by Chi Zijian
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Family Tree
Title Page
Part One: Dawn
A long-time . . .
Part Two: Mid-Day
Once the flames . . .
Part Three: Dusk
It is dim . . .
Part Four: The Last Quarter of the Moon
The day is . . .
Copyright
About the Book
‘A long-time confidante of the rain and snow, I am ninety years old. The rain and snow have weathered me, and I too have weathered them’.
At the end of the twentieth-century an old woman sits among the birch trees and thinks back over her life, her loves, and the joys and tragedies that have befallen her family and her people. She is a member of the Evenki tribe who wander the remote forests of north-eastern China with their herds of reindeer, living in close sympathy with nature at its most beautiful and cruel.
An idyllic childhood playing by the river ends with her father’s death and the growing realisation that her mother’s and uncle’s relationship is not as simple as she thought. Then, in the 1930s, the intimate, secluded world of the tribe is shattered when the Japanese army invades China. The Evenki cannot avoid being pulled into the brutal conflict which marks the first step towards the end of their isolation …
In The Last Quarter of the Moon, prize-winning novelist Chi Zijian, creates a dazzling epic about an extraordinary woman bearing witness not just to the stories of her tribe but also to the transformation of China.
About the Author
Chi Zijian was born in Mohe in 1964. She started writing while at school and had her first story published in Northern Literature magazine when she was at college. She is the only writer to have won the Lu Xun Literary Award three times. The Last Quarter of the Moon also won the Mao Dun Literary Award. Her work has been translated into many languages.
The Last Quarter of the Moon
Chi Zijian
Translated from the Chinese by Bruce Humes
PART ONE
DAWN
A LONG-TIME confidante of the rain and snow, I am ninety years old. The rain and snow have weathered me, and I too have weathered them.
Nowadays the summer rains are more and more sporadic, the winter snows lighter by the year. They’re like my roe-deerskin under-bedding, which has shed its hairs from constant rubbing. Its thick undercoat has vanished with the wind, leaving behind scars accumulated over many moons. Seated on the deerskin, I’m like a hunter watching over a salt lick, but rather than deer with their beautiful erect horns, fierce winds swirling with sand await me.
When Shiban and the others left moments ago, the rain arrived. For more than two weeks the sun has appeared red-faced each morning, and in the evening descended yellow-faced into the mountains, never draping itself in clouds.
The blazing sunlight has licked the river water thin, and the grass on the hillsides that face the sun bows in submission.
I don’t fear drought, but I fear the sound of Maksym crying. When the moon was full Lyusya wept, but Maksym covered his face and bawled as soon as he discovered the zigzagging crevices in the earth due to the great dry. They were like poisonous snakes out to kill him. I’m not afraid of crevices like that. In my eyes, they are the earth’s thunderbolts.
An’tsaur is cleaning up the campsite in the rain.
Is Busu a place that lacks for rain? I ask An’tsaur. Did Shiban have to take the rain with him when he left the mountains?
An’tsaur straightens up, sticks out his tongue, licks the raindrops and laughs in my direction. When he smiles, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and on his cheeks smile too – the corners of his eyes in chrysanthemum patterns, his cheeks in sunflower patterns. The rain nestles like drops of dew among his wrinkled blossoms.
Only An’tsaur and I remain behind in our urireng. The others descended the mountains this morning in trucks with their belongings and their reindeer. We used to leave the mountains years ago, travelling to Uchiriovo and, more recently, to Jiliu Township where we would exchange our antlers and pelts for items like liquor, salt, soap, sugar and tea. Then we would return to the mountains.
But this time they’ve left for good. They’re going to a place called Busu. Beriku told me Busu is a big town at the foot of the mountains where many white-walled, red-topped houses have been built to serve as fixed residences. There are reindeer pens ringed by barbed wire, and from now on the reindeer will be cooped up.
I won’t sleep in a room where I can’t see the stars. All my life I’ve passed the night in their company. If I see a pitch-dark ceiling when I awake from my dreams, my eyes will go blind. My reindeer have committed no crime, and I don’t want to see them imprisoned either.
If I can’t hear those reindeer bells ringing like rippling water, I’ll certainly go deaf. My legs and feet are accustomed to the jagged mountain paths, and if I have to walk the narrow, flat walkways of the town, my legs will become so flabby that they’ll no longer support my weight, and I’ll become a cripple. I’ve always breathed the fresh air of the mountain wilderness, and if I have to inhale the farts emitted by the cars in Busu, I’ll suffocate.
My body was bestowed by the Spirits, and I shall remain in the mountains to return it to the Spirits.
Two years ago, Tatiana called the urireng together to vote on whether to leave the mountains. She gave each person a square of white birch bark, and those in favour of departing were to place their square on the Spirit Drum left behind by Nihau.
The Spirit Drum was quickly covered by birch bark, as if the Heavens had snowed goose feathers.
I was the last to rise. Unlike the others, I didn’t walk towards the Spirit Drum but towards the fireplace, and I cast my birch bark there. It quickly turned to ash in the golden flames. As I emerged from the shirangju, I heard Tatiana crying inside.
I’d expected Shiban would gobble up his birch bark. Even when he was very young he liked to munch on bark, and he can’t leave the forest behind. But in the end, he placed his square on the Spirit Drum like the others. I felt like it was his very sustenance that he put there. If he’s taking such a bit of food with him, sooner or later he’ll starve. I suppose Shiban must have agreed to leave the mountains on account of pitiful Vladimir.
An’tsaur put his square on the Spirit Drum too, but his action didn’t mean anything. Everyone knew he didn’t comprehend what he was called to do. He just wanted to get rid of the birch bark sooner so he could get back to his chores. An’tsaur likes to work. That day a wasp sting had swollen a reindeer’s eye, and he was busy applying herbs to it when Tatiana called him for the vote.
An’tsaur entered the shirangju, saw Maksym and Suchanglin place their squares on the Spirit Drum, and so he did too. The only thing on his mind was that reindeer’s swollen eye.
But unlike the others, An’tsaur didn’t lay the birch bark down reverently. He released it from his hand nonchalantly as he exited the shirangju, like a soaring bird oblivious to the loss of a feather.
Even though only An’tsaur and I are in the camp, I don’t feel a bit lonely. As long as I’m living in the mountains, even if I’m the last human being, I won’t feel lonely.
I return to the shirangju, take a seat on my deerskin under-bedding, drink tea and watch over the fire.
Whenever we moved camp, we always took along the live cinders. But this time Tatiana and the others abandoned them here. Days without fire are cold and dark, and I truly feel sad and worried for them. They say that every house in Busu has a fire, so they won’t need those coals any more.
But I imagine fire in Busu doesn’t originate in the forest wit
h the striking of a stone against flint. There will be no sunlight or moonlight in Busu’s fire. How can a fire like that illuminate your heart and eyes?
This fire I watch over is as ancient as me. In the face of fierce winds, heavy snow or torrential rain, I never let it die out. This fire is my beating heart.
I’m not a woman who excels at storytelling, but at this moment, as I listen to the swishing of the rain and watch the dancing flames, I long for someone with whom to speak.
Tatiana has gone, Shiban has gone, and even Lyusya and Maksym have gone, so to whom shall I tell my story? An’tsaur isn’t keen on talking or listening.
Then let the rain and the fire listen to my tale. For I know these foes, like human beings, have ears too.
***
I am an Evenki woman.
I am the wife of our people’s last Clan Chieftain.
I was born in the winter. My mother is called Tamara, and my father Linke.
The day Mother gave birth to me, Father killed a black bear. He located a hollow tree trunk where a bear was hunkered down in his winter storehouse, and he provoked him with a birch pole. Anger spurs bile production, swelling the gall bladder, so Father waited until the hibernating bear was enraged before he raised his hunting rifle and shot him dead.
That was Father’s lucky day. He reaped a double harvest: a bear’s plump gall bladder and me.
The first sound I heard as I came into the world was the screeching of ravens. But they weren’t real ravens. Because a bear had been killed, the entire urireng had gathered for a feast. We worship the bear, so when we eat its flesh we shriek like ravens – Ya! Ya! Ya! – to convince the bear’s soul that these jet-black birds – and not human beings – are dining on its carcass.
Children born in the winter often take sick and die because of the bitter cold, and I had an elder sister who perished like that. The day she was born the sky was heavy with snow, and Father was out searching for a lost reindeer.
It was very windy, and a fierce gust lifted up one corner of the shirangju that Mother had constructed especially for giving birth. My sister caught cold and lived just two days.
When a fawn dies, at least it leaves a pretty hoof print on the forest floor. But my sister departed like the wind that ravaged her. Just a split second’s sigh and then a deafening silence.
She was placed in a white cloth bag and flung on a south-eastern hillside facing the sun. Mother was devastated. So when she bore me, she wrapped the animal hides good and tight around the shirangju, fearful that another gust of frigid wind would stick out its man-eating tongue and make off with her infant.
Of course, Mother only told me all this when I was grown. ‘The night you were born,’ she said, ‘they lit a bonfire on the snowy ground, and the whole urireng feasted on bear meat and danced. Nidu the Shaman danced right into the flames, but though his buckskin boots and roe-deerskin coat were covered in sparks, they weren’t even singed.’
Nidu the Shaman was our urireng’s Headman. I addressed him as Egdi’ama – Uncle – since he was my father’s elder brother. My memories commence with him.
Besides my sister who vanished with the wind, I had another elder sister, Lena. One autumn Lena grew sick. She lay in the shirangju on the deerskin under-bedding with a high fever, not eating or drinking, drifting in and out of sleep, and talking gibberish.
Father built a four-pole shelter outside the south-east corner of our shirangju, slaughtered a white reindeer, and requested that Nidu the Shaman perform a Spirit Dance for Lena.
Egdi’ama was a man, but since he was a Shaman, he was obliged to dress like a woman. When he performed a Spirit Dance, his chest was padded. He was very stout, and after he donned the weighty Spirit Robe and Spirit Headdress, I thought he wouldn’t even be able to turn around. But he whirled about with great agility as he struck the Spirit Drum.
He danced and chanted from sunrise until the stars appeared, all the while searching for Lena’s umai, her fledgling soul. Suddenly he collapsed.
The instant he dropped, Lena sat up. She asked Mother for water, and she even said she was hungry.
When he came to, Nidu the Shaman told Mother that a grey fawn had gone to the dark realm on Lena’s behalf.
Mother took my hand and led me out of the shirangju. In order to entice the does to return rather than gorge on mushrooms far away, we tied up their fawns in the campsite. In the starlight I saw one of these fawns – bursting with playful energy just a while before – motionless on the ground. I grasped Mother’s hand tightly and felt a ghostly shiver run down my spine. That shiver is my earliest memory. I must have been four or five.
***
The only dwellings I ever saw as a child were our shirangju, which are shaped like umbrellas. We have another name for them too: Abode of the Immortals.
They’re easy to construct: you chop down twenty or thirty larch trees, saw the trunks into poles about twice a man’s height, peel off the bark, sharpen one end, and gather the poles together with the sharp ends pointing to the sky. The poles are evenly spaced in the soil, like countless dancing legs forming a big circle, and then a covering is wrapped around them to protect against the wind and the cold. In the early days we covered them with birch bark and animal hides, but later we used canvas and felt.
I like living in a shirangju. It has a tiny opening at the top that serves as an exit for smoke from the hearth. At night I gaze at the stars through this tiny opening. Only a handful of stars are visible from there, but they are exceptionally bright, like oil-lamps held aloft by the shirangju.
Father preferred not to go to Nidu the Shaman’s dwelling, but I loved to visit, for inside lived more than just a human being; Spirits lived there too. We call our Clan Spirits Malu. They were packed inside a leather bag, and the shrine was directly opposite the entrance. Before the adults went hunting they often kowtowed to the Malu.
This made me very curious. I begged Nidu the Shaman to untie the bag and let me see the Spirits. Were They made of flesh? Could They speak? Did They snore in the middle of the night like humans? Whenever Nidu the Shaman heard me speak like that about the Malu, he grabbed his drumstick and chased me out.
Nidu the Shaman and Father didn’t act like blood brothers at all. They rarely spoke and never hunted together. Father was very lean, but Nidu the Shaman was pudgy. Father was a master hunter, while Nidu the Shaman often returned empty-handed. Father was talkative, but even when Nidu the Shaman summoned everyone in the urireng to discuss a serious matter, his words were few and disconnected.
It is said that the night before I was born, Nidu the Shaman dreamed that a white fawn would arrive in our camp. This was auspicious, so he showed unmatched joy at my birth, drank more than his share of liquor and that was what made him dance right into the bonfire.
***
Father loved playing jokes on Mother. In the summertime he often pointed at her and warned: ‘Tamara, Ilan is nipping at your dress!’
Ilan was our family’s hunting dog. Ilan means ‘ray of light’, so I especially loved to call for him when the sky grew dark. I thought when he came running he might bring some brightness along. But he was just like me, a shapeless shadow in the darkness.
Mother’s yearning for summer wasn’t born of a desire to see the forest flowers blossom – she just wanted an excuse to slip on one of her dresses, for she loved to dress up. When she heard that Ilan was chewing on her dress, she’d leap up and Father would chortle gleefully. Mother liked to wear her grey dress, which was embellished with a green waistband, wide in the front and narrow at the back.
With her strong arms and sturdy legs, Mother was the most capable woman in our urireng. She had a wide forehead, and she squinted as she smiled, giving her a very gentle expression. Other women always wrapped their heads in blue headscarves, but she left hers uncovered, coiling her thick, jet-black hair in a chignon fixed with a moon-white hairpin of polished deer bone.
‘Tamara, come quick!’ Father often summoned her just like he summ
oned us. Mother would saunter over, and Father would give her lapel a tug, pat her on the behind, and announce: ‘It’s nothing. Off you go!’ And Mother would purse her lips and silently return to her chores.
Lena and I learned chores from Mother: how to tan a hide, smoke meat-strips to make jerky, milk reindeer, make a birch-bark basket or canoe, sew roe-deerskin moccasins and gloves, make a reindeer saddle, and how to bake khleb, our unleavened bread.
Father felt envious when he saw us flutter about Mother like butterflies bewitched by a flower. ‘Tamara,’ he would say, ‘you must give me an utu.’ A son, that is. Like other Evenki girls, Lena and I were unaaji. Father dubbed Lena his big unaaji, so I became his little unaaji.
Deep in the night, we could often hear the sound of wind blowing outside our shirangju. In winter it was mingled with the cries of wild animals, while the summer wind carried the hooting of owls and the croaking of frogs.
Inside our shirangju there were wind-sounds too, ones that were created from Father’s panting and Mother’s murmuring. Ordinarily, Mother never called Father by his name, but deep in the night when they made their wind-sounds, she would call out fervently, her voice quivering: ‘Linke! Linke!’ As for Father, he would struggle for breath like a strange beast on the verge of death.
I thought they must both be gravely ill. But they would wake and go about their chores with warm, rosy faces the next morning. In the midst of one of those flurries, Mother’s tummy grew bigger and bigger, and not long after, my brother Luni was born.
Tamara loved Luni. She could have easily left him in the birch-bark cradle when working, but no, she carried him on her shoulder. This meant she couldn’t wear her polished deer-bone hairpin, since Luni was forever trying to grab and chew it. The hairpin was pointed, and my mother feared that he would cut his mouth on it. But I liked her best with that hairpin in place.
Lena and I adored Luni too, and we competed to hold him. He was good and plump, like a roly-poly bear cub, and he gurgled and dribbled saliva onto my neck, which felt like a creeping caterpillar. How it tickled! In the winter we liked to run a squirrel’s tail across Luni’s face, and he’d giggle uncontrollably. In the summer we carried him piggyback down to the riverside and snared dragonflies in the reeds to show him.