Winter Pasture

by Li Juan

  For a time, I even thought the kitten might not live through the winter. But he was steadfast, pouncing around, practicing his mouse-catching skills whenever he had a chance. So young, but already learning to be independent.

  In fact, on most days, Cuma loved the kitten more than anyone else. When meat was served, he ignored everyone’s objections and cut chunk after chunk to feed the cat. At teatime, he often instructed Sister-in-law to pour a little milk into the cat’s bowl, knowing full well how precious milk was in the winter … and one evening I even found the cat sleeping under Cuma’s covers!

  In short, idle Cuma, Cuma after all the boots were mended and polished, after all the dents in the pot lids had been beaten back into shape, was just awful. He not only drove us crazy, but it made him feel angry as well, harassing one thing one moment and provoking something else the next. Then he’d let out a heavy sigh: “Nothing to do, I can’t do nothing!” And then succumb to a long sleep. But when he woke, he’d drink some tea, take an aspirin, and be right back to troublemaking.

  Wide awake, full, sober, with nothing to do and no one to talk to, even Karlygash was taking a nap, his loneliness was magnified. Cuma slowly climbed up the sand dune to the north, stood at the highest point beneath the all-embracing light of day, and gazed at the movement of the flock in the distance. For a long time, he didn’t move.

  * * *

  THOUGH THE BROTHERS next door were also herders, Cuma treated the sheep with much more care and consideration. He kept a close eye on each and every sheep. At the first sign of sickness, Cuma would immediately pull the sheep from the flock to diagnose it. Any sheep that was struggling would be whisked back to the burrow, where it was “hospitalized”; any parasites were immediately treated. When the temperature dropped, Cuma constructed a warmer, roofed pen for the cold goats. As for Shinshybek, it was already minus forty degrees Fahrenheit and their cattle burrow still lacked a roof!

  Similarly, when Cuma herded, he stayed out on the pasture until the sky was pitch-black before heading home, so that the sheep could eat their fill. As for the neighbors, when the sun had barely set, their sheep were already lingering near the burrow settlement barely half a mile away.

  Though Cuma was a lackadaisical troublemaker most of the time, when it came to work, he deserved respect. He was big and strong. When it came time for the neighborhood to cooperate on a big project, he was always the leading force. Everyone else circled around him, helping where they could. Before he declared it was time to rest, no one would dare to go home to drink tea. If any of the nearby families needed to dig a new burrow, they’d always ask for his help.

  On one of Cuma’s days of rest, after repairing the cleaver that broke while chopping a cow’s head, reattaching the handles on the steamer, and mending a pair of boots, he was bored again, so he began sorting through years’ worth of receipts. I leaned in to take a look and saw that they were all debts that people owed him. Some were written in Chinese, including one for helping someone herd twenty-five sheep one summer and one for leveling the foundation at a reservoir construction site in Akehara one fall, and in the same year he helped to hull sunflower seeds for a large oil producer—what an industrious man! Always going out of his way to earn money. Just as I was starting to get sentimental, I noticed one invoice that was a hundred and nineteen yuan short! I pointed it out straightaway. Cuma was thrilled; while thanking me for being a big help, he cursed the guy for being immoral, “He will even rip off a friend!”

  Tall, stocky men like Cuma aren’t suited to such intense labor, year after year. Only fifty years old, his ankle and knee joints were ailing. When the weather changed, he complained about joint pains. He took aspirin every day like it was a part of his meal; just the sight of it was distressing. Chronic migraines plagued him twice a week, often forcing him to get up at midnight to take another pill. When he slumped down without a word in front of Sister-in-law, she understood immediately and started to massage his neck. Apparently, his cervical spine also had problems.

  It was worst on the days when he had to herd. When he returned in the evening, he was too tired even to climb into bed.

  The only thing Sister-in-law could do was to make his dinner a little heartier. When she fried baursak, she improvised a humongous round cake, six times bigger than the others! She announced, “This one’s for the old brute!”

  When the old brute came home and plopped down exhausted in front of the dinner cloth, she ceremoniously presented it to him. For a moment, the old brute stared at the extra-large baursak in shock. When he came to, he grabbed it with both hands, turning it left and right like a steering wheel, while mumbling, “Vrmmmmmm! Beep, beep!” honking the horn nonstop—this old brute had always dreamed of owning car.

  * * *

  WHENEVER IT WAS CUMA’S turn to herd the sheep, I hoped that time would pass quickly so that his shift would end and he could get some rest. But when it really came time for him to rest, I once again hoped time would pass quickly so the guy could go back to herding sheep. Alas, when he wasn’t herding, he was a nuisance. Not only did he bully the cat every day, he was constantly hassling the three of us, nitpicking, sticking his nose into everything. We couldn’t even put noodles in a pot without him pointing and offering his own advice. He worried about absolutely everything—which is probably a common symptom that plagues intelligent people.

  Intelligent and ambitious, capable and cocky. What joy was there for a person like that in a life like this? It was hard to say really, because while he was magnanimous with his feelings, he was also sensitive and prone to melancholy. At times, when I’d see him put on a happy face all of a sudden, my heart would wrench, overwhelmed with pity, but soon enough, I would be swept up in his joy as well.

  While I was folding freshly laundered clothes during morning tea, he leaned over and snatched a jacket to wear. Sister-in-law, sharp-eyed and quick-handed, intercepted it and refused to let him put it on. It was a pristine, new piece of clothing, freshly washed, and it might get ruined by continuous use. Each held an end of it in a tug-of-war, neither side relenting.

  Caught in a stalemate, Sister-in-law had no choice but to dig up an equally clean but older jacket for him. Reluctantly, Cuma released his grip on that spiffy-looking army-style jacket and begrudgingly slipped into the older jacket, whining, “Why won’t you let me wear my good clothes? I’m bringing the sheep back early this afternoon! If you won’t let me wear it tomorrow, the sheep’ll be home at lunchtime! If anyone asks why I’m back so early, I’ll tell ’em my old woman won’t let me wear the nice clothes! Argh, how can I go out there like this, what will people think! They’ll all say Cuma’s old woman is a lazy broad.…” After putting on the jacket, it became clear that it was not only worn, it was too short, and too tight on him—hideous indeed.

  One morning a few days later, however, Cuma got his wish and put on the new army-style jacket! Pleased, he said, “This is more like it; when I wear it, I feel like Chairman Mao!”

  I said, “Herding sheep all day, who are you dressing up for?”

  In a singsong voice, he replied, “For the sheep! For the goats! One look and they’ll say, ‘Wow, who’s that? A new man is he?’ Then they’ll circle around me and never wander off ever again. They’ll do anything I tell them to. They’ll eat their food and come straight home, so good, so obedient!”

  Sister-in-law and I laughed.

  Later that day, I was herding the calves north when a quarter mile out, I heard a voice behind me. I turned to see Cuma on horseback, sporting a red neck gaiter and wearing his leather overcoat unbuttoned to reveal the new jacket beneath. He shouted at the top of his voice, “One, one, one-two-one! …” counting out a march for his horse. When he passed by me, he turned toward the calves and happily took over herding them deeper into the wilds, saving me a half-mile walk.

  That evening, Cuma returned, blue in the face from a whole day in the freezing wilderness. Without a word, he quaffed bowl after bowl of tea. When he was full and warm at l
ast, he took a long breath and asked me to bring him the mirror. He turned the mirror side to side, studying himself, before finally concluding, “Hmmh, still a looker! Why, he’s still a young lad!”

  My glasses, fixed by Cuma, on the ram’s horn I was embroidering

  12.

  Sister-in-law

  SISTER-IN-LAW WAS RESERVED and, at times, too serious. But when the mood struck, she’d wrap her arms around Cuma and “mwah” give him a big kiss, leaving him in a daze.

  Years of hard labor and ailments had left her with furrowed brows; she always looked glum. And because of the chronic pain in her hips and legs, she groaned whenever she bent over to pick something up. Don’t be fooled by the swiftness and efficiency with which she worked. The moment she finished her work and returned to the bedroom, she was too tired even to squat down. And if she did manage to squat, she wouldn’t be able to stand back up. After each day of work, she struggled onto the felt bedding and asked me to massage her back and feet. But if at that moment, she heard the patch-faced bull calf getting into the yurt, she leaped to her feet like a young man and charged outside to do battle.

  Whereas Cuma was tall and wide, Sister-in-law was tall and thin, which made her appear frail and delicate. My mother’s impression of her was that she was always “down-to-earth.” In the past, when Cuma went on his drunken rampages, Sister-in-law simply took her frustration off to the side and waited it out, at most offering a quiet “enough” when he was at his very worst.

  Whenever we visited their home for tea, she acted the part of the traditional housewife, never initiating a conversation, always sitting at the end of the seating area, quietly offering food and drinks, a paragon of decorum. Whenever someone said something that set the whole room laughing, she’d quietly ask Cuma, “What is it?” as she could not understand Mandarin.

  Sister-in-law rarely smiled. Her aloofness was enough to give you goose bumps. But when she did smile, she was radiant. Light beams shot out from between her brows as if she invented this “smiling” business.

  * * *

  AFTER KAMA LEFT, Cuma herded every day. And when he didn’t, he was either out chasing horses and camels or fixing the pen. As a result, most of the time it was just me and Sister-in-law at home. We quietly did our own chores, communicating mostly with gestures. When the work was done, we sat down together for some tea. It was as quiet as if we were living hundreds of years ago. But this sort of silence felt natural, not at all awkward.

  It wasn’t like that at first. At first, our difficulty communicating led to all sorts of misunderstandings, which made me anxious. Of course, the more anxious I felt, the more ridiculous my mistakes became. My overreaction only caused her more stress.

  As we slowly got to know each other, I began to realize that Sister-in-law was a straightforward, easygoing woman—I had been overreacting. All the things that I didn’t know how to do, that I bungled, didn’t worry her in the slightest.

  Once while I was washing the bowls, I spilled a lot of milk. Panicked, I scrambled to clean up the mess. Cuma teased me, “Quick! Quick! Your Sister-in-law’s coming! If she sees this, she’ll beat you!” But Sister-in-law would never beat me. In fact, she spilled more milk and soy sauce than I did.

  Whenever she spoke to me, she expressed shock: “Li Juan, cat!” The kitten would be asleep, belly up, all four paws sprawled out. When she exclaimed, “Li Juan, hole!” she’d found a large fox hole. At the time, we were trekking out west to collect snow from a sand dune. On the silent journey, her sudden outburst gave me the impression that all the while she must have been at complete peace.

  Though Sister-in-law couldn’t speak Mandarin, as Cuma’s wife, she eventually picked up on everyday words like cattle, sheep, horse, camel, and so on, which was quite a few more than the wives of the other herders on the pastures. As our rapport developed, our communication soon became effortless.

  When Sister-in-law said, “Cattle, house,” I would run out to check if the patch-faced bull calf was near the yurt.

  When Sister-in-law said, “Water, hot bottle,” I would pour hot water into the thermos.

  Short, simple, but effective. Cuma praised her: “Like a boss!”

  And then there were those times when her ability to express herself went far beyond my expectations. When she wanted me to help coax a cow over to her calf, she said, “Li Juan, the black, the small, cattle’s mother, bring!”

  Sister-in-law’s first task every morning was to let the cattle out and herd them away from the burrow. When the cattle were far enough, she then let the calves out and herded them away in the opposite direction. This way the mothers and offspring wouldn’t run into each other during the day. What would it matter if they did? The consequence would be that the cattle wouldn’t be in a rush to come home in the evening, and the calves would suck their moms dry, forcing us to drink our tea black, rather than with milk.…

  From the moment I arrived, the responsibility of herding calves was delegated to me. Herding calves was a hassle. They weren’t like the cattle that had been herded for many years, having long learned that the herder’s intention was for them to walk straight ahead. Calves are stubborn by nature. You had to herd them at least a half mile out before they’d stop glancing longingly homeward.

  In short, I was doing Sister-in-law a big favor. To show how thankful she was, she first hugged me, then led me by the hand to a high ground out west. There, she pointed to where the calves were to go and where the cattle were to go. I was pleased, full of confidence regarding our relationship going forward.

  During the winter with the family, Sister-in-law taught me many things—spinning yarn, plying yarns together, quilting felt, band-weaving … not to mention all sorts of tricks and hacks for daily life. For example, when carrying sacks of snow, first put a clump of horse dung in the mouth of a sack, then grab the sack opening with the dung inside to prevent it from slipping. She also taught me how to clean a stove without the ash flying everywhere, and that when sewing with hand-spun yarn, you shouldn’t tie a knot at the end of the yarn but instead pull the needle along with the old thread through the new thread and wrap it around a few times for a secure and even connection.… Of course, once I left this life behind, none of these skills would be of any use to me. But I am still grateful for having learned them. Suppose I were to devote more of my life to this path, and settle into it; perhaps these small lessons would eventually lead to even more bits of wisdom.

  * * *

  ON CLOUDY DAYS, the couple felt pain all over their bodies. Their lower backs, in particular, hurt so much that they struggled to sit up. I had prepared two heat patches for the winter. I stuck one onto each of them, hoping that it might help. As soon as the patches were on, they assured me that they would work. To make the most of the medicinal patches, they put themselves to work immediately, shouldering poles to yoke three sacks of flour and feed at a time, refusing to quit until they had transported a ton of winter supplies from a hiding place beneath the snow far to the north all the way back to the yurt.

  I never found out if the heat patches actually worked, but Cuma wore his for three days straight before peeling it off. I was shocked: “Did it itch? Are there any side effects? The instructions say to wear it for eight hours at most!”

  He pointed to Sister-in-law and laughed. “She only wore it for thirty minutes!” Then she lost it somewhere.

  Sister-in-law worked with a nonchalant air. When she was finished with the broom, tongs, fire iron, or whatever else, she tossed it aside and that was that—she never bothered to return them to their proper place. Maybe that came as a result of having lived in nature for so long. In the end, I was the one who followed her all day long, picking up after her.

  * * *

  ONCE WHILE SHE WAS FRYING baursak, Sister-in-law screamed. I turned and saw that she had burned herself with a splash of boiling oil. Just as I was about to check if it was serious, she quickly composed herself and was right back to fishing the hotcakes out of the pan. I figu
red it was nothing serious, so I let it pass. Only when all the baursak were out of the oil did she move the boiling-hot pan aside, place it down, rock it to check if it was stable, then roll up her sleeve to pour cold water over the wound. It wasn’t until then that I realized how serious the burn was! It had left an enormous blister that couldn’t be touched for days.

  Had she poured cold water on the wound immediately, the injury would have been less severe. What was she thinking? It was as if something as serious as a burn was an afterthought compared to burnt baursak! Or as if acknowledging pain was something that would lead to embarrassment! Either way, she showed a degree of fortitude and self-control that I couldn’t wrap my head around.

  * * *

  SISTER-IN-LAW WAS FAR from being dull (though, she wasn’t anywhere near as mischievous as Cuma either) and occasionally demonstrated a solid sense of humor.

  When she played with Baby Karlygash, she’d say, “Karlygash, dance! Karlygash, smile! Karlygash, where’s Sister? Karlygash, where’s Apa?” It seemed to be the only game she knew. Even when the infant was swaddled and firmly planted in the rocking cradle, she still teased her with the same enthusiasm: “Karlygash, dance! Karlygash, smile! Karlygash, wheeere’s Sister? Karlygash, wheeere’s Apa?” Karlygash was absolutely helpless.

  Karlygash was the focal point of the neighbors’ lives, forever filling their home with happiness and laughter. By comparison, ours was much less exciting—we only had a cat. So Sister-in-law improvised and named the kitten “Karlygash” too. After that, whenever Sister-in-law had a moment to spare, she’d grab the pink cat’s paws and force him to sing, dance, and look for Sister, not caring if the critter wanted to or not.