by Susan Barker
The moon hangs low in the sky, casting its phosphorescence upon the dunes. I lie down, but I can’t sleep. When the spectral song of the sand begins, I am desolate. Though surrounded by a thousand men, loneliness wells up in me and spills out as tears. A sob, primal and deep, shudders in my chest as I suddenly understand why the souls under the sand are singing, and what they want me to do. Sobbing, I dig at the dunes with my hands. I dig and dig, like a dog burrowing for a bone, until you are shaking my shoulders and saying, ‘Turnip. Stop. This is madness.’
You pull me down. You hold me tight, binding my arms against my sides.
‘Shut your eyes,’ you command. ‘Go to sleep.’
But how can I sleep? I listen to the spectral melody. I watch the sand.
In the morning Stone-carver Peng is dead. Strangled. A choking gasp is his death mask, and his tongue is thrust out from the root. Ogre wrinkles his axe-battered nose at the corpse, as though it’s a dead cockroach or rat. He kicks sand into Master Peng’s staring eyes, before the Mongol caravan moves on, through the Singing Dunes.
Around midday the camels start behaving strangely. They gaze to the sky and moan. They bellow and snarl their lips back over their teeth. They sink to their knees and refuse to walk another step. One camel, possessed by terror, overturns a cart as he breaks out of his leather harness and gallops wildly across the dunes.
At first we are mystified. Then we see it, the dark and ominous cloud on the horizon, like a plague of insects swarming towards us. There is a roaring in our ears, growing louder and louder, as though the dark cloud is wrenching the heavens apart as it approaches. The Mongols have no time to put up yurts. They shelter behind the kneeling camels or under rugs of animal skins. The slaves huddle in groups. Outcasts from the herd, you and I crouch together, staring with foreboding as the turbulence draws near.
Everything turns dark when the storm is upon us. Tempests of sand, swept up by cyclonic forces, howl and shriek about us. The wind is deafening and the sand is everywhere, choking us and grazing our skin and robbing us of sight. I can no longer see the Mongols and ox-carts and slaves. All I see is you, who I cling to for my life. The Singing Dunes are attacking the Mongol caravan for trespassing. They are throwing a tantrum and hurling rocks to punish us, of this I am convinced. As the wind spins around us and a rock smashes against my temple, I shout in your ear, ‘We are done for. This storm will kill us!’
‘No!’ you yell back. ‘The storm is on our side. Now is our chance to escape.’ Though the choking dust has blinded us, and the howling wind blown all sense of direction away, you drag me to my feet. ‘Run!’ you shout. ‘Run!’
We run into the storm, and the sand and rocks, the teeth of the vengeful wind, rip our robes and lacerate our skin. I don’t know where we are going. I don’t know if we will survive. All I know is wherever you go, I go. Even if you are leading us to a certain death.
We run and run until the howling wind dies down, the thickness of sand thins out and the sun reappears through the yellow haze. Storm-bludgeoned and concussed, we gaze at the empty dunes stretching around us, smooth and unmarred by a single hoof or footprint. The caravan is nowhere in sight. The thousand Jurchen slaves and hundred Mongol slave-drivers are gone.
‘At last,’ you say, ‘we are no longer slaves. We are free.’
But there’s no joy in your eyes, for we are still lost in the Singing Dunes, under the man-slaying sun. Your head is bleeding and gashed, as though you fought the storm and lost. I touch the soreness of my cheeks and my fingers come away bloody, and I know I look as battered as you.
We stagger on. We don’t speak, because there is nothing to say. There is not a bird in the sky, nor any other sign of life. Only the sun, blasting like a furnace in a crematorium, determined to reduce us to ash and bone. The sun knocks the breath out of us, our strength and will to go on, and my heart is breaking with the presentiment that we will perish here in this silent, godless place. In my grief my only consolation is that at least I will die by your side.
When the lake appears in the distance, shimmering in the dunes, I think I am hallucinating. But you are staring at the apparition too. My throat a cracked, aching pipe, I croak, ‘Let’s go there, Tiger.’
You look at me with deadened eyes, which life is slowly departing from. Your voice husky and low, you say, ‘The lake does not exist. Why waste our time chasing a mirage?’
‘But the lake is due north,’ I say, ‘on the way to the end of the dunes. So why not head there? What do we lose?’
As we stagger nearer and nearer, the lake of shimmering blue does not evaporate into the sky as expected. The illusion gains in substance and reality, separating into objects of the natural world. Trees. Plants. Rocks. Grasses. A lake in the shape of a crescent moon. We can’t believe our eyes. The miracle restores our strength and we start to run. We run and trip over, sprawling on to the sand. We laugh and stagger to our feet, and run again.
The Lake of the Crescent Moon
We drink the cool, clear water and our bodies rejoice. We drink and drink as though the lake could at any moment disappear. We drink until we can drink no more, then fall on our backs and laugh at the vast blue sky. The sun is no longer our mortal enemy now we have water and shade.
The lake is curved as a sickle and surrounded by trees. We strip out of our ragged robes and round our shoulders over our pitiful nakedness. We have been starved to mere shadows of our former selves – our skin so taut over starkly jutting bones we are painful to look at. But as we slide into the lake, the water laps forgivingly at our wasted bodies. The water caresses our sores and ulcers and festering wounds, and tears of gratitude well in my eyes. Though our limbs are weak we thrash them about in joy. The filth of slavedom dissolves, and we reclaim our bodies from Mongol chattels. We swim for a while, then emerge from the waters, purified and reborn, and go to sleep naked under a tree.
We wake up hungry at dusk and rummage through the vegetation around the lake. After the monotony of the yellow and rust-coloured Gobi sand, our eyes feast on the leafy greens of the foliage. We pick and eat the bitter-tasting leaves from a low plant, and though our empty stomachs can’t digest them, they cry out for more.
‘Look!’ you cry, pointing up at a tree.
Small brown birds are hopping about in the branches. The tree is not very tall, and you reach for a low bough and climb up, your legs dangling from the crotch of the tree as your head disappears into the leaves. You come down again with a bird’s nest of speckled eggs, and one newly hatched pink and featherless baby bird. The eggshells crunch between our teeth as we chew the slimy bird foetuses and swallow them down. The baby bird opens its tiny beak, chirping with fright as you lift him from the nest. You tear into the bird’s naked, defenceless body with your teeth, detaching the head, and handing the half with the feet to me. I chew up the raw and tender meat and newly formed bones, and swallow them down. I wish there was more.
‘The other trees will have nests too,’ you say, spitting out the bird’s tiny beak. ‘And tomorrow we can trap the bigger birds.’
The onset of darkness chases us back to the shore of the lake. The moon is silver and bright above, and its paler, terrestrial imitation sways upon the waters. You are half in shadow, half in moonlight as you lean back against a tree. Your handsome eyes drift over the rocks, plants and trees as you think your thoughts. Who are you, Tiger? I wonder. Where do you come from? Who mutilated your cheeks? Though we have survived so much together, you are still a mystery to me. I reach and stroke the iron-branded scars. I stroke the wildness of your hair, snagging my fingers in knots only a knife could get rid of.
‘Stop it, Turnip,’ you growl.
But I don’t, and you lunge for me. You knock me over and we wrestle each other on the ground. As we play-fight, exchanging cuffs and blows, I feel your stiffening against my thigh and my heart swells in anticipation of what is to come.
Beyond the Lake of the Crescent Moon and our fortress of trees, the sorrowful dirge of the sa
nds has started up again. But it is not so loud and is easy to ignore.
At daybreak we go to the lake and drink and bathe. You are quiet and subdued, but your mood improves as we plot to capture the brown birds.
‘Right now we are too weak for the journey ahead,’ you say. ‘We need the meat to regain our strength.’
I nod, though I am dubious of this ‘journey ahead’. Here by our lake we have everything we need. Food, water, each other. Returning to the Singing Dunes is suicidal folly. But you will come round.
We gather reeds and weave them into bird-trapping cages. Then we lie on our stomachs under some bushes and wait for the birds to wander into the rigged, grub-baited traps. Though the birds are not used to predators, they are deft and quick. But we are patient and, after some hours, trap and kill six.
We return to the water’s edge and I pluck the feathered corpses as you make a fire out of wood. We skewer the birds by thrusting sticks down their throats, and roast them slowly over the flames. The meat is tender and satisfying. We strip the carcasses then lick the bones clean. You are silent as you eat. Moody and withdrawn. When you finally speak, you say, ‘I don’t like it here. The sooner we leave, the better. Something’s not right.’
I laugh at this. What a joker you are.
‘Yesterday we were dying in the dunes. Today we have water and shade and food. What’s not right, Tiger? This is paradise.’
You shake your head, but are unable to express your misgivings in words.
‘Think of all we have suffered,’ I continue. ‘First the famine and fall of Zhongdu. Then the Mongols lashing us with whips and forcing us to march. Then the mob of old men, baying for your blood . . .’
You nod, turning your skewer of charred, sizzling bird over the flames.
‘Those old bastards would’ve murdered you,’ I say, ‘had I not stopped them. You should be happy, Tiger. You have much to be thankful for . . .’
You stiffen and look up from your skewer. A strange look comes into your eyes as you say, ‘It was you, wasn’t it, Turnip? It was you who strangled Puppetmaker Xia and Stone-carver Peng.’
Did you know that our senses have a memory, separate from the memory of the mind? My hands twitch with the memory of squeezing their necks. My nose wrinkles at the spoiled meat of their breath and the whiff of elderly incontinent bowels. I shudder all over with the memory of their flailing, death-resisting limbs.
‘I did it to protect you,’ I say.
They were evil men through and through, and deserved to die. So why are your eyes so harsh and unforgiving, as though strangling them was somehow wrong? You drop the skewered bird in the fire and the greedy flames gobble it up. You stand up and back away from me.
‘Tiger, where are you going?’
‘Stay away from me,’ you warn.
You disappear into the trees.
You go up into the branches. The soles of your feet, dirty and pale, dangle from a bough as the rest of you is obscured by leaves. You are in a filthy temper, so I stay out of your way. I hunt for birds’ nests in the trees furthest from you. I go and swim on my own in the lake but, lonely without you, thrash my limbs with none of the joyousness of the day before. I am worried about you. Should I take you some water? You must be very hot and thirsty up in that tree.
The sunset is a lake of fire in the sky when you at last climb down. I leap up in relief as you come over to the water’s edge.
‘Tiger,’ I say, ‘come and eat. I fetched you supper.’
You ignore the bird’s nest of speckled eggs and pink baby-bird corpses I am holding out to you. You go to the lake and drink long and deep from its waters. Then you gather up the ragged robes you shed the day before, pulling them over your nakedness as though they are the last shreds of your dignity.
‘I am leaving,’ you say.
‘Leaving?’
You nod and I take a deep breath. I must dissuade you from this foolishness.
‘We can’t leave now. We are not strong enough yet. Why don’t we stay here longer? Rest more, eat more . . . We will die out there in the Singing Dunes . . .’
‘I am leaving,’ you say. ‘Without you. The time has come for us to part.’
I shake my head. Every part of me feels as though it is sinking in dismay.
‘Why don’t you want to stay with me?’ I ask.
‘You are a murderer.’
‘But aren’t you a murderer too? You fed us dead men in Zhongdu.’
‘Taking flesh from the dead is not the same as taking life from the living.’
The descending sun is an inferno in the sky. You stare out at the dunes, casting your mind to the journey ahead, and I am in agony, because I can no more make you to stay than spear your shadow to the ground.
‘Don’t go,’ I beg. ‘You can’t go. You will die out there.’
You gaze back to me and say, ‘Do you want to know how I got these scars, Turnip?’
I nod. Since the day we met, I have wanted to know.
‘When I was a child,’ you say, ‘I was sold into slavery. I ran away when I was twelve, but had only a few days of freedom before my master caught me and brought me back. He branded my face as punishment. He warned me the second time I ran away he would slit my throat. But the threat of death didn’t stop me from escaping again . . .’
You stare at me, your eyes blazing. ‘Because I would rather die than be a slave. I am a slave to no one. Not to the Mongols. Not to the Lake of the Crescent Moon. And not to you.’
‘You are not my slave!’ I protest. ‘I am your slave and you are my master. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you!’
You shake your head, as though I have failed to understand. Then, without even a farewell, you stroll out to the dunes. Sand gusts to the sky in the blustery winds, and you walk into the distance. You can’t go. We are brothers. I will die without you.
‘You are not leaving!’ I shout after you. ‘Over my dead body are you leaving!’
The sand is singing now, histrionic and shrill. My heart is thudding, valves slamming as blood surges within, and my chest heaves with the fight yet to come. For I won’t let you go without a fight.
‘Wait!’
You don’t wait. So I run and leap on your back, and we crash to the sand. Over and over we roll, and you fight me off with your fists. Your skull butts my skull. Your knee thuds my groin. And though I am in pain, I cling to you. I won’t let you go.
Other than our grunts and the dull thud of knuckles, we fight in silence. Over and over we roll, until I am straddling your chest as you are bucking beneath me, panic in your eyes as my hands close around your throat with a strength that is not my own but lent to me by the Singing Dunes. Kill him! Kill him! shrills the sand. Blood vessels bulge in your temples, and you flush with blood as I throttle you. Tears shine in your eyes, and I am stricken, for it’s the first time I have ever seen you cry. But they won’t let me stop. I wring and wring your neck, until there is nothing left to wring out.
The sun descends beneath the Singing Dunes. The flaming sky above fades to darkness and stars. The moon rises and scatters its lunar beams upon the sand. I cradle your limp body in my arms. I speak to you gently and reproachfully. What madness possessed you to make you want to leave, Tiger? We had everything we needed here at the Lake of the Crescent Moon. Why did you have to spoil everything? I admonish you, weeping tears on your branded cheeks. Then I dig a shallow grave in the sand and bury you there.
Away from the Lake of the Crescent Moon I go. I stagger through the night, the stars pulsing brightly overhead and the demons that possess the sand serenading me with their song. I walk until daybreak and I have reached the end of my strength. Then I collapse upon the Singing Dunes and spread my arms wide to embrace the sand.
‘Very well,’ I say. ‘Take me away.’
14
The Birthday Gift
THIRTY-ONE DAYS is the length of time Wang’s willpower holds out. Thirty-one days of driving in frustrated circles around Beijing as passen
gers slam in and out of his cab. Thirty-one days of being excessively irritated by roadworks, drilling and engine-thrumming traffic jams. The worst days were when the polluted sky threw a cloak of invisibility over the city, obscuring buildings a hundred metres away and darkening Wang’s mood. The pollution seems like a curse to him, the curse of the million-year-old fossils, excavated out of seams deep in the ground and burnt as fuel. The spirits of the ancient trees and animals, protesting at being dug out of their resting places with lung-blackening particulates that poison the air.
On the thirty-first day of driving around Beijing, Wang caves in. He parks the taxi and walks down the side-alley, neon-lit at dusk, past the baijiu and tobacco sellers and the prostitutes behind glass. Alone in the barber’s, Zeng beams as Wang pushes through the door. Zeng, with the fading handsome looks. Zeng, with the sinewy, wiry body of a contortionist, making Wang self-conscious of his middle-aged sag and spread.
‘Driver Wang. What can I do for you?’ he asks, and before Wang can even respond, shakes out the hairdressing cape.
Wang hands himself over to Zeng. Allows Zeng to cape him, swivel him in a chair, lather him up with shampoo, rinse him in the sink, trim and blow-dry. And then finally, wordlessly, lead him to a back room, a room of shadows and secret extramarital goings-on, messy with tissues, foil strips of condoms and pump-action dispensers of lubricant. Wang sits on the clean-sheeted, firm-mattressed bed, and Zeng sits beside him and strokes his cheek. He leans to Wang and kisses him, chastely, on the lips. ‘I have been waiting for you,’ he says. ‘I have been waiting for the past ten years.’ And Wang rests his confused and weary head on Zeng’s shoulder and closes his eyes. He does not know how long Zeng holds him for. He does not know how he ends up lying back on the bed with Zeng moving over him; his lips grazing his neck, his tongue blazing a trail of goosebumps as it roams; his hands sliding under his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. It’s as though it’s predestined, and out of his control. Later, they lie side by side, staring up at the ceiling and the halo of light cast by the lamp’s round shade as they speak in murmurs. Wang speaks of the emptiness of driving around Beijing. He speaks of feeling only half alive. ‘Except for now,’ Zeng says. He shapes cigarette smoke in his mouth and blows it out in concentric rings. Then he leans on his arm, propping his head up and gazing at Wang as though his eyes are made of electricity. Wang has to break from Zeng’s gaze. Shifting his eyes back to the ceiling, he says, ‘I liked your letter.’