by Shen Shixi
Taking advantage of the fact that the dogs and humans had all their attention on the leopard, she had leapt into the ditch as quickly as she could, and run far away from Doufuying. This terrible encounter had left such a deep impression on Flame that she would never be able to forget it. It had also been a lesson to her: that going to a village to look for food is like a journey through hell. It was not a last resort; she would not risk her life for this.
Yet, in the early hours of this morning, Flame made her way to Doufuying. All the houses were dark, not a single light was shining. Everyone was tucked up snugly in bed. Having followed the ill-fated leopard round this village, she was familiar with the layout. She skirted the edge of the village, then eased herself into the drainage ditch, and followed its curve round to the back of the village. Peeking out of the ditch, she looked anxiously around. The roads in the village were covered with snow, not a soul in sight, not even the shadow of a dog. But she knew that those tiresome dogs were hiding under the dark eaves of the houses, their guard dog eyes on the alert for anything that moved. The moment she emerged from the ditch, they would come growling and snapping at her. With such well-trained dogs on the scene, she would need a lot of patience.
Flame kept herself hidden in the ditch, and considered all the animals in the village. She daren’t go to the stable. Horses are such excitable animals: if a small animal crosses their path, they will toss their manes all over the place, bray at the tops of their voices, then rear up on their two hind legs, before thundering the ground with their front hooves. Or, they’ll turn round so their bottom is facing the enemy, and give a backwards kick. A horse’s hooves are hard as stone, and if you are unlucky enough to be kicked by one, it will break your bones. Flame usually tried to keep a respectable distance from horses; she did not want another tragic scene.
Next to the threshing ground was a cattle-pen with seven or eight water buffalo in it, including a six-month-old calf. It must have weighed almost ninety kilograms. If she could choose any animal in the village it would be this calf. She’d kill it, then bury it in the snow. If she was economical with it, she could make it last a fortnight, and if it didn’t snow any more during that time and she was able to supplement it with other food, then she would have enough for the rest of the winter. But this was wishful thinking, because when she glanced over the fence, she realised that in addition to the men and dogs of the village, she would also be under the scrutiny of the buffalo herd. Flame could only drool and stare. She was one jackal all on her own, and there was no way she would be able to deal with a herd of huge water buffalo. Even if she were able to kill the calf, there was no way she could drag such a heavy beast back to Buddha Belly Cave.
There was a pigsty beside the vegetable garden, with three or four lardy pigs in it. Too bad there weren’t any piglets, because the fatter the pig, the harder it is to kill. Their necks have a thick layer of fat. Lions, tigers, leopards and other big cats have a powerful lower jaw, and have no difficulty cutting through the fat and the bones on a pig’s neck. But the jackal’s lower jaw isn’t so powerful, and it might take ten bites to bring it down. What’s more, since the incident with the thieving leopard in the pigsty, the people of Doufuying had reinforced their pens, wrapping a layer of thorny caltrop around the fence. The sty was like a prison now, and it would be very difficult to make a hole in the fence. Flame’s eyes moved on to the next thing.
Next to the watermill was a sheep pen, with four or five sheep in it. Of all the farm animals, Flame liked sheep best. They are docile by nature, and tend to go with the flow. If a carnivore comes to attack, they don’t fight back, they just run for their lives. Flame had a particular liking for lambs, with their thin skin and tender meat. Lamb has a very distinctive aroma, melts in the mouth, and has a freshness that is difficult to compare. What’s more, a lamb would have been light enough for Flame to carry one back to Buddha Belly Cave.
But she shook her head, tossed aside any idea of attacking a sheep, and swallowed the saliva that was welling up in her mouth. She knew that wherever there is a flock of sheep, there will be a sheepdog, and sheepdogs are sharper than house dogs and ordinary hunting dogs. They are the elite of the dog world. They guard their master’s sheep more keenly than they guard their own lives. Not only are they strong and sturdy creatures, they have extraordinary courage: they will fight for their life against a wolf. Flame feared she was no match for a sheepdog. If this wasn’t enough, the sheep enclosure had a very strong wooden fence, about two metres high. Flame wasn’t a gnawing animal; she would not be able to chew a hole through the fence. Nor was she a scaly-backed pangolin that could tunnel through mountains; she would not be able to burrow her way underground into the sheep enclosure. Even if she could find a good vantage point from which to leap into the sheep enclosure, she wouldn’t be able to leap back out with a lamb clamped between her teeth. It would take a miracle for her to get a lamb out of this enclosure. And even if she managed it, she would not be able to escape the pack of dogs that would chase after her. Dogs are stronger than jackals, and if she had a 10 or 15 kilogram lamb in her mouth, she would not be able to run as fast as usual. She would have to find a slower pace, the dogs would soon catch up with her and snatch away the lamb, and all that hard work would have been in vain.
At the back of the village, there was a goose run by the side of the river. Geese and swans are practically blood relatives, and carnivorous animals find both of them highly desirable and highly delectable. It is not just rich people who consider swan a delicacy; jackals also love to eat swan.
But Flame quickly turned her attention elsewhere. Geese mean trouble. Although they are domestic fowl, they are very difficult to deal with: they are bold and brave, and it doesn’t matter whether you are an unfamiliar human, a weasel or a fox, as soon as you go near a goose, it will honk like mad, flap its wings and thrust its neck forward, ready to attack. No matter how bravely you resist its aggression, it will attack its enemy fearlessly.
What particularly unnerves carnivores is that flocks of geese stick together. When one goose is under attack, the others will rush to its rescue without a moment’s hesitation, and the entire flock will go for the attacker. Flame had seen this kind of thing so many times before: like the weasel that ran into a goose pen, and bit a goose on the wing. The injured goose shrieked for help, and the other geese rushed over to surround it. One went for the weasel’s tail, another for its eyes, pecking here, pecking there, pecking away non-stop. Pecking and heckling, pecking and heckling, like two bickering sides in an argument. The poor weasel was being attacked on all sides, terrified that the almighty racket would attract the attention of the humans. In this awkward situation all it could do was drop its prey, and run off.
Flame looked round at the two duck houses by the side of the pond. She would love to eat duck, that wonderfully fatty meat. They waddle when they walk, and are quite easy to catch. It was too bad that the duck house was half over water, half on land, and that there were two openings. The front one led to the thatched houses on the land, the back one to the deep jade-coloured water of the pond. If Flame burst in through the front, the ducks would rush out the back and into the pond. Jackals can swim, but they don’t much like water, and, unlike otters, they can’t swim and catch animals at the same time. What’s more, when ducks are startled they follow one another. They would jump into the pond, one by one, splashing up lots of water, startling the guard dogs, and waking their masters from their dreams. Flame would no longer be the hunter, but the hunted.
There were animals of all different shapes and sizes in Doufuying, but the only ones that were appropriate for Flame to catch were the chickens. Farm chickens can’t fly up and away in the sky like wild birds such as pheasants. What’s more, they can’t see very well in the dark, and their sense of smell and hearing is a bit dull and slow. Chickens also have the silly habit of tucking their heads under their wings when they go to sleep, which is not a very effective tactic when it comes to self-protection. It m
eans you can sneak up on a sleeping chicken, and when you are about two metres from it, it will suddenly wake up all flustered and panicky, and you can just reach out and take it. Easy peasy.
A chicken weighs about five pounds. Even if a dog spotted her catching a chicken, Flame could hold it in her mouth and still be able to run fast. She had every hope of running off with her prey. Of course, there were a few drawbacks: hen huts are usually built in farmyards, which have walls and hedges, so it is risky going in and out. The most tiresome thing though, is that for some unknown reason, most hen huts are built next to kennels, which means stealing right under a dog’s nose, right under its eyes. And that is not an easy thing to do.
Looking for food in a village where humans live cannot be without danger. Flame weighed up her chances, and decided to go after a chicken. She was both clever and experienced, so she soon thought up a plan. She decided to strike at dawn. She knew that it is a dog’s nature to be totally loyal to its owner, and to follow its instructions seriously. The stormier the weather at night, the more vigilant a dog becomes. Although it was pitch black, the dogs’ eyes were shining as bright as the snow and, if she were to move right now, her chances would be slim.
When dawn came, in the grey of daybreak, the guard dogs would have had a long hard night, and when they saw the light of the new day coming, and the challenge of the long night already passed, their vigilance would slip. The dogs would take it for granted that because nothing had happened during the night, then nothing would happen in the daylight either. They would most probably give a long stretch, as dogs do, then drift off to sleep. At this time of day, humans are still in their beds: some are just beginning to come round after a long sleep, others are yawning and pulling the covers over their heads, and retreating into the world of sleep.
It is precisely in the pale light of dawn that man and dog are at their weariest. And this would be the most profitable time for Flame to strike. Flame had passed along the mountain ridge by the front gate of the village at dawn many times before, and each time she had seen a fancy-tailed rooster jumping on to the piles of hay stacked on the threshing ground to herald the day with its crowing. It would be the perfect time to attack. She would sneak into the farm at night and rob the hen hut. The threshing ground was in the middle of the village, not far from the entrance to the drainage ditch, so it would be an easy escape. The risk would be minimal.
Flame waited patiently in the drainage ditch. She wasn’t sure how long she had been there. Then a pale sliver of light began to emerge along the horizon, like the gleam from a predator’s sharp tooth. The dark of the night was coming to a close; a new day was dawning.
If her plan was going to work, Flame needed to be by the haystacks on the threshing ground, and in position, before the fancy-tailed rooster appeared. From her hiding place in the ditch to the threshing ground was a distance of fifty or sixty metres, and would involve crossing two roads. She held her head close to the ground, listening carefully for any sounds. There were no footsteps, neither man nor dog. She leapt out of the ditch, and ran as fast as she could across the first road, and hid behind a hand tractor. She looked around, her eyes as wide as she could open them. Thank goodness the dogs were still sleeping; she hadn’t disturbed them. She was halfway there.
Flame took a couple of breaths, ran across the flat snow-covered road, and straight over to the haystacks on the threshing ground. She had covered two-thirds of the way now, and she was just looking at the precise spot she was aiming for, when the unexpected happened.
A dog suddenly appeared by the wall of the grain store. The new dawn bounced light off the snow, and Flame could see the large male dog very clearly: with its patterned coat, a mouth like a steamed bun, four strong stocky limbs, ears a bit too big like two mulberry leaves at its temples.
Flame recognised it as one of those illustrious sheepdogs. Taken aback, she dared not continue on her way to the threshing ground. She turned hastily, looking for a quiet place to hide. Thatched houses lined both sides of the road. It would have been ideal to hide in the darkness under the eaves, but that was where the guard dogs lay, and if she hid there, she’d be asking for trouble.
She caught sight of a little mound of earth by the side of the road, a dark black heap topped with a layer of white snow. She didn’t know what it was, but tossing all caution to the wind, she raced over to it, and stuck her head, then her entire body into the space between the mound and the wall.
It’s not difficult to guess what happened next. The damned dog with its big ears should have been keeping guard by the sheep pen. Sheepdogs know they are supposed to guard their master’s sheep. This fellow was clearly up to no good, creeping around in the dead of night when people are resting, and his master and flock are fast asleep. He had sneaked off to another village to join his mate. Now that day was dawning, he was rushing back to Doufuying before his master discovered he had left his post. This was the reason he had suddenly appeared by the wall of the threshing ground at daybreak.
The dog was heading for the sheep pen by the watermill. He stopped for a moment and looked with puzzled eyes at the earth mound. Perhaps he had caught a glimpse of Flame’s shadow, or heard the sound of her feet on the ground when she had turned quickly. He paused for a second to inspect the pile. If Flame hadn’t reacted so quickly and dived into the earth mound, the dog would certainly have seen her.
When she had squeezed into the narrow gap between the earth mound and the yard wall, Flame hadn’t known what the mound was. But a whiff of the stench was enough to confirm that she had made a bad choice. She had dived into a pile of manure, the village compost heap, which would be spread over the rice fields in the spring: cowpats, sheep droppings, horse urine, muddy straw from the pigsty, all mixed up together in a huge pile.
Although everything had frozen in the wintry weather, a thick, pungent odour still pervaded the pile. Flame had never come across this smell before. It was worse than rotting carcasses, more disgusting than the cesspit, more revolting than bad eggs, worse than the stink of a fox. It was overwhelming. It made her retch from deep in her belly. She wanted to paw at her nose until it fell off, because if she had no nose she wouldn’t be able to smell it, and it wouldn’t bother her any more.
The big-eared dog had walked round the manure heap, sniffing and searching. Flame lay still, not daring to move a muscle. No man or dog could see her unless they put their head through the gap and took a good look, but any noise might give Flame’s presence away. Two or three times it looked ready to jump in and check it out, but the foul odour put him off. Flame heard his little snorts of revulsion. A look of irritation spread over the dog’s face, and it gradually retreated.
The annoying dog had spotted something, but the light was dim, and it hadn’t been able to work out what it was. Was there something there? Or was it his imagination? He wasn’t sure, but his dog’s sense of responsibility and curiosity had urged him to investigate.
Flame clenched her paws and kept completely still, barely daring to breathe. She knew that if at this moment she made a sound – shifting her tail from side to side, letting out a deep breath, or scraping her claws on the icy snow – that the dog would bark ferociously and wake all the other dogs in the village. The outcome wasn’t worth thinking about. The gap was so narrow that she’d had to hold herself straight in order to gain access, and she’d been so flustered that she hadn’t given a moment’s thought to which way she was facing, with the result that she had ended up with her front pressed into the manure heap, and her back against the yard wall. Her mouth and chest were stuck in the manure, but she daren’t change position or roll over.
The manure was all mixed up together, and over time it had begun to rot and ferment into a greasy black liquid. The low temperature had caused the liquid manure to freeze, but as Flame breathed out, the warm air from her snout, combined with the heat of her chest, was causing it to thaw. The compost became slimy and damp, and ten times more pungent than it had been before. Flame worri
ed that the stench would go to her head. That she might lose her sense of smell or be left with a foul odour that would never wash out. That she might never again smell the fragrance of jasmine or gardenia.
The big-eared dog did not dare to stick its head in through the crack, so of course it was not able to see through Flame’s trick. It had pricked up its ears to listen carefully, but it could hear nothing. As much as it sniffed, it could only pick up the smell of manure that was intensifying by the minute. Eventually it gave up looking, and left the manure heap to go back to the sheep pen by the watermill.
Flame climbed out of the crack in the manure heap, and raced over to the threshing ground. She rolled over and over in the snow to clean the filth from her body. As the snow turned to slush, shards of ice got into her fur, so cold it made her shiver, but she carried on rolling, desperately trying to rid herself of that unbearable stench. And then came the swish swish swish of footsteps in the snow. They were coming her way. Quick as a flash she leapt beneath the millstones used for grinding wheat into flour. It was the fancy-tailed rooster strutting over from the chicken coop beside the farmhouse. He held his head up high, his comb a brilliant red, his eyes full of pride as he fanned his tail feathers out like a peacock. He came up to the haystacks, jiggled his wings about a bit, and scraped at the hay with his chicken feet. Half-jumping, half-flying, he landed on top of the haystack. He cleared his throat, flapped his wings and, turning to face the horizon in the east, delivered a resounding cock-a-doodle-doo. He was the master of the morning, announcing with due aplomb to the entire world of living creatures that the new day was breaking and the sun was rising. Dawn had arrived!