Lunzhu smiled and rubbed Gongzha’s bare head. Then he put on his old sheepskin chuba, opened the thick door flap and went out. Gongzha raced after him in his bare feet, calling after his father’s horse, ‘Bala, don’t forget to buy me a sweet!’
‘Don’t worry, son!’ Lunzhu waved to his woman and children by the tent, whipped his horse and clattered off into the distance.
Gongzha went back to the tent and stuffed his feet into his boots. His father had made them for him two years ago and he’d long since grown out of them. His toes poked out the front and both big toes were black with dirt. The adults had no time to worry about their children’s feet: during the day they were busy working, and at night they had to study Mao Zedong Thought. When winter came, they just packed their boots with wool; as long as the wind didn’t get in, they would be alright.
Dawa made butter tea and gave each child a small piece of half-cooked meat. Gongzha finished the tea in a few gulps and tucked the meat into his chuba’s front pocket. He knew they would soon be out of food. Aba had had to spend a lot of time studying recently and wasn’t sure when he’d be able to go hunting again. Gongzha took his slingshot from the basket by the door and with a word to his mother raced off to the commune’s sheep pen.
Today it was the turn of their tent and another tent to tend the sheep. Shida, the boy from the other tent, joined Gongzha at the enclosure. Shida’s tent had three men to look after him and his brother – his father and two uncles – but they’d also gone to the study session in town, and Shida’s older brother had joined the army last year, so Shida was also looking after the sheep today, in place of the grown-ups.
He was a bit older than Gongzha and looked almost like a small adult, but the two of them were like brothers. They often gathered yak pats, tended sheep and searched for wolf cubs together. At the sheep pen, they smiled at each other and whistled for their sheepdogs, who were playing in the distance. The dogs came bounding up, tongues lolling. Gongzha’s dog, Duoga, was brown; Shida’s was black and was called Duopuqing.
The boys crouched down and petted the dogs. Then they opened the gate of the enclosure and the sheep flooded out, keen to roam free after being penned in all night. Duopuqing and Duoga were well trained. They kept the sheep together, taking one side of the flock each, racing to the front or back and rounding up any strays, following the lead ram along the side of the lake to the grazing area, which had lots of marsh grass.
Once the sheep began to graze, the boys had nothing else to do, so they decided to collect yak pats. The herders used the manure from their livestock for fuel. Not many shrubs survived the harsh conditions of the grasslands, and those that did grew very slowly and were far too puny to use for firewood. Instead, they used yak pats to keep them warm in winter and for boiling water in summer.
Shida pulled a lambskin pouch from his chuba, took out a piece of meat and handed it to Gongzha. Gongzha accepted it with a smile and stashed it in his chuba. Then he picked up his manure fork and the two boys took a slope each. Gongzha wanted to get up the mountain before the sun climbed too high and before he’d used up all the energy from his two bowls of butter tea. If he collected enough yak pats for tomorrow, maybe Ama would let him go to the tent school for half a day. Gongzha longed to be able to go to school, to sit with other children his age and learn about things he’d never heard of. But his family was too large and too poor, so they needed him to work. It was different for Shida, and Gongzha envied him that.
When his stomach began to growl, Gongzha straightened his back, tightened his belt, and called to Shida. Shida was already lying spread-eagled on the other slope; when he heard Gongzha, he waved. Gongzha smiled, put down his bag, sat on the grass, pulled out the piece of meat and began to nibble at it slowly. He knew from experience that you could trick yourself into feeling full if you nibbled your food rather than wolfed it down in one go.
As he sat there, he watched the sheep down below. The two dogs were clearly tired as well. They no longer kept close to the sheep but had found a place to curl up and nap. Cuoe Lake looked clear and dark, like a beautiful piece of ancient jade, reflecting dazzling beams of light. A yak-skin boat was coming across the water towards them, gentle ripples spreading out from its sides. It was the team boat, the one that ferried the students to school and back twice a day. It ran at fixed times and between fixed locations. As he watched it, Gongzha imagined being on board. Today was Saturday, so only the students in their final year had school.
He began to feel drowsy. The afternoon sun was making his forehead tingle. He spread his sheepskin chuba on the ground and lay down to take a nap; he would get back to work again later. Perhaps tomorrow he could go on that yak-skin boat himself. He had long forgotten the things he’d learnt the last time he went; if he didn’t go again soon, he might not be able to keep up.
He had only just shut his eyes when he heard a girl yelling from the other side of the mountain. She sounded frightened.
‘Help! Help! Is anyone there? Come and help me, quick!’
It was Cuomu’s voice. Cuomu was Production-Team Leader Danzeng’s daughter and she was different from the other grassland girls. Her face was white, not ruddy like theirs. Zhaduo, Cuoe Temple’s former living Buddha, was her uncle. He used to teach Cuomu her letters at the temple and then she would teach Gongzha. That was why, even though Gongzha had only ever attended school a few times, he could write the thirty letters of the Tibetan alphabet. It was tragic how Zhaduo was derided now as a cow-ghost snake-spirit, forced to live on the edge of the encampment with a broken leg, all alone in the world. Gongzha often went with Cuomu to take him food and fuel when no one was paying attention, so the two of them had become close.
When Gongzha heard her shouts, he rolled over, leapt up, and without even stopping to put on his chuba, dashed round to the other side of the mountain. When he got there and looked down, he was terrified. Cuomu was trapped on a crag: a sheer precipice dropped away steeply below her, and her only route back up the mountainside was blocked by a hungry-looking snow leopard, not three metres from her, who was looking for a way down.
Snow leopards were smart. This one was well aware that if it moved too quickly, both it and the girl would fly off the precipice in a cascade of rocks and scree. So it was clawing its way carefully down the loose shingle. It was this sound that had alerted Cuomu and made her yell out in a panic. She had also come up the mountain to gather yak pats. Distracted, she’d got stranded on the crag, not expecting to meet a leopard.
Gongzha had no time to hatch a plan. He simply picked up whatever rocks he could find and hurled them at the snow leopard. The snow leopard whirled around, saw Gongzha, snarled and sprang at him. Gongzha drew his knife from his belt and raced back towards the other side of the mountain, yelling, ‘Duoga! Duoga, come quickly, there’s a leopard!’
How could a child outrun a famished snow leopard? Within seconds, the snow leopard pounced and sank its teeth deep into Gongzha’s calf. A stab of heart-stopping pain made his head spin and he almost fell to the ground.
Gongzha had been at his father’s side in the wilderness since he was small and there was no animal he had not encountered. He knew that when man and snow leopard met, one of them had to die. He twisted round and stabbed blindly with all his strength, sinking his blade into the snow leopard’s back. With a yowl of pain, the snow leopard loosened its grip on his leg and prepared to strike again. Gongzha didn’t have time to pull his knife out. He quickly rolled down the slope. But the snow leopard wasn’t about to give up on a meal it was close to finishing. It shook itself vigorously and the knife popped out and dropped to the ground. Then it sprang after Gongzha, the loose stones beneath its paws clattering down the mountainside.
Gongzha’s cries for help had raised Duoga and Duopuqing. Barking wildly, they raced over and just in time managed to plant themselves between Gongzha and the snow leopard. The leopard and the dogs stopped in their tracks, dust swirling around them, and glared at each other like tigers.
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The fight erupted without warning. It was unclear whether the snow leopard or the dogs had attacked first, but within seconds there was a whirl of biting and flying dust. The animals on the grassland all had their own rules: they knew who they could attack and who to avoid. The snow leopard was starving, otherwise it would not have risked its life in a fight. If there had just been one dog, it would not have hesitated, but it could only defeat two dogs with effort. It assumed that if it killed one of them, the other would back off. That way it could conserve its energy and end the fight quickly. But the two dogs had realised they were no match for this leopard and had decided to play the long game: one fought for a time, while the other stood by and barked supportively; when it got tired, they switched places. The snow leopard was fighting for its life on an empty stomach and its energy reserves were quickly used up. It did not have the strength to continue.
In the distance, a pack of mastiffs was yelping and tearing towards them. Dogs were the most group-minded of the grassland animals: if a dog heard a commotion even from five kilometres away, it would always come and help. Now the leopard knew it would not get its delicious meal, so it retreated hastily, disappearing up the mountainside.
There was no way a pack of mastiffs, masters of the grassland, would let an exhausted snow leopard vanish from under their noses. The quick-witted sheepdogs glanced at each other. Duoga chased after the leopard while Duopuqing veered off in a different direction. Duoga caught the leopard and bit its hind leg and the leopard impatiently turned and began to fight again. Just then, Duopuqing reappeared higher up the slope, cutting off the snow leopard’s exit. Below them, the pack of mastiffs had finally arrived and began encircling them to the left and right.
Gongzha seized the chance to go back round the slope and rescue the petrified Cuomu.
The battle on the mountainside was over very quickly. The snow leopard’s body lay on the sand and rocks and the dogs stood baying at the sky, the clear, high sound reverberating across the grassland.
Gongzha patted his dog and praised its bravery. When he looked up, he noticed a bear with a white circle on its head watching them with interest from a distant mountaintop. ‘Kaguo!’ he shouted. This was the first time he’d said her name. After his close encounter with death, Gongzha’s heart was full of joy and he wanted to share his happiness with someone. He’d been familiar with Kaguo since he was small – she was like an old friend, and he couldn’t resist calling out her name.
‘What are you yelling?’ Cuomu tugged at his arm and tilted her small face towards his.
Gongzha smiled. ‘“Kaguo” – that’s the bear’s name!’
‘A bear?’ Cuomu asked fearfully. ‘Where?’
‘There, on that mountaintop!’ Gongzha pointed into the distance.
Cuomu looked up in the direction he was pointing, but she didn’t see anything.
When they returned to the encampment, the news of their encounter spread fast. Team Leader Danzeng embraced Gongzha and loudly praised him as the little hero of the grassland. He said he would go to the commune and ask that he be commended.
Danzeng carried Gongzha back to his tent. Dawa had already spread a sheepskin on the couch. She made her son sit on it, then with hot water and a cloth she cleaned the bite wound on his leg and rubbed butter on it. Afterwards, she set about boiling water to serve to the other herders. Grassland mothers learnt early to take their children’s injuries in their stride. It was normal for a child to pick up several on their journey to adulthood; their scars were like milestones that had to be passed, each one signifying that they were growing up. How else could a child mature into a courageous herder of the grassland?
The leopard was suspended from a wooden beam and a fire was lit beneath it. Two young men began to skin it with small knives under the watchful eye of several elders, who stood nearby and offered advice. ‘Careful! Be careful, don’t damage the pelt.’ Later, the pelt would be cured by rubbing it with butter and tsampa. After some discussion, it was agreed that the pelt would then be presented to the Commune Secretary, who would go to the county town and ask for a commendation for the grassland’s little hero.
Nights on the grassland were very quiet. Apart from dog-driving, people had nothing else to entertain them. So the story of how a child had rescued a girl from the jaws of a snow leopard spread quickly and took on almost mythic proportions. Even people who lived five kilometres away heard about the young leopard-fighting hero Gongzha who lived beside Cuoe Lake. Wherever Gongzha went, he was asked to tell his story. No matter that the herders had heard it many times already, they couldn’t get enough of it. Cuomu watched her hero from afar, her dark eyes shining. Gongzha had saved her life, and the little girl’s heart was stirring.
*
The news of Gongzha’s heroism soon reached the town, fifty kilometres away, where someone told Gongzha’s father and urged him to hurry home. Late at night, five days after the snow-leopard attack, as the moon rose over the tops of the tents, Gongzha’s father duly returned to the encampment. But he had not walked home. He’d been carried. And now he was laid out on the frozen, sandy ground.
Dragging his wounded leg, Gongzha limped out of the tent to find his mother clasping his father’s corpse. Her hair was wild and she was shrieking. His sister and three brothers were hanging onto her leg, wailing helplessly.
The herders gathered round, murmuring.
‘We got caught in a landslide – a huge boulder rolled down the mountain. Oh, it’s too sad.’
‘It was lucky we managed to run so fast, otherwise it would have been over for us too.’
‘How will they live – and the children so small! No man will be willing to take on so many children.’
‘That’s true. Beautiful as she is, that’s not going to help her now. It’ll be hard to find another man.’
The moon that night was exceptionally cold and mournful, the wind exceptionally bitter.
Two women went over and lifted Dawa to her feet. She had to accept that her man was dead, they said. She should think about having the sky burial soon, so that his soul would not get restless.
Team Leader Danzeng had two young men stay and help but dismissed everyone else. Gongzha stood by the tent flap and listened to Danzeng and his mother talking quietly.
‘I’ll get someone to take him up to the sky-burial altar tomorrow, but that’s all I can do. We won’t be able to get anyone to chant mantras for him – no one would dare. The commune is determined to pursue its Four Olds policy, and the lamas are struggling to fit in. What do you think?’
‘I’ll do as you say. Him going like this, leaving five children and the smallest still not weaned… How will we live?’ His mother started sobbing again.
‘Don’t cry. Gongzha is growing up fast – and he saved my daughter’s life. Do you think I can just stand by and watch you all suffer? As long as there is food in my tent, I won’t let you go hungry.’
That night, while his mother was coaxing his siblings to sleep despite her red, swollen eyes, Gongzha leant on a stick for support and went outside to sit with his father. Lunzhu’s tanned, ruddy face looked as if he were asleep. There was a trickle of frozen blood at the corner of his mouth. Gongzha stretched out his finger and picked it away. His tears dripped onto the back of Lunzhu’s cold, stiff hand.
The moon continued to shine clear and mournful. Gongzha felt his own bones turning to ice. He gripped his father’s hand. It was clenched into a fist and Gongzha began to gently unfurl his fingers. To his surprise, lying in the palm of his father’s hand was a fruit sweet. It was wrapped in clear plastic with a flower printed on it. Gongzha had seen a sweet like that before, placed by an elder in front of the bodhisattvas in the temple. The sight of it had made the children’s mouths water. Cuomu had said that this kind of sweet cost one fen. One fen! The herders rarely had any actual money; when they needed something, they would trade something for it. If you added one fen to another, you could buy a box of matches.
Gongzha ca
refully picked up the sweet, peeled off the wrapper and licked it. He shut his eyes and let that sweet taste spread across his tongue and slowly slide down his throat. After a long while, he wrapped it up again and put it in his chuba. His tears fell in fat drops.
From now on he was the man of the tent. It was down to him to take care of Ama and his siblings.
*
Danzeng used his authority as Production-Team Leader to order people to do this and that. Under his instruction, just after dawn the following day two young men tied Lunzhu onto the funeral master’s back. Carrying the butter lamp used to light the way for the souls of the dead, they began to walk towards the sky altar at the foot of the snow mountain.
Despite his injured leg, Gongzha ignored his mother’s shouts and limped after them. The lamp moved slowly across the plain, its light receding into the distance. He followed as best he could, but when the light disappeared into a fold in the mountain, he headed for a nearby hill and clambered to the top on his hands and knees. From the summit, he watched as the lamp reappeared, ascending and then descending as it wound its way slowly into the mountains. Finally he saw the curl of incense smoke rising. They had reached the sky-burial altar.
The encampment’s dogs, wild and domesticated, also began to race towards the sky altar, baying hungrily as they went. When a man didn’t have enough food for himself or his tent, he couldn’t be expected to feed his dogs, so the dogs fended for themselves. Once they’d all but exhausted the supply of mice and rabbits on the grassland, they began to look to the sky altar for meat, where they quietly set about eating its corpses. Traditionally, it was the vultures who fulfilled that role, picking the corpses clean and accompanying the dead on their last journey. But the dogs had driven the vultures away. There was a death every two or three days at this time of year, but even that wasn’t enough to fully satisfy the dogs, though it was better than nothing.
Love In No Man's Land Page 5
