on its south bank in Danawuzi. After that come the rugged hills of Kiwutu. Then, they would follow the Xalasu southeast of the township to enter the Dongquer Valley. Then into the mountains until they reach the end of the mountain range at Gieles. In short, all sorts of open steppes and rugged mountains. Throughout the entire year, the amount of time the flock spent in populated areas (nearby two or three villages) totaled to about ten days across spring and autumn. In short, they were in for a lot of loneliness, a lot of waiting … but then she started singing again.
That’s right, like Kama said, an old maid at twenty-two, which made Big Sister, me, feel rather self-conscious.… I was thirty-two years old. Did that make me ten years older than an old maid?
* * *
THEN THERE WERE THE LONG, anxious nights waiting for the flock to return. Stationed on the eastern sand dune, Shinshybek held up his binoculars, scouring the wilds. He would see me approach, and casting about for something to say, would start pointing every which way, telling me where the camels were and where the horses were.
After the sun had fully disappeared, darkness rose from the earth, skyward. The moon was almost full, but it was still too dark to see much. There was only enough light to see the sky and my hands. I turned my head to listen carefully and heard nothing. But Shinshybek kept pointing east: they’re here. Sure enough, I began to hear Cuma’s shouts. Then, gradually, I could make out the undulating flock. But the camels were still crouching in the sheep’s path, with no intention of moving. When the flock reached the camels, they hesitated for a moment before splitting up to move around the obstacle like water down a stream. Under the moonlight, the camels poked out of the flock like dinosaurs raising their long necks, bulging their big eyes, acting like nothing was happening.
* * *
WHAT KIND OF STAGE was that high dune to the east? Was the world around it the curtain? I always stood center stage, turning my body to see in every direction. The scene to the west was the most spectacular. Pink clouds flowed like rivers toward the sunset. It was a vortex sucking up the world, and the sun had already been sucked in some time ago.
In the twilight, I saw a figure on horseback come to a halt on a distant dune ridge. After a short pause, he climbed down from the horse and stood next to it for a long time, shoulder to shoulder. My face felt so cold that it hurt, but the man and the horse just stood there, without moving.
In the distance, I saw Zhada walk toward the flock, singing as he went. Soon, he was nothing but a speck, but I could still hear him singing.
I saw Shinshybek gallop toward the dune ridge to the southwest, where the camels stood in twos and threes.
I saw Kama squatting by the burrow, looking at the ground. Making use of the last remnants of daylight, she was practicing her Chinese characters in the sand with a twig of dry bramble. Now and then, she took a piece of paper out of her pocket to check her work. Then t
he character was rubbed out in the sand and she’d try it again.
I saw Sister-in-law swaying her hips as she walked, leading the cattle herd out of the white snow into the black burrow settlement.
I watched as darkness continued to blanket the sky. Less than half a moon hung on the southwestern sky. The snow on the ground was glittering. Up above, the deep blue space. Down on the ground, glittering white stars.
All that time went by, with me standing there, watching, and I still couldn’t see the flock. Suddenly, I noticed a faint flickering light in the wilderness. At first, I thought something was wrong with my eyes. But a moment later, there was another flicker. As I focused my gaze, I noticed the flickering more and more frequently and regularly. Eventually, the light grew brighter and brighter until I was sure that it was a vehicle! By now I could even hear the hum of the engine. Was it a motorcycle or a car? I waited patiently as it carved a wide arc through the wilderness, closer and closer. It was a car! How exciting … who could be coming to visit our burrow settlement? And by car no less, how fancy! But, right before my eyes, the car turned eastward and soon disappeared, even as the engine’s thrum continued to reverberate.
I was so fixated on the car that I forgot about the cold. Shinshybek said we should go, the sheep had arrived. I quickly asked, where? He pointed into the twilight. I took a look and there they were! When had they managed to get so close to us? So quiet.
Waiting for the flock to return, time and again we would climb the sand dune to scan the horizon.
23.
The Cattle’s Winter
WHEN WE FIRST ARRIVED in the pastures, after having helped with the calves for three days, Cuma announced at dinner, “From now on, the calves belong to Li Juan!” What a big responsibility. So every day, whenever I had a free moment, I would climb the sand dune to the east and keep my eyes on the whereabouts of the troublesome trio. At the slightest sign of trouble, I charged in to intervene. By trouble, I mean calves and cows reuniting before it was time to go home.
There were two close calls, when over a low dune ridge to the north, the calves and cows caught sight of each other! Frantic, I chased after them desperately. My lungs stretched like a bellows and my tonsils were ready to explode. From a distance, Sister-in-law watched as I chased after this or that calf, running in circles like a headless chicken … she couldn’t help but shout, “Good enough! That’s enough! Oh Allah …”
Only later did I learn that these situations require a strategy. How can you possibly force cows away from their calves? The trick, instead, is to let them reunite. Once calves and cows are walking shoulder to shoulder, the rest is simple—just walk them home. While in motion, calves can’t make any mischief.
But what mischief could a calf really make? Indeed, it was nothing more than drinking their mothers’ milk … but if we let them drink up all the milk, then we’d have to drink our tea black. Sorry, little calves, even though you’re still young and growing, we need the comfort of milk too. We’re living a rough life too, so we have no choice but to embezzle some of your rations.…
Yet, for some reason, when the calves returned home at night, they still carried a pungent, milky aroma. I always secretly suspected that they had stolen milk from their mothers. But I had kept such a close eye on them—when would they have had the opportunity?
* * *
FOR BOTH CATTLE AND CALF, returning home at night was a happy process they were eager to begin. Back home, there was a warm cattle burrow and delicious nutritional supplements. For the calves, it was also where they found their beloved cow mamas; for the cow mamas, that’s where they found their precious baby calves.
Every evening, the first to begin heading home were always the nursing cows. Once they began moving, the other cattle had no choice but to say goodbye to the dry grass and follow suit. The closer they got to home, the more excited the cow mamas became. For the last few hundred yards, they began to sprint, mooing as they ran. The calves returned the call with just as much fervor, each charging toward its respective mother.…
Reunion! But then what? The moment they found each other, they would be tied up by the herders, and Sister-in-law would proceed to milk the cows. Before milking them, she would lead a calf over for a few sips, then tie up the calf and milk its mother as it watched. After the cow was milked, the calf would be free to feast on the very last drops left in the udder. Poor, wretched thing.…
Milking was the busiest time of the day. All the kids joined the fray, yelling and screaming, herding and lassoing. They had to get the whole herd settled in before it was dark. Cuma looked especially content during that hour, unable to peel his eyes away from Sister-in-law, who was kneeling on one leg below a cow, making a “psshh, psshh” sound with every squirt. That one frame seemed to contain all the treasures that he had come to find in this life. He walked over to a calf and slapped it on the belly, before sarcastically mocking, “Seems like you’ve been eating well!” He then slapped another calf on the belly, but this time, he kept quiet.
He pointed at a patch-faced cow that was in the process of being milked and said, “Last year, it was so cold, three of its nipples froze. Even now you still can’t milk ’em.…” One could only imagine the pain!
He then pointed to a piebald cow that was pressing tightly against a young calf and said, “Last winter, its baby died from the cold.” Then he pointed at the calf and said, “Its mother died from the cold.” So then everyone had tried to lead the pitiful calf over to suck on the equally pitiful cow’s udder. For some reason, the cow had accepted the calf immediately. From then on, they became a real pair of mother and child. All day long, the piebald cow missed its calf just as much as the other mama cows. On their way home, it ran ahead of the whole herd. When it saw its baby calf in the distance, it was so happy—so happy that there wasn’t anything else in the world that could make it happier! Why can’t cattle stand upright? Why don’t they have arms? If they did, mama cow would show the world what a real hug looks like!
Just imagine: being driven out to the pasture first thing in the morning, unable to see your mother or offspring. Only during milking were they allowed to interact for ten minutes. Of the twenty-four hours in a day, ten minutes was all they had.…
* * *
YET AS THE WEATHER grew colder, there were days when the calves returned early and—without even waiting for their mothers—filed straight into the calves’ pen, where they refused to budge. They were so cold, they couldn’t even bring themselves to drink their mothers’ milk!
The calves were perhaps the least cold-hardy of all the livestock. Whereas even on the coldest days, the cattle, on returning, would circle around the sheep pen and their own burrow a few times, looking for dried cow pies and horse dung to eat. When there wasn’t enough grass to eat, they had to make do with manure.
But on the very coldest days, even the cattle couldn’t handle it anymore. The neighbor’s cattle looked for all sorts of ways to get into our cattle burrow because their burrow still didn’t have a roof … it wasn’t just me, even Cuma was upset about it. He said, “It’s just a plastic tarp, a few bucks at most, so what if it breaks, it’s not a big deal!”
Even though the calves were the naughtiest, most annoying, unreasonable things, they were also the most pitiful. Unable to see their mothers all day, they were only allowed a few sips of milk. On top of that, they had to suffer the cold and ended up growing dirty-looking blisters all over—I don’t know what kind of blisters they are, rough and hard like dried, crusty mud that oozed blood whenever they popped. It must have been awful.… The only remedy Sister-in-law could come up with was to melt a small block of butter and rub it on the wound.
And then, there were the unforeseen accidents. Once, the rein around a calf’s neck came loose and the knotted end dropped to drag on the ground, where it somehow got caught in the cleft of the calf’s hoof. The rope was so short that the calf limped hunched over with its head pulled toward its rear, which left it straggling at the bac
k of the herd. When it needed to climb a sand dune, it was practically walking on its knees … and the rope still wedged in its tender cleft hoof, how it must have hurt! How long it remained in that state I cannot say.… After that, every morning, when I herded the calves out of their pen, I took care to check the reins to make sure that they were all nice and tight.
* * *
THROUGH THE VERY coldest period, the piebald cow became conflicted about the adopted calf, and was no longer willing to feed the youngster, headbutting it away whenever it got too close. Then, one evening, another calf inadvertently ate some of its mother’s extra snack and became immediately hooked, outright refusing to drink milk no matter Sister-in-law’s efforts to push its head toward the udders. Sister-in-law was furious.
However, the two calves had recently turned a year old, so it was time for them to be weaned off milk regardless.
Milking, from then on, was a much easier chore—now that there was no need to tether the calves anymore, and the long-fought battles at dusk had come to an end. But the calves and cows still had to be kept far apart through the day. In fact, the calves hardly ever saw their mothers again, something they seemingly had an easy time getting used to, whereas the mothers struggled without their babies.… Come dusk, the mothers were still first to rush back toward camp; they still started their anxious, incessant mooing the moment the burrow settlement came into view. Even long after the split, when they too had forgotten about their calves, the deep-seated memory of what coming home once meant still played out.
One evening a month later, when the calves returned particularly late, they passed by the piebald dairy cow that was waiting to be milked. Somehow, the mother suddenly recognized its calf, as if in a flash everything had come back to it. Instinctively, the mother dashed toward the calf to smell it, lick it. The calf, however, couldn’t have cared less. Clearly, it no longer remembered its mother.