I could only shake my head at him. We’d been so busy fleeing for our lives that we’d forgotten all about our water supplies. The point of safety had been passed some seven days ago, and there was no going back. Even the secret Zidu River was now completely buried, and we’d never be able to dig our way down to it. Without a drop of water, we wouldn’t last long. I considered searching for water in damp patches of sand, or drinking camel’s blood, but neither of those was feasible. Imagining a slow, painful death from thirst, I wondered whether I should have just thrown myself into the ghost-hole after all.
We sat where we were, too gloomy to move, contemplating our next step.
Out of nowhere, I heard Asat Amat shouting, “A messenger from Old Hu!” And sure enough, coming over a dune not far from us was a shimmering white shape. Was this a hallucination brought on by hunger and thirst? I rubbed my eyes and peered.
It was the white camel we’d encountered by the Western Night City, enjoying a leisurely stroll across the desert, slowly heading west.
Asat Amat was jumping up and down, no longer making sense. From his babbling, I made out that the white camel appearing in the Black Desert meant that Old Hu’s curse had been lifted. This patch of sand was Allah’s once more, and if we followed his messenger, we’d be sure to find water.
I had no idea whether to believe this. The last time we had caught sight of the white camel, he had told us we were guaranteed a safe journey, which hadn’t exactly proven true. Still, if he said the curse was lifted, that was the only glimmer of hope we had left.
We got our caravan moving as quickly as we could and followed the white figure in front of us. Beneath the blazing sun, this magnificent creature moved at a steady pace for several hours, neither fast nor slow. Turning the corner after a long, sandy ridge, we saw something gleaming in the sun—a tiny oasis.
Desert buckthorn grew all around the water, which wasn’t particularly clear—it looked full of suspended particles. It would be fine for the animals, but it would sicken us.
While the camels rushed over to drink, Julie and I treated the water with disinfecting tablets and then filtered it before adding more purifying chemicals. Only then did we distribute it to the group.
This oasis must have sprung from the Zidu River. With the overnight shifting of the sands, a portion of the river that happened to be closer to the surface had seeped out into the open.
We lit a fire by the oasis and toasted some flatbread. I decided not to tell the others what I’d experienced during that last frantic climb out of the mountain, the strange force I’d felt pulling at my back. It felt like an illusion now, probably a final torment from the demonic plant. It seemed impossible to say what was real or false. Not just during our escape, but during the whole of our time in Jingjue City and by the ghost-hole—there didn’t seem to be a meaningful line to be drawn between truth and illusion.
Kai and I tried to talk about everything that had happened since crossing the Zaklaman pass, but it seemed like an unending nightmare. “That weird plant was scarily powerful,” Kai said. “Maybe we never actually went into Jingjue City, and the whole thing was one giant hallucination.”
Julie, who’d been silent up to now, broke in to say, “No way. Now that we’re out of danger, I’ve been able to look back and think clearly about what happened. The corpse bloom worked in a very particular way—it could make use of memories that already existed within our minds but didn’t have the ability to manufacture sights we’d never encountered before. The queen’s coffin, the ghost-hole, the burial chamber, the prophecy—all those were things that actually existed in the world. And we’d already seen the black snakes. As for the prophetic images that tried to trick us into turning on each other, it was only because the first layer of the stone box did have pictures like that, that the plant was able to create the illusion of the second layer.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Great minds truly think alike—that’s what I’d been thinking too, but I wasn’t certain. If that’s your conclusion, then I’m sure we’re right. Now that that’s settled, we should talk about how to get out of here.”
“That’s up to Uncle Asat Amat,” said Julie. “He’s a living map of the desert—if anyone can help us escape, it’s him.”
Asat Amat puffed up with pride and responded by sketching a map in the sand. It showed roughly where we were, with the Niya ruins to our south—quite far away, with nothing but desert in between. Even if we refilled all our bottles, there was no guarantee we’d make it all the way there. To the east was Kroraina, and beyond that the seemingly infinite Gobi Desert. The north was where we’d come from, headed toward the Western Night City, but this deep into the sandy wastes, it would be hard for us to get back there.
North, south, and east were out, which only left west. If we went in that direction, we’d reach the Tarim—the largest inland river to cross the desert—and if we moved quickly, ten days’ journey would bring us to the intersection of the Tarim, Yarkan, and Hotan Rivers. If we could make it there, replenish our water supplies, then head west another six or seven days, we’d be close to Aksu in Xinjiang, where there would be army outposts and oil field workers to help us.
Now that we had water, our most urgent problem was solved. We could probably hold out another ten days, and we still had enough rations left—though truly, in the desert, water trumps food. After all, if things really got bad, we could eat the camels.
It took us a whole day to filter enough water to last us the first leg of our journey, and finally we were ready to set out. We’d definitely be hungry and thirsty along the way, battered by sun and wind, sleeping by day and traveling by night. It would be twelve days before we finally arrived at the Tarim basin. Continuing west another three days, we ran into some oil workers who’d ventured into the desert to hunt yellow sheep.
After being deep in the desert, we had finally found our way back to life. We’d all lost a great deal, but we’d gained a powerful friendship. The bonds forged by sharing such an experience would not be easily broken.
I arrived home at one in the morning. After a few days recuperating in Beijing, Kai and I got the late train back to our village. Still exhausted, we waved goodbye to each other and headed our separate ways.
The outside of my house was drenched in pale, silvery moonlight, making it look like something from a dream. In fact, many times while in the desert, I’d dreamed of being home. But I was awake, and this was real—at least, I hoped so. Gently, I bit the inside of my cheek, and the jolt of pain assured me this was no dream. Nor was it one last hallucination from the corpse bloom.
I pushed the front door open as quietly as I could and sneaked inside, hoping not to wake my parents. I’d sent them a message when we returned to civilization, so they knew I was alive. But I foresaw a whole lot of trouble in the future. Hopefully, I’d be able to get some more sleep first; even though Julie had sprung for swanky hotel rooms for all of us in Beijing, I still felt as weary as when we’d first stumbled back into the city.
Carefully closing the door behind me, I shrugged off my heavy rucksack, only to have it hit a chair that hadn’t been there before. My parents must have rearranged the furniture while I was gone. I held my breath, but the night was still again, except for the chirping of insects outside and the wind faintly rustling the trees.
Creeping into the kitchen, I splashed myself with water from the faucet and got a drink from the jug. I shut my eyes as the cool water slid down my throat, then almost jumped out of my skin when something grabbed hold of my elbow.
Where was my weapon? In the other room! I had to—
But the fog cleared, and I saw that it was my mother. She looked worried. “Tianyi—” she said. “I thought I heard—”
We stared at each other for a while. “I’m back, Ma,” I told her unnecessarily.
She nodded. “Good. That’s good.”
“Go back to bed, Ma. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She smiled a little, touched me on
the arm again, and shuffled slowly out of the room. When had she gotten old? I leaned back against the counter, thinking how nice it would be to sink into my own bed.
First, though, I refilled my glass. These days, I just couldn’t seem to get enough water. I didn’t think I’d ever take it for granted again, having learned what it felt like to do without. Tilting my head back, I felt it trickle down my throat, cool and life-giving. The glass was a large one, but I drank and drank, until every drop was gone.
Opium was used as a type of medicine in China as far back as the seventh century—there weren’t many painkillers back then, and opium, taken orally, was one of the only ways people had to alleviate pain. Today there are painkillers, including some that make use of opiates, which are derived from opium. These drugs, such as codeine and morphine, are legal, but they must be prescribed by a medical professional. Smoking opium became a habit for many when the British began exporting huge quantities of opium grown in India into China in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This turned out to be terrible for China, as opium is addictive and people became dependent on it. Many of them would lie around all day in opium dens instead of working. But the British weren’t happy about giving up the income they got from this trade, and when China sought to abolish it, they sent in their gunboats, leading to the opium wars.
As for Tianyi’s grandfather’s use of opium in this novel, it was certainly a different time and circumstance. Today it is no longer legal to smoke opium in China.
Born in Tianjin in 1978, the year China’s reforms began, Tianxia Bachang (the pen name of Zhang Muye) is a child of the new China. His careers have been many and varied, a winding path of self-discovery that would never have been open to his parents’ generation. An avid gamer, his pen name comes from his online avatar, and his stories have been bestsellers within the gaming community. The City of Sand is his first book to be translated into English. He continues to write and maintain an active connection to his fans online.
Jeremy Tiang has translated more than ten books from Chinese, including novels by Zhang Yueran, Wang Jinkang, Yeng Pway Ngon, and Chan Ho-Kei, and has been awarded a PEN/Heim Grant, an NEA Literary Translation Fellowship, and a Henry Luce Foundation Fellowship. He also writes and translates plays. Jeremy Tiang lives in Brooklyn, New York.
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The City of Sand Page 20
