by Jiang Rong
Now they breathed a sigh of relief, no longer having to worry that the cub might bite someone. But for several days they were saddened by what they’d done. “Trimming a wolf’s fangs is crueler than castrating a man,” Yang Ke commented.
Chen had to ask himself, “Have we moved too far from our original purpose in raising a cub?”
They also felt bad about the books lent to Little Peng. Among the hundred or so students in the brigade, only they had brought along cases of classics condemned as “feudal, capitalist, and revisionist.” After the first two stormy years, tedium and boredom had spurred the students to begin devouring the banned books in secret. Once a book was lent out, there was little hope of ever getting it back. But Chen had had no choice. Bao Shungui would certainly have killed the cub when the leaders heard about what had happened. As it turned out, the classics did their job; for a long time no one in the brigade learned that Chen Zhen had been bitten by his wolf cub.
28
East-central Inner Mongolia probably has more mosquitoes than anywhere in the world. They find welcoming habitation in the many rivers and lakes, the tall, dense grass, and the dens of hibernating marmots; they live on an endless supply of blood, cold and hot: the blood of humans, cattle, and sheep, plus that of field mice, hares, snakes, marmots, and Mongolian gazelles. Swarms of them, crazed from feasting on wolf blood, had recently all but destroyed the nerves of a sixteen-year-old student, who was sent back to Beijing.
That summer was a particularly bad year for mosquitoes.
One afternoon, Chen Zhen sat inside the protection of his mosquito net reading. He got up, put on a beekeeper’s mask, picked up a fly whisk made of horsehair, and walked out of the tightly sealed yurt to see how the wolf cub was doing. It was the time of day when the fiercest mosquito attacks occurred. Chen walked into a clamor more terrifying than an air-raid siren.
The big yellow Olonbulag mosquitoes lack the intelligence of wolves, and attack with greater disregard for their own survival. They will go after any creature as soon as they smell out its existence and have no concern over how many of them will die from a lethal tail swish by horse or cow; in fact, the crushed bodies of their splattered comrades are likely to send them into a blood lust.
The window of Chen’s protective mask was virtually closed by the swarming mosquitoes. He was terrified to see that they not only swarmed in great numbers but appeared larger than normal. Their wings never stopped moving, so fast that only their bodies, the size of tiny shrimp, were visible to the naked eye, and he suddenly felt like a man who had sunk into a lake and was looking up at vast schools of plankton.
Chen’s fettered white horse had no interest in grazing as it stood in the middle of a fertilizer trough. Filled with sheep dung, and devoid of even a blade of grass, it offered some respite from the mosquitoes. Some, but not enough, since the insects had blanketed the horse’s hide like a layer of rice husks. The horse spotted Chen approaching, preceded by the fanlike motions of a whisk, and inched toward him. Chen quickly removed the fetters and led the horse over to the oxcart, where there were fewer mosquitoes, then replaced the fetters. The horse’s head never stopped bobbing, the tail angrily fanning the air around its belly, rear legs, and flanks, while its mouth was its only weapon against attacks from the front. Tens of thousands of the insects parted the hair on the horse’s hide and buried their sucking needles in its flesh. When their bellies were full, they looked like little wolfberries, red and shiny. The horse swished its tail with all its might, producing bloodred splotches where it landed, until its tail was wet with blood, the hairs sticking together like a rug. Its tail produced a blood-soaked killing field; the once white animal now looked like a horse that had run a gauntlet of bloodthirsty wolves.
Chen used his whisk to help drive mosquitoes away from his horse’s back and front legs. The animal displayed its gratitude by bowing its head. But more mosquitoes gathered around them, wave after wave, and Chen’s horse could not free itself from them.
Chen’s thoughts were on the wolf cub, so he left the horse and ran over to the pen, where the hole was half filled with water, making it impossible for the cub to hide from the mosquitoes. His thin summer coat was little protection against the attacking needles, and the exposed skin on his nose, ears, eyelids, face, head, and belly were under such an assault that the poor animal was on the verge of madness. For grassland mosquitoes, wolf blood may be a tonic, which is why the cub was attracting a yellow cloud of flying attackers. Rolling around on the ground had no effect, and he was driven to running madly around his pen, unwilling to expose his tongue as he reached a stage of exhaustion; had he opened his mouth to breathe, he’d have sucked insects into his throat. After a moment, he stopped running, folded himself into a ball, with his hind legs under him and his front legs covering his nose. Chen was amazed to discover that the young wolf, a tyrant of the grassland, could be brought to such an ignominious state by mosquitoes. And yet the cub’s eyes were full of life, his gaze as penetratingly arrogant and unyielding as ever.
Bilgee had said to Chen, “Mosquito plagues are always followed by wolf plagues, because the killer insects leave starved, crazed wolves in their wake, for which humans and their livestock pay a price. The greatest terror on the grassland is linked plagues, especially mosquitoes and wolves.” A climate of fear had settled over the entire brigade.
The cub was obviously being worn out, but didn’t appear to have lost weight. The onslaught of mosquitoes continued day and night, yet he ran around the pen even more than usual. Faced with the fury of the mosquito plague, his obstinate nature held fast; his appetite did not diminish even a little. The young wolf actually fleshed out in the midst of the plague-filled season. Chen was like a doting father. As long as there was meat to eat and water to drink, the cub could withstand anything.
But now, with no warning, the cub began leaping around as if demented. A mosquito had managed to squirm under his belly and stick its needle into his little pecker. The excruciating pain left him no choice but to stop trying to evade the attacking mosquitoes and raise his rear leg to attend to his cherished appendage with its teeth; the moment he did that, hundreds of mosquitoes swarmed over his belly, causing such unbearable pain that he writhed in agony.
Leaving the cub to his afflictions, Chen grabbed his scythe, threw the willow basket over his back, and ran toward a culvert on the western hill where mugwort grew. The year before, when there were far fewer mosquitoes, he’d gone there with Gasmai to cut down mugwort. Soon after moving to the new grazing land, the rains came and Chen had gone out to determine where the mugwort grew most plentifully. Although the rains brought the mosquito plague, they also fed vast areas of mugwort, and as the plague of blood-sucking insects reached its peak, the medicinal odor of the plant filled the air. Chen looked up at Tengger and said, “This plant is what makes human survival on the grassland possible.”
There wasn’t a breath of wind down in the grassy culvert, and Chen’s denim shirt was soaked with sweat. Swarms of mosquitoes buried their needles halfway into the thick fabric, and Chen could not pull them out; the shirt was transformed into a pincushion of flying insects. He had no time to worry about that; he’d let them die there, impaled in his shirt. But then he felt a stabbing pain on his shoulder; he swatted the spot and drew back a bloody imprint.
Chen entered the patch of mugwort, where the number of mosquitoes dropped off dramatically. The plants, with gray-blue-white stalks, grew at least three feet high; the leaves had a succulent, downy surface. A bitter medicinal plant, mugwort went untouched by cows, sheep, and horses, which is why it grew in such profusion. As soon as he saw the tall plants, he slowed down, gripped his scythe tightly, and bent over cautiously into a battle stance. He and the other Beijing students had been warned by older shepherds that they should be especially careful around mugwort when they were out tending their flocks; since there were few mosquitoes, wolves often hid within these patches, rolling around and crushing the plant to coat their fur with the acrid smell, a
natural mosquito repellent.
Not daring to venture too far into the patch without his dogs, Chen stopped and shouted twice. He detected no movement. He waited a few moments, then walked slowly in among the plants, where he felt surrounded by the miracle of salvation. He took aim at the densest patch he could see and began chopping like a madman, staining his scythe green and saturating the air with the strong medicinal odor. He breathed in deeply, as if to fill his innards with the smell.
After packing his basket with cut mugwort, Chen headed back, almost running, picking up a handful of the stuff along the way, squeezing out its juices, and rubbing it on the back of his hand. As expected, the exposed skin attracted few mosquitoes.
As soon as he was back in his yurt, he stoked the fire in the stove with dried cow dung, then ran outside to bring in seven or eight chipped water basins from the willow basket. Choosing the biggest of the lot, he dumped in some smoldering dung and covered it with mugwort. Dense white smoke reeking of mugwort rose immediately.
Chen carried the basin to the edge of the cub’s pen, upwind, and watched as a breeze spread the smoke out over the pen. Mugwort is the mosquito’s deadliest enemy; they retreat at the first whiff even if they’re drawing blood from a victim at the time. It took only a moment for the greater half of the pen to be clear of mosquitoes.
The mugwort had come to the cub’s rescue, but the sparks from the burning dung and the smoke made him tremble with fear. With a terrified look in his eyes, he leaped and ran as far away from the basin as the chain would allow, where he continued to struggle. Like all animals in the wild, he was deathly afraid of fire and smoke. Chen knew that this fear had been passed down generation after generation by the cub’s ancestors. He added more mugwort to the fire and shook the basin to surround the young wolf with the smoke. He’d have to train the cub to adapt to the smoke treatment, since that was the only way he’d survive the terrible mosquito plague. Out in the wild, his mother would have led him up the mountain or over to a patch of mugwort in order to escape from the mosquitoes. But here at the camp, Chen was obliged to be a surrogate parent and smoke the mosquitoes away.
The smoke billowed and the wolf cub struggled, nearly strangling himself. But Chen refused to be moved; he kept adding more plants to the fire. Eventually, the cub stopped struggling, exhausted, and was forced to stand amid the smoke and shiver. Fearful of the smoke though he was, he seemed more relaxed now that the mosquitoes were gone. Finding that strange, he looked all around, then lowered his head to examine his belly. The little marauders that had poked around down there, making him leap into the air, were gone too. The look in his eyes was a mixture of confusion and joy as his spirits soared.
The smoke kept rolling toward the cub, who cringed when he saw it; and when a couple of sparks flew out of the basin, he nearly flew over to a spot as far away from the smoke as he could get. But all that earned him was an encirclement by waiting mosquitoes, which attacked him mercilessly. When covering his face did nothing to help the situation, he started running around madly once again. As his speed slowed after a dozen or so revolutions, he suddenly seemed to grasp the reality that there were fewer mosquitoes in some places than in others, and that those places were under the clouds of smoke. He stared wide-eyed and disbelieving at the white smoke, but soon spent more time in it than out of it. The cub, a smart youngster, sped up his thought processes to analyze what was happening around him. Still, the fear of smoke would not leave, and he floundered between smoke and no smoke.
The dogs lying beneath the oxcart quickly discovered the smoke. Grassland dogs all know the virtues of the white smoke. Their eyes lit up as they excitedly led the younger dogs over to the smoky refuge; now that the mosquitoes had left their bodies, they staked out positions where the smoke was thick enough, but not too thick, and stretched out comfortably, fully enjoying the chance to sleep. This was the young dogs’ first encounters with the benefits of mugwort smoke. They followed the adults into the smoky air and rejoiced; they too found spots to lie down and rest. The restricted area that comprised the cub’s pen was quickly occupied by half a dozen dogs that lay there, a sight that seemed to surprise the cub.
His happiness manifested in his squints, his open mouth, and his upturned tail. He often tried to get the dogs to come play with him, but they invariably ignored him. But on this day they came without being invited, all of them, including Yir, the bitch who hated the cub, and the cub was more excited than if he’d been given half a dozen fat mice. His fear was immediately forgotten as he rushed into the cloud of smoke and jumped onto Erlang’s back, then rolled around with one of the female puppies. Now the lonely wolf was part of a happy family. He smelled them, kissed them, and licked them all over and over. A happier wolf, Chen Zhen thought, would be hard to find.
With all the dogs and one wolf cub, the limited amount of smoke began to lose some of its potency, and the pen’s generous “master” was nudged out of the stream by the canine visitors to his territory. He tried to move back in, but the two male puppies blocked his way. He was obviously puzzled, and endured the attacks by mosquitoes as he tried to figure out the dogs’ behavior. A few moments later, the light of understanding shone in his eyes. The questioning look was gone. He knew that the dogs had come not for his company, but for the white smoke, smoke that he had feared but that was a comfort zone where none of the wretched mosquitoes dared to enter. But it was his place. For the first time in his young life, he had gotten the worst of a situation, and that made him angry. He charged into the cloud of smoke, claws poised and fangs bared, to drive the puppies out of his territory. One defiantly refused to budge and was dragged away from the smoke by his ear, crying out in pain. The cub recaptured his spot, where the smoke was thick enough to keep mosquitoes away but not thick enough to choke him, and lay down to enjoy in comfort the freedom from mosquitoes. The cub, whose inquisitiveness and need to get to the bottom of things were so well developed, kept his eye on the basin, fascinated by the way smoke spewed from it.
Chen heard the sound of approaching horse hooves. His horse too was seeking refuge in the white smoke. He ran up, removed the fetters, led the horse over to the far edge of the wolf pen, and then replaced the fetters. The thick layer of “rice husks” flew up into the sky, and the white horse snorted heavily, lowered its head, and fell asleep, its eyes still half open.
In the midst of the great mosquito plague, the mugwort basin, like a delivery of coal in a snowstorm, brought salvation to a wolf cub, an adult horse, and half a dozen dogs. The eight creatures were all Chen’s beloved animals, and he was comforted by the thought that he’d been able to come to their aid when they most needed it.
Mugwort fires were lit in all the brigade camps that night, hundreds of them releasing dense smoke in the moonlight and creating an image of giant dragons rolling and dancing in the air. It was as if the primitive grassland had suddenly entered the industrial age, with factory chimneys spewing white smoke to create a magnificent panorama. The smoke not only held off the crazed mosquitoes but also had an awesome effect on the wolves, who had been starving under the plague.
Sometime before dawn, Chen saw that a few of the distant camps were no longer burning mugwort. He then heard shouts from women on the night watch and the sounds of Beijing students driving their sheep home. Either they had used up all their mugwort or someone was hoarding his precious dried cow patties.
The mosquito swarms grew denser, the movement among them more intense, the buzzing louder. Peace no longer reigned at half the brigade’s camps, where human shouts and dog barks rose in the night, in which more and more beams from flashlights were visible.
Suddenly the night quiet was shattered by two rapid gunshots, and Chen Zhen’s heart sank. The wolf pack had struck again. After enduring unimaginable suffering from mosquito bites, they had spotted an opening. Chen sighed as he wondered whose head this calamity had fallen onto. At the same time, he was comforted by the thought of how his fascination with wolves had worked to his adva
ntage. The more one understood the wolves, the less vulnerable one was to disaster.
The grassland returned to stillness after a while. Shortly before sunrise, dew began to settle, wetting the wings of the mosquitoes to keep them grounded. The fires died out gradually, but the dogs remained alert as always, making their rounds to see that all was well. It must be about time for the women to come out and milk the cows, Chen estimated, which meant that the wolf pack had retreated. He covered his head with a pair of thin fur jackets and fell fast asleep, the first real sleep he’d enjoyed over the last twenty-four hours. He slept for four solid hours.
The following day was sheer agony for Chen as he tended his sheep up on the mountain. Shortly before sunset, when he drove the flock back to camp, he felt as if the welcome mat had been laid out for him: back to camp, he felt as if the welcome mat had been laid out for him: There, stretched out on top of the yurt were two large sheepskins; the cub and all the dogs were joyfully feasting on lamb and large bones. He stepped inside to find strips of meat hanging from the rack where the bowls and utensils were kept and all along the sides of the yurt. A pot filled with meat was cooking on the stove.
“The flock at Olondun’s place up north was hit last night,” Yang told him. “Like Dorji, Olondun is a Mongol from northeastern China who came to the grassland years ago. A new bride from an area that’s half agrarian, half nomad had just come into the family, and she was still used to sleeping through the night. So after setting a few fires, she lay down and slept alongside the flock. Well, the fires went out and the sheep ran off into the wind. They met up with some wolves that killed a hundred and eighty of them and injured a few more. Fortunately, the dogs’ barks were loud enough to awaken the people in the yurts. The men grabbed their rifles and rode out, driving the wolves away with gunfire. If they’d been a little later, the whole pack would have been involved, and there wouldn’t have been many sheep left alive.”