Winter Pasture

by Li Juan

  I walked for a long time in the deafening silence. When I glanced back, the sheep flock suddenly appeared less than forty feet behind me (when we first arrived, no one tended to them and they wandered freely nearby), heads bowed, chewing on cud. So quiet. I remembered only a moment ago there was nothing behind me. Where did they come from? Why did they approach so quietly and patiently? How could they possibly hope to rely on a flimsy coward like me?

  * * *

  WAS THERE ANYONE or anything in this wild, undependable land that one could rely on? On the second day, after we had settled in, we stuck a shovel into the crest of a nearby sand dune and hung an old coat on it. From afar it looked like a real person standing there—it was meant to scare off wolves. A herder looking for his lost camels had stopped by and offered us a reminder: a few days ago, two wolves attacked his sheep in broad daylight, devouring four of them.

  From then on, the dummy became our landmark. No matter how far off we wandered, the sight of the thing standing firm was enough to calm our nerves. When your nerves get the better of you, the whole world turns into a disorienting mirage. This was especially true on cloudy days.

  Speaking only a morsel of Mandarin, Cuma says “forgot” instead of “lost.” He would say, “This afternoon, I ‘forgot’ again. Where were the sheep, where was I, here, there, I didn’t know!”

  I tried asking him for the name of the area where we were living, but such a simple question was beyond Cuma’s conception. As such, I still don’t know where in this vast landscape I spent an entire winter. All I can say is that it is around a hundred miles southwest of Akehara—three days by horseback—bordering pastures owned by the town of Dopa, where the land rises toward the east and drops toward the west. According to my preliminary findings, there were just over twenty families in the area (separated by a one-day trip by horse), with very few households exceeding four members. There were a total of about ten pastures, each ranging from thirteen hundred to two thousand hectares in size. A rough calculation would imply less than half a person per hundred square hectares. (Later, I checked the official data from the Animal Husbandry Bureau. The population density was even less: all the winter pastures in Koktokay County combined averaged less than one-fourth of a person per hundred square hectares.)

  Upon departure, our guests would put down their bowls, open the door, and step into the cold. When the door closed behind them, we could hear them singing. I could relate. Three steps out the burrow door and I couldn’t help but burst into song either! When all you can hear is the faint sound of your own breath, when nothing can fill the void of the enormity before you, all you can do is sing. To sing is to expand your presence; to occupy the vast silence with your voice.

  * * *

  KAMA ALWAYS WORE the same pair of cheap, crude red rhinestone earrings, which seemed rather tacky to me at first. But it wasn’t long before my perception of them changed. In this desolate land, their color and their sparkle were as glamorous as the sun and the moon! On her finger, she wore a silver ring inlaid with a pink tourmaline stone. This was the real thing, no doubt, and expensive. It endowed her every gesture with beauty and grace.

  I had noticed that many elderly Kazakh women’s wizened and twisted hands, after a life of toil, were crowded with large, dazzling gemstone rings. Such ostentatious ornaments added dignity into their drab existence, marking every moment of pride and glory in their humble lives. These were the wilds after all—vast, monotonous, lonely, harsh—here, even the smallest of trinkets couldn’t but shine brilliantly and intensely.

  One day, Kama found an imitation gold ring buried in the pocket of some old jacket. By that point it had been crushed into a mangled clump. Cuma pried it apart, slipped it over the end of a steel rod, and rolled it until it returned to its former shape. As a sign of friendship, Kama gave it to me. I was overjoyed because it looked just like a real gold ring. In the past, I would never have worn a fake ring on my finger. But now, deep in the wilderness, on this vacant patch of our planet, as a member of this humble, even wretched family, owning only the most basic of daily necessities, this ring became my sole indulgence and an important source of comfort. It was a reminder that I am a woman and that I possess hope and passion. Whenever I herded the calves deep into unknown terrain, I couldn’t help but touch the ring finger on my left hand with my right hand … as if the ring was my body’s one antenna, its one point of entry, the place where my body began. Under the blue sky, the ring was ever so bright and so profound.

  * * *

  IN EARLY DECEMBER, every couple of days, teams of colorfully festooned camels and sheep would migrate past our pasture heading south. Kama and I stood on top of the highest sand dune and followed them with our gaze, silently counting the livestock in their herds and calculating their wealth. There was no reason behind it and we had nothing to say about it. They marched on, proud and alone, the most stubborn things across the land.

  One day, after morning tea, Kama called me outside. Another team was moving slowly southward across the lands to our west. “Look, no horses,” Kama pointed out. Upon a closer look, sure enough there was a lone person on foot, leading the camels and herding the sheep at the same time. Scanning the land, there wasn’t another person in sight. Compared to the teams that had passed us on previous days, all of which included motorcycles and resplendent, decked-out horses, this was a pitiful sight. Kama concluded that there were no horses because last night, when this lone man’s family had set up camp, the horses ran off; the man was alone because his family was elsewhere looking for the horses.

  Whatever the case, it was heartbreaking to see. Out in the wilderness, all kinds of setbacks must be endured; every type of disaster must be allowed.

  5.

  Our Underground Home

  ONE DAY, WHEN SISTER-IN-LAW and I went to gather snow from the dune ridge at the western edge of the plain, we came across a huge burrow with an opening the size of a soccer ball. It was even bigger than the marmot holes one might find in the summer pastures. This meant that the occupant of the burrow must have been at least as big as a marmot, right? What could it have been? All I could think of were wild mice and rabbits … but a mouse hole is, at most, the size of an egg, and a rabbit’s only slightly bigger than a fist.

  The entrance to the burrow was shaped like an n with smooth interior walls. I stuck my head in to take a look and noticed a second chamber—a two-room apartment! In the sand outside the hole, Sister-in-law noticed footprints that must have been left by the creature who lived there—they were as big as Ping-Pong balls.

  That evening, after returning from herding the flock, Cuma heard my description of the burrow and declared with certainty, “A fox hole!”

  So foxes lived underground too.

  This made me think of wolves. In the wild, surely wolves needed somewhere to hide from the wind and cold, right? Did they also live in underground dens?

  “Of course,” Cuma replied.

  I tried to picture a haughty wolf digging a hole … hard to imagine.

  Without shovels and blueprints, animal housing development seemed mysterious and solitary.

  I asked, “Do they only live underground?”

  “Don’t we only live underground?” Cuma retorted.

  I thought: that’s right! On this ever-shifting landscape, there is no bold vegetation, no solid stones, only endless sand, flat and exposed. Where else was there to find shelter? Burrowing into the ground is the only option. The earth is the safest sanctuary.

  But what about the birds? Land-bound animals have four feet, the front two for scooping out dirt, the back two for pushing it away—a burrow will form one way or another. But birds only have two scrawny talons that aren’t even webbed.…

  Perhaps only plants can live aboveground here. But even they have to send their roots deep down to cling on to the earth.

  Indeed, only in the wilderness can a person truly experience the meaning of the word “gravity.” Earth is simply the largest magnet there is. The liv
ing world comprises a single membrane around it, like a skin pulled taught across its surface, afraid of even the smallest separation. Here, even birds spend most of their time scurrying around on the ground on their two measly feet. And when they fly, they glide low and close to the earth. In the wildlands, I hardly ever saw the shape of a bird in the sky, no matter how convinced I was by their lively chorus that I must be near a forest.

  But come to think of it, the dog slept on the ground—it curled up all winter long beside the chimney on top of our burrow. The roof radiated heat for his bed. Although pieces of the ceiling would plummet below whenever he moved and the crumbs of manure and dry grass occasionally landed in our tea bowls, no one ever thought to chase him away. In fact, the dog was never even admonished.

  * * *

  OUR HOME WAS BURIED six feet underground and measured less than two hundred square feet. There was a door facing southeast, and a window was cut out facing west covered with a plastic sheet—the lighting wasn’t bad. The four walls were stacked neatly with manure slabs. The stove was made using a large portion of an oil barrel, with enough capacity to heat up most of the room. Even so, the face towel I hung a few feet away from the stove was frozen solid. Toothbrushes were always frozen to the cup because of the water that trickled to the bottom. You had to break it off with force every time you wanted to brush your teeth.

  Cooking utensils were kept on the right-hand side when you walked in through the door, and every piece of paper waste this household produced—a tattered paper bag; two crinkly, colorful newspapers in Chinese; a sketchbook left by the oldest daughter, Sharifa, who majored in fine art; directions included in packaged food—all had been meticulously flattened by Kama, then used to paper over the sad-looking bare sections of kitchen wall. They hung next to delicately embroidered ayak-kap (“pouches”) containing salt, tea, needles and thread, and other odds and ends.

  As you come down the passage and through the door, there is a step about a foot high. Across from the door is the sleeping platform, which is as long as the room is wide. The three low walls surrounding the back of the bedroom are each a little over six feet wide and are covered with an array of old syrmak and tus-kiiz wall hangings boasting eclectic, colorful designs. This is the main space in which we carry out our daily lives, where we host guests and rest. The soft and beautiful tapestries that hang against the three walls made the room feel especially cozy. This was all Kama’s handiwork. Cuma and Sister-in-law didn’t contribute one bit. It is work for a young girl, and by doing it, she is given respect and approval.

  Kama had an eye for details. With passion and joy, she poured her heart into beautifying our home. Even an empty plastic soy sauce bottle couldn’t be discarded. Once she took off the top part, it became a chopstick holder. And even something as simple as a chopstick holder could not escape Kama’s tireless improvement—with a pair of scissors, she cut frills into the edge.

  To be frank, the first time I laid eyes on this house, I didn’t hold out much hope.

  It was the last day of our migration south. Just before we arrived, I had spent five or six hours locked in a struggle of wits and courage with a handful of runaway camels. Flames were shooting out of my eyes and my voice was hoarse from all the yelling. Kama steered the camel team farther and farther into the distance before disappearing behind a sand dune—like she had innumerable times before. I set off as fast as I could to catch up, oblivious that we had finally arrived. I had just coaxed three camels back onto track from the east and was en route to block another two to the west when I noticed that one of the camels up ahead was glancing back suspiciously, as if looking for an opportunity to slip away. I was spent. My knees, hips, and inner thighs were in excruciating pain from the bumpy ride, but I still held on tight and whipped my horse into a gallop, cursing at the top of my lungs. By the time I had finally driven the last two camels up to the top of a dune ridge, I could see that the camel team below had come to a stop. Kama had dismounted. She stood there coiling up the reins.… I was so happy I could have cried. No more chasing down camels, no more early mornings to hit the road; no more camping in the wilderness. We had arrived!

  Below me there were a number of structures like engravings in the blackened sand: a manure-walled sheep pen from last year and three squat, dilapidated burrows (one of them for the cattle). This was to be our home for the rest of our winter.

  Nimbly, I slipped off my horse all by myself (before, because of my bulky clothing, I had to be helped down) and walked toward one of the burrows, horse in tow. One of the door frames and the window were all topsy-turvy; another rotten door had split open; and the walls of a narrow passage had caved in to block the entrance. The manure wall by the door of the other burrow had half crumbled too. It was dark inside. The window had collapsed and the step at the entrance was flooded with sand. It was a grim sight. How can you call this a home? Even my horse was disappointed, taking a quick look and then turning its face away.

  But in only two days, everything had changed. The men effortlessly repaired all the damage like they were playing with toys. They placed new plastic sheets on the palm-sized window, instantly bringing light into the room. Cracks in the door were patched with scraps of felt, and gaps along the door frame were filled in. Cuma and Sister-in-law drove a few camels to someplace far north and used them to bring back sacks of dirt (there was no dirt where we lived, only sand), mixed it into mud, and used it to plaster and smoothen the base of the stove. Cuma performed this type of work with precision. With all his flaws, this man held himself to a high standard when it came to being the lord of his own castle.

  Quilted felt syrmak were laid out and tus-kiiz were hung. Kama draped quilted covers over all visible household items—blankets, clothes, a small iron trunk, a battery pack, a speaker (the kind of MP3 player you stick a memory card into) … until everything assumed a feminine and cozy appearance.

  One day, when Cuma came home after working on the cattle burrow, he brought with him a dirty plastic clock the size of a palm and said he’d found it on the ground (ten years ago, the cattle burrow used to be another family’s burrow). He patiently wiped it clean and asked me for a used battery. With the battery in place, the thing ticked! Pleased with himself, he said, “It’s the cattle’s clock! If they don’t want it, we’ll take it!” And so, we called it the “cattle clock.” After that, it found its perch, along with the rest of the things in the room, on top of the speaker. In short, both in appearance and functionality, our burrow was becoming more and more like home.

  Even the horses took a liking to our burrow, crowding around the doorway as soon as they came back from pasture. They knew that the people who walked out that door were wealthy—they had magical pockets filled with unbelievably delicious corn.

  * * *

  THE OWNER OF THE neighboring burrow hadn’t been on pasture for many years. Having been empty for many winters, that burrow was so dilapidated that it was nearly a lost cause. But it was the will of the men to return the burrow to its former purpose, to stand steadily upon the earth and provide a warm and tidy space to shelter.

  No matter what limitations life imposes on us—for example, having to make a home in a hole in the ground—it still cannot be lived thoughtlessly. Shinshybek’s wife, Sayna, made a point of bringing along her nine-year-old daughter’s diploma which awarded her the “Prize for Progress in the New Year.” After tidying up their burrow, she carefully pasted the diploma in the most prominent spot—below the hanging clock on the left-hand wall inside the entrance. This way, every guest would know that in this household, there was a remarkable daughter. Even if company was in pitifully short supply out in the wild.

  The Shinshybek family’s wood door had four crooked Chinese characters written on it: “Thanks a bunch!” The signature below was in Chinese too, in a smaller font: “Shaymardan Ziya.” Who was Shaymardan? Who was he thanking? It felt like a farewell note, left for anyone who might be traveling through this desert, happened upon this burrow settlement
, and left it undamaged.

  Was the child Shaymardan all grown up now? His family had left their flock far behind. He had left the winter burrow far behind, forever abandoning this once-cherished home deep in the desert. His busy and crowded childhood; his robust, invigorating adolescence; his inkblots of joy and sorrow … gone without a trace, with the exception of these two lines of characters written in uncertain brushstrokes still filled with hope.

  At the peak of a sand dune to the east stood a steel tripod several feet tall. Cuma said it had been left there last summer by a team of engineers prospecting for oil, likely as a marker that there’s oil beneath the ground in that spot. These workers crossed a vast desert to this remote location only to take a sample and leave a tripod. Did they take a peek inside the burrows before leaving? Were they amazed or saddened? Whatever the case, they did no harm to the feeble structures.

  The burrows ducked their heads low, afraid to move. Curled up in a winter crevice, they seemed meager and shabby, but in fact, they were strong and generous. They were not just homes for humans but also a haven for all the little insects. Even on the coldest of days, flies, dung beetles, and spiders kept us company. And the secret corners were the domain of creepy-crawlies and gnats. How many of the winter’s lucky survivors had this warm cavern harbored?