Wolf Totem: A Novel (21 page)

“What’s the hardest challenge?” Chen asked.

“There are plenty of things to worry about,” the old man replied, “but finding the den is the hardest. I’ll tell you how to do it. Get up before dawn and find a spot high up in the mountains. Lie there until just before sunup, then scan the area with binoculars. After hunting all night, the wolf will be coming back to feed her cubs. If you see where she goes, that’ll be where her den is. Start a circular search with some good dogs, and you should be able to locate it. But then you’re faced with the difficult task of actually getting the litter, and that means dealing with an angry mother wolf. Be very careful.” His eyes became veiled. “If not for the loss of those horses,” he said, “I wouldn’t let you do this. Stealing wolf cubs is normally something old people on the Olonbulag are reluctant to do.”

Chen didn’t dare ask any more questions. Bilgee had been incensed over the decision to launch a large-scale raid on wolf dens, and Chen was afraid he’d stop him from going if he pressed the issue. And yet stealing wolf cubs required knowledge; since his goal was to raise a cub, not kill it, he’d have to move quickly, not waiting until the cubs were weaned and had opened their eyes. He planned to check with Batu, the best wolf hunter in the brigade. Still incensed over the loss of the horses, he would definitely share his experience with Chen.

Night had fallen by the time they made it back to the old man’s yurt. Inside, the rug had been restored to its original state; three lanterns in which sheep’s oil burned lit up the spacious yurt, and the squat table in the center was laid out with platters of fresh-from-the-pot blood sausage, sheep’s stomach and intestines, and fatty meat, all emitting fragrant steam. The stomachs of the three hardworking men growled. Chen took off his deel and sat at the table; Gasmai laid the platter of sheep gut in front of him, since that was his favorite, then picked up a platter of the old man’s favorite, sheep breast, and placed it in front of him. She then handed Chen a little bowl of sauce made of Beijing soy paste and grassland mushrooms; it was what he liked to dip the fatty lamb in. The condiment had become a staple in both yurts. Chen cut off a slice of meat, dipped it in the sauce, and put it in his mouth; it was so delicious he all but forgot about the wolf cub. What they called fatty sheep intestine, the finest meat available in the grassland, wasn’t fatty at all. About a foot in length, it was stuffed with strips of greaseless sheep stomach, small intestines, and strips of diaphragm. In short, while it was made of sheep parts that were normally discarded, it was a vital part of any Mongol banquet, crisp and chewy, fleshy but not greasy.

“You Mongols aren’t wasteful when it comes to consuming a sheep. Instead of throwing away the diaphragm, you turn it into a delicious dish.”

“When hungry wolves eat sheep,” the old man said with a nod, “they finish it off—fur, hooves, everything. When natural disasters hit the grassland, finding food isn’t easy, not for people and not for wolves, which is why every part of a sheep is consumed.”

“Then you must have learned how to eat sheep from the wolves,” Chen said.

They laughed. “Yes, that’s about it,” they agreed. Chen ate three more lengths of sheep intestine.

Gasmai laughed happily, and Chen recalled her telling him that she preferred guests who wolfed their food down. But knowing just how wolfish he must have seemed embarrassed him, and he dared not eat more. He knew how much Bilgee and his family liked this particular delicacy, and he’d already finished half of it. Gasmai cut off a piece of blood sausage and picked up another length of intestine with the tip of her knife. “I knew you wouldn’t be in a hurry to leave,” she said with a smile, “so I cooked two lengths of intestine. One’s for you, all of it, and I expect you to be like a wolf, no leftovers.” Everyone around the table laughed as Bayar reached up and took the second link from Gasmai. In the two years he’d been there, Chen had still not figured out what sort of relationship he should have with Gasmai. Elder sister-in-law seemed most appropriate, but sometimes he felt she was more like his own big sister, while at other times she was like a kindly old aunt or a perky younger one. Her happy nature was like the grassland itself—bighearted and innocent.

Chen finished off an entire length of intestine, which he washed down with half a bowlful of butter tea. “Bayar isn’t afraid of grabbing a wolf’s tail or crawling into a wolf’s den or riding a wild horse,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid that something will happen to him?”

“That’s how we Mongols are,” Gasmai said with a smile. “When he was young, Batu had more courage than Bayar. There was no adult wolf in the den Bayar crawled into, and since cubs don’t bite, clearing out the den was nothing to brag about. But when Batu crawled into a den, the mother was still inside. And he had the courage to drag her out.”

Amazed by this bit of news, Chen asked Batu, “How come you never told me? I want to hear it now, in detail.”

The laughter during the meal had lightened Batu’s spirits a bit, so he took a big swig of the liquor in his glass and said, “I was thirteen. Papa and some other men had just found a den after a long search. It was so big, so deep, there was no way to dig in far enough, so Papa decided to see if there was a mother wolf inside by smoking her out. But even after all the smoke had cleared, no wolf emerged, and we assumed the den was empty. So I took some matches and a gunnysack and crawled in to get the cubs. I was barely inside when I saw the wolf’s eyes, no more than two feet from me, and I nearly peed my pants. I lit a match and I saw that that scared her, her tail between her legs like a frightened dog. I lay there, not daring to move, but as soon as the match went out, she charged. I didn’t have time to back out, and I figured that was it for me. Imagine my surprise when I realized she wasn’t coming at me, but was going to jump over me to get out of the den. Well, I knew they weren’t expecting that outside, and I didn’t want the wolf to get to Papa, so I found the nerve somehow to straighten up and block her way. My head rammed into her throat, so I pushed up and drove her head against the ceiling. Now she couldn’t get out and she couldn’t get away. She clawed madly, ripping my clothes, but it was me or her, so I sat up straight, pinning her throat and head against the ceiling to keep her from biting, then reached out and managed to grab her front legs. Now she couldn’t get her teeth
or
her claws in me. But I was stuck too. I couldn’t move, and my strength was running out.”

Batu related his experience dispassionately, as if it had happened to someone else. “Meanwhile, the people outside wondered what was keeping me. Sensing that something was wrong, Papa crawled in and lit a match. There I was, pinning a wolf to the ceiling with my head. He told me to hold on and not move as he wrapped his arms around my waist and began slowly edging toward the opening, with me pushing up with my head and holding on to the wolf’s legs as it moved with us. Papa yelled for the people outside to grab hold of his legs and pull; they had no idea why until his body was halfway out the opening. They stood there with their knives and clubs, and as soon as we got the wolf to the entrance, someone jabbed a knife into her mouth and stuck her to the top, while the others ran up and beat her to death. Once I recovered my strength, I crawled back into the tunnel, which kept getting narrower, until it was barely big enough for a child. But then it opened onto a room where a litter of cubs was curled up on a chewed sheepskin with clumps of fur everywhere, nine altogether, all alive. To protect her litter, the mother had nearly shut the entrance to the room where they slept with dirt and kept guard outside. The smoke hadn’t killed her because she’d made small openings here and there to the outside. All I had to do was move the dirt out of the way, reach in and grab the cubs, throw them into my sack, and back out...”

Chen could hardly breathe as he listened. Apparently, the family hadn’t heard the story in a long time, for they too were tense. Batu’s story was different from others Chen had heard about taking cubs from a den. “People say a wolf will fight to the death to protect her cubs,” he said. “But not this one. Why?”

“Actually,” the old man said, “wolves are afraid of people, since we’re their only predators. This wolf had nearly been smoked out, and when she saw someone holding a lit match as he worked his way into her den, how could she not be afraid? She was a mature wolf, but I could see she was no more than two years old, and that this was her first litter. It was sad. It’s something no one would have brought up if you hadn’t asked.”

There was no smile on Gasmai’s face. Her eyes glistened from a layer of tears.

“Chen Zhen’s going up to the mountains tomorrow to get a cub,” Bayar said, “and I want to go along. He and the others are too big to crawl inside. I’ll stay in their yurt tonight and head out with them first thing in the morning.”

“All right,” Gasmai said, “go ahead. But be careful.”

“No!” Chen said, waving his hands. “Something might happen. He’s your only son.”

“This spring our group raided one den,” Gasmai said, “and we still owe them three. If we don’t deliver at least one more litter, Bao Shungui will punish us.”

“I don’t care,” Chen insisted. “I’d rather not go than take him with me.”

The old man pulled his grandson over. “You stay home, Bayar. I’m going to catch a big wolf or two, and instead of cubs, I’ll give them the pelts to meet our quota.”

9

By half past three in the morning, Chen Zhen and Yang Ke, along with two big dogs, were perched on a hill in the vicinity of Black Rock Mountain. Their horses, cowhide fetters in place, were hidden behind the hill. Erlang and Yellow had strong hunting instincts, and getting up so early could only mean one thing: a hunt. They were sprawled atop the snow, not making a sound and alertly looking all around. Clouds blotted out the moon and the stars, turning the gloomy grassland extraordinarily cold and terrifying. Chen and Yang were the only two people within miles, at a time when the wolf pack was on the prowl, when an attack was most likely. Close up, Black Rock Mountain was like a sculpture of enormous beasts, its sinister presence bearing down on the two men and raising chills on Chen’s back. He was worrying about the horses and beginning to panic over this dangerous exploit.

Suddenly the baying of a wolf off to the northwest tore through the silence and echoed in the valleys around them, the fading strains sounding like a flute or a reed pipe, drawn out and cheerless. The sound died away and was followed by the distant barking of a dog. Neither sound stirred the two dogs beside Chen. They were familiar with hunting protocols: guarding the pens at night required constant barking; hunting in the mountains demanded strict silence. Chen stuck one of his hands down into the fur between Erlang’s front legs to warm it and wrapped his other arm around the dog’s neck. Yang had fed both dogs about half full before setting out; on a hunt a dog must not be too full or overly hungry. Too much food deadens the dog’s fighting spirit; too little saps its strength. The food they’d been given was already doing its job; Chen’s hand warmed up quickly, and he used it in turn to warm the dog’s icy nose. Erlang wagged his tail lightly. Having the dog beside him steadied Chen’s nerves.

After several rough nights, Chen was as tired as he’d ever been. Two nights earlier, Yang had invited a few herdsmen friends to come along for some cub hunting, though he didn’t believe there could be any active dens on Black Rock Mountain and no one was willing to get out of bed so early. The herdsmen tried to talk Chen and Yang out of going. Instead, feeling rebuffed, the two friends decided to go on their own, which is why their only companions on the mountain were the two loyal dogs.

Yang held Yellow tightly in his arms and whispered to Chen, “Look, even Yellow’s kind of spooked out here. He can’t stop trembling. I wonder if he smells a wolf nearby...”

Chen patted the dog on the head. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “There’s nothing to be scared of. The sun will be up soon, and wolves are afraid of people in the daytime. Besides, we brought a lasso pole along.” Chen felt his hand tremble slightly as it rested on Yellow’s body. “You and I are like secret agents,” he said, in part to calm himself, “late at night behind enemy lines, yanking a wolf’s fangs. You know, I’m not sleepy.”

Yang Ke also puffed himself up. “Fighting wolves is like fighting a war: strength against strength, spirit against spirit, wisdom and courage against wisdom and courage. All the thirty-six stratagems, except for using the wiles of a beautiful woman, are in play.”

“Let’s not get complacent. I’m not sure thirty-six stratagems will be enough when wolves are the enemy.”

“Good point,” Yang said. “So which one do we use? Follow the mother wolf when she goes back to feed her young and find the entrance that way? That’s not one of the thirty-six. Papa’s the sly one. This is actually pretty cruel.”

“Who told the wolves to kill all those horses?” Chen said. “They forced his hand. When we were laying traps, he said he hasn’t done that for years. He’s never been in favor of the wholesale killing of wolves.”

As the sky lightened up in the east, Black Rock Mountain shed its sculptural image and became a mountain again. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the thin cloud cover, expanding the men’s field of vision as they and their dogs lay sprawled on the snowy ground. Chen Zhen swept the mountainside with his telescope; there was nothing but scenery in his lens, since fog hugged the ground. He was worried that the wolf might have made it back to her den under the cover of fog, which would mean that he and Yang and the dogs had frozen up there half the night for nothing. But then, happily, the fog lifted and turned into a thin, transparent mist hovering above the ground, and any animal passing by would penetrate the mist and reveal itself.

All of a sudden, Yellow turned his head to the west, his hackles standing up, his body tense. Erlang turned his head in the same direction, and Chen, sensing that something was up, turned his telescope to see what had caught the dogs’ attention. A stretch of dry yellow reeds in a marshy spot that followed the curve of the mountain was a favorite place for the wolves, with its hiding places and the wind at their backs; as the spot where they preferred to launch their guerrilla attacks on humans, it had gained the nickname Green Curtain. Bilgee was fond of saying that in winter and in spring this was where the wolves moved around, hid themselves, and slept; it was also a battlefield for wolf-hunting humans. Yellow and Erlang may have heard a wolf’s footsteps crushing the dry reeds. It was the right time of day and the right direction, and Chen knew it had to be the female returning to her den. He scanned the area, waiting for her to appear. The old man had said there was shallow water in the reedy patch, runoff from melting snow, so the wolves would never make their den there. Mostly they chose higher ground, above spots where water would accumulate, and Chen was sure that if she appeared, her den was somewhere nearby.