Our team rested in the Western Night City for three days before setting off for the north, into that stretch of sand known as the Black Desert. Here there were no desert poplars, and the sand didn’t rise and fall in dunes but lay flat as a steamed bun, looking exactly the same from every angle, no sign of life in any direction.
I asked Asat Amat if he’d ever been through this stretch before. He smiled grimly. “These sands are hell on earth—Old Hu himself wouldn’t dare to come here,” he answered. “As for me, I’ve only been here once in this life, and that’s right now. If the old man hadn’t insisted, if Old Hu hadn’t shown the way with the white camel, I’d rather die than set foot here.”
He might grumble a lot, but Asat Amat lived up to his reputation for being a living map. He knew every inch of this place. Even though it was his first time in the Black Desert, he had the eyes of a desert fox and was able to spot the few wisps of vegetation amid the sand, sedge grass, and sagebrush. Only by following this faint trail of life was he able to lead the expedition into this treacherous land.
—
Over the course of many ruling dynasties—Han, Yuan, Ming—the desert eroded the green spaces and the environment grew more hostile. All the kingdoms dotted across this land began to collapse, as if the heavens were reaching down to pluck away all the wealth and glory of before.
The Black Desert was one of the first places to be abandoned by the gods. By the Jin dynasty, all civilization here had come to an end, and to this day, an atmosphere of death hangs heavy over this place.
Clutching the notebook left by the British explorer, Julie discussed our route with Asat Amat as we traveled. The book had a record of a cluster of stone graves, not far from the Western Night City, that the expedition had stumbled upon and carefully marked so they could come back to them later.
Although Julie’s notebook didn’t pinpoint a location, Asat Amat was able to judge from the elevation and position roughly where we needed to be.
That first night, Asat Amat found us a slightly raised bit of land on which we could set up camp. We shoveled a barrier to keep flying sand out, settled the camels, and lit a fire on the side of the dune facing away from the wind.
We were all exhausted from the day’s walking. Although the wind hadn’t been too strong, it never let up, a constant annoying presence buffeting us every step of the way. Asat Amat nagged again that this was sandstorm season, and every other day in the Black Desert would throw up weather like this. During the rest of the year, though, the sun was so fierce it drained every drop of moisture from your body.
“That’s okay, sweating is a good way to lose weight,” Kai joked. “And I could do with a bit of a tan. But this wind sucks. We can’t even talk as we’re walking—the words get blown right out of our mouths. I’m so bored.”
Asat Amat said we were only on the fringes of the Black Desert, and it would be another five days before we got into its heart. Although this was his first trip, he had many friends who’d been here before—and only barely survived.
The terrifying thing about the Black Desert, Asat Amat told us, wasn’t getting caught in quicksand or overtaken by golden ants who’d strip a car bare, never mind a human body, and it wasn’t the black sandstorms either. According to legend, there was a valley of illusion deep within the desert, and as soon as you stepped in it, you’d see lakes, flowing water, beautiful women, mythological creatures, snow-capped mountains, and lush green fields. Parched and weary, you’d naturally rush toward that gorgeous sight, only you’d keep going until you died of thirst and exhaustion, not getting one step closer. This was a demon’s trap, luring the unwary to their deaths. But Asat Amat was sure Old Hu would keep us safe from it.
“That might just be a regular mirage,” said Julie. “People who don’t understand that phenomenon might mistake it for something more sinister.”
Little Ye had crept up behind Julie and now tugged her sleeve and whispered something. Julie turned to the rest of us. “We’re just going to look at something on the other side of that dune,” she announced.
I thought Little Ye might have needed to relieve herself and been too scared to go off on her own in the dark. She was a nervous little thing. “Make sure you have your flashlights and whistles on you,” I said. “And call for help if you need it. Go quickly.”
Julie nodded and the pair went off hand in hand, disappearing behind a nearby sand dune. Kai turned to me and asked if he could have more water. I gave him some, knowing that if we didn’t find another water source in five or six days, we’d need to start rationing.
I told him as much, a little to frighten him. Even if we failed to find one of the underground rivers, I knew a way of making sure everyone stayed hydrated. It was a method my grandfather had learned in the army—using the sun’s heat to evaporate any impure water we managed to find by digging close to the surface, then collecting the condensation, which ought to be drinkable. It would be a cumbersome process, but would serve as a last resort. I’d mentioned it to Asat Amat, who agreed.
The wind increased, and at the same time a couple of piercing whistles came from the other side of the dune. Startled, we all grabbed whatever was closest to hand—shovels, rifles—and rushed over.
Behind the dune, we saw Little Ye, half her body mired in the ground. She struggled as Julie held her arms tight, trying to pull her free. In the confusion, I’m not sure whose voice I heard crying out “Quicksand!”
Aiming our feet for her footprints to prevent being sucked under, we sprinted to her. There was no time to find a rope, so several of us took off our belts, and soon they were looped around her arms. It took surprisingly little effort to yank her free. Back on her feet, Little Ye leaned against Julie, sobbing.
“As soon as we got behind the dune, Little Ye’s feet slipped out from under her and her legs disappeared under the sand,” Julie explained. “I grabbed hold of her and blew my whistle. It doesn’t look like quicksand, or she’d have been sucked under much faster, and I wouldn’t have been able to hold on to her on my own. I think there was something firm beneath her feet.”
Wiping away her tears, Little Ye nodded. “I felt something under the sand,” she told us. “Maybe a stone slab. It gave way under my feet, and I fell.”
“Could this be a grave?” Julie wondered aloud. “We should have a look.”
As we already had some shovels handy, we were able to dig down right where Little Ye had been standing. Not far beneath the surface, maybe the height of a dune, was a slanting stone wall in which a huge hole had been blasted, probably quite recently. The wind had blown a thin layer of sand over the gap, and as soon as Little Ye stepped onto the spot, she sank into it.
We gaped at the sight and exchanged questioning glances. It was obviously a stone tomb.
How had a regular grave robber found this place in the vastness of the desert? There was absolutely nothing in the surrounding landscape to mark the spot. Could it be that someone else in the world had the ability to read feng shui in the stars, for all I knew even better than my half-baked attempts?
I looked carefully at the shattered stone around the opening. I’d heard a lot about explosives from my grandfather, who had been in the artillery during his brief army stint. Whoever had pulled off this blast had done a finely calibrated job—only the exterior stone wall was damaged, and the debris directed outward, so nothing inside the tomb would have been damaged.
As we cleared away the sand, a wedge-shaped stone wall was revealed. Apart from the side that had been blown open, the rest remained buried beneath the desert’s surface.
It was a typical tomb from the Wei-Jin period: enormous slabs of mountain rock shaped into arches, the cracks sealed with fish glue. Structures like this were a common sight around the Western Night City. And now these tombs had been completely covered by the desert, making them nearly impossible to find. Professor Chen conjectured that the strong winds from the last few days had been responsible for exposing part of this one, though unfortunatel
y, grave robbers had been faster to get here than our archaeological team.
The space beyond the hole was pitch-dark. A few of us went in, flashlights at the ready, and found ourselves in a vault about the size of a small apartment, with four or five coffins scattered around it. They’d all been pried open and flung aside, leaving a mess everywhere.
These coffins were all different sizes, as if belonging to a mass grave. The only corpse left was a young girl’s, her hair long and worn in many braids. Her head was reasonably well preserved, but her body was broken and crumbling. The inhabitants of the other coffins were gone, probably taken by the thieves.
That’s how it is with Xinjiang graves. Just as valuable as the treasures are the dried-out corpses. I’d heard Professor Chen list the types of ancient remains: wet corpses, which retained moisture in their bodies; waxed corpses, specially treated for preservation; frozen corpses, found in arctic regions where snow remained on the ground year-round; cured corpses, which ended up similar to zombies; and other varieties, such as stuffed corpses, like medical specimens.
Even dried corpses came in different sorts: those made by having drying agents such as lime or charcoal placed in the coffin with them, and those made by mummifying techniques like the ones used in ancient Egypt.
The desiccated corpses of Xinjiang, however, were formed naturally, a product of the hot, dry, sterile environment. Once they were past a certain age, such corpses became quite valuable, with overseas museums and collectors willing to pay top dollar for them.
Seeing the tomb so badly vandalized and the other corpses gone, the professor could only sigh in disappointment. He told his students to restore the place as best they could and see if there was anything worth salvaging.
Worried that he might be too agitated, I suggested that the professor take a rest. Before allowing Kai to lead him back to the campsite, he gave Hao Aiguo some final instructions about being sure to record every detail of the layout of the tomb.
The next day, the wind continued gusting at a steady speed. As we set off, the professor came to me and confided that the tomb couldn’t have been broken into more than three or four days ago, and a team of robbers might well be just ahead of us in the Black Desert. We had to catch up with them without delay, he urged.
I muttered something in agreement, making a mental note to stay well clear of these other robbers. Anyone in the same line of work is a rival, and if these guys were prepared enough to blast through stone walls with military-grade explosives, they probably had other weapons up their sleeves. I was certainly not eager to encounter them. Not for my own sake, but I was now responsible for these archaeologists, none of whom looked like they’d be any good in a fight.
Then again, it wouldn’t be that easy for two groups of people to run into each other in the vast desert, even if we’d wanted to. If the sand dune hadn’t happened to be the highest point near us at dusk yesterday, we wouldn’t have set up camp there and wouldn’t have stumbled upon this tomb. Could such a coincidence happen again? Besides, for all we knew, these robbers had taken their dried corpses and gone back home.
For the next ten days, we wandered deeper and deeper into the Black Desert. Finally, we lost track of the underground Zidu River, and for several days found ourselves going in circles. In the ancient local language, “zidu” means “shadow,” and this river really was like a shadow, impossible to catch hold of. Asat Amat’s eyes were bloodshot, and finally, even he threw up his hands in defeat. There was no help for it—it seemed Old Hu didn’t want us to go beyond this point.
We were all dog-tired, unable to walk a step farther. There hadn’t been any wind for days now, and the sun seemed to hang in the sky much longer than was warranted. To save water, we each dug trenches in the ground during the day, climbing in and covering ourselves with sailcloth, hoping the deeper, cooler layers of sand would help preserve the moisture in our bodies. We only traveled at night and in the early morning, half the time on our camels, half the time on foot.
Now, though, we would surely run out of rations and water if we kept moving forward. If we delayed any more than a day or two, we’d end up having to slaughter the camels for food on the return journey.
Looking at this group of people, their bodies bone weary and their lips cracking from dehydration, I knew most of them had reached their limits. The sun was getting high in the sky, and temperatures were climbing. I gave the signal for them to start digging trenches.
After everyone was settled, Julie came over to me and Asat Amat, brandishing a section in the British explorer’s notebook. “Look, he also lost the path of the Zidu River once he got too far into the Black Desert. He writes about a sea of death, with not even a single blade of grass to be seen. Then he comes upon two black hills of magnetic rock, facing each other in the second sun, like a pair of ancient warriors in black armor, silently guarding a secret from the dawn of time. Passing through this valley, like a gate, he saw the city appear before him.”
“Magnetic hills?” I said. My watch had been stopping constantly for the last two days, or else suddenly getting faster or slower. I’d presumed this was because it was cheap and not up to desert conditions, but what if we were actually in the vicinity of these hills?
Asat Amat thought he remembered a story like that about the Black Desert, only in his version it was the Zaklaman Mountains, one red and one white, the burial sites of ancient gods.
Julie went on, “If these hills really do exist, then the Zidu might be forced to flow deeper underground by the magnetic field, which is why we can’t find it. I think we should stop trying to locate the river. If this British explorer is right, the hills aren’t far from us. Mr. Hu, I’ll need you to use your astrological feng shui tonight. Don’t forget what we agreed—if we make it to the Jingjue City, I’m doubling your fee.”
I’d never thought we had much chance of reaching Jingjue City, but now it seemed I had no choice. I’d give it a go that night, and if we found the Zaklaman Mountains, my fee would increase to twenty thousand American dollars. If I failed, we’d have to head home.
To be honest, I couldn’t have said whether I even wanted to find Jingjue City. After hearing the story of the Jingjue queen, a mysterious, seductive image flitted into my brain and wouldn’t get out. It felt like a shapeless force was calling me across the desert. I had no idea whether Julie and the professor felt it too, not to mention those explorers who set off across the sands and never returned.
That day felt unnaturally long. If I could, I would have taken my rifle and shot the sun out of the sky. We dug our sand pits as deep as we could but never found any cooler ground.
Even deep in our trenches beneath thick canvas, we felt like we were trapped in blazing ovens. Fragile Little Ye seemed to suffer some kind of sun damage and began babbling in her sleep.
Worried she was ill, we touched her forehead, but it was just as hot as the sand around her, so we couldn’t tell if she had a fever. No matter how hard we shook her, she wouldn’t wake up.
We still had enough water for five days, plus a couple of pouches full of fermented milk as a backup. No use hanging on to it. I grabbed one of the pouches and got Julie to feed her a few mouthfuls, then followed that up with some pills.
The medicine calmed her down, but she didn’t regain consciousness. She was probably suffering from severe dehydration, which meant trouble. I explained the situation to the professor.
We had two choices. We could turn around and head back, which would mean slaughtering and eating our camels in the last few days of our retreat, drinking brackish water extracted from the sand, and walking once all the camels were gone. Even so, that wouldn’t ensure Little Ye’s survival. The alternative was to stick to our guns and continue the search for Jingjue City. If we reached it and there was a water source there, Little Ye’s life might be saved.
Professor Chen pondered the matter. Our situation was dire, and even though archaeologists are meant to have a spirit of self-sacrifice, Little Ye was so youn
g that we needed to think of our responsibility toward her. The first plan was more certain, but without sufficient water, the road back would be very difficult; the second option was riskier, but we were close to Zaklaman, with at least a sixty percent chance of reaching Jingjue—though while the ancient city had definitely been built over water sources, who knew whether those had since dried up. He asked everyone for their opinion on what to do next.
Kai went first. “Look how much my waistline’s shrunk! I say we don’t pause for a second, but as soon as the sun sets, we turn around and go back. That way we might actually stay alive.”
Hao Aiguo and Sa Dipeng agreed with him, though in a more somber manner.
In the end, there were slightly more of us who thought it was worth taking a chance and forging ahead. We’d already sacrificed so much to get here, it seemed like a shame to give up now. Besides, if there was water at Jingjue, Little Ye’s life would be saved, and we wouldn’t have to drink gritty underground water on the way back, which even the healthy people would find hard. Given Little Ye’s condition, trying to bring her back now would amount to a death sentence.
That was the viewpoint of Julie, Chu Jian, the professor, and me. Apart from the unconscious Little Ye, only old Asat Amat hadn’t expressed an opinion. Everyone looked at him. If he voted to turn back, that would make it four against four—but as our guide, his opinion would carry more weight.
“Sir, please think before you speak,” I said to him. “This concerns Little Ye’s life. What should we do?”
Sucking on his long pipe, Asat Amat screwed up his eyes and glared at the sun before speaking. “Naturally, I’m going along with Old Hu. Just like there’s only one sun in the sky, ah, the world only has one true god. He’ll lead us.”
I pointed at the sky. “Then hurry up and ask the old guy what we should do.”
Asat Amat tapped his pipe and slipped it back into his belt, then pulled out his tattered prayer mat and sincerely prepared for his devotions, palms facing him as he recited his verses, his expression solemn and humble, the usual cunning momentarily absent.
The City of Sand Page 8
