text: Bilgee was never again invited to attend the corps or division production meetings. Chen often saw him at home, silently doing leatherwork in his yurt.
  
  The leather bridles, reins, bits, and hobbles belonging to the horse, cow, and sheep and horse herders' horses had all been softened in the summer and autumn rains; after drying in the sun, the leather had stiffened and cracked, making it less durable. It was not uncommon for a horse to snap its reins or break its hobbles and run back to the herd.
  
  With time on his hands, Bilgee was able to make new leather fittings for his family, the section's horse herders, and the Beijing students. Chen Zhen, Yang Ke, and Gao Jianzhong often took time out to learn leatherwork from the old man. After a couple of weeks, they were able to produce passable bridles and whips. Yang even managed to make a hobble, which was hardest of all to make.
  
  The old man's spacious yurt was transformed into a leather workshop. Finished work was piled high; the smell of leather salt permeated the air. All they needed to do now was to apply marmot oil.
  
  Marmots produced the best oil on the grassland. During severe winters, oil from sheep and other animals solidified; marmot oil, the sole exception, could be poured even at thirty degrees below zero. It was a grassland specialty found in the homes of all herdsmen. When the white-hair blizzards blew in the depths of winter, all the people had to do to keep their faces free from frostbite was to smear on a layer of marmot oil. Mongolian flour cakes fried in marmot oil were golden brown and delicious; they usually only appeared at wedding banquets or for special guests. And on burns the oil was as effective as badger fat.
  
  Marmot oil and pelts were two important sources of income for herdsmen. In the fall, when the marmot skins were at their thickest, herdsmen went into the mountains to hunt them, keeping the meat for themselves and sending the skins and oil to the purchasing station to swap for bricks of tea, silk, batteries, boots, candy, and daily necessities. A large skin sold for four yuan, and a catty of oil fetched at least one. Ideal for women's coats, the skins were exported for foreign exchange.
  
  But income from hunting was not steady. Wildlife on the grassland is no different from fruit trees in other parts of China; there are good years and bad years, determined by weather, growth of grass, and natural disasters. But the herders on the Olonbulag knew how to control the scale of their hunting and never set a growth rate for each year. They would hunt often if there were many animals, less often if there were fewer, and stop altogether when there were none. It had gone on like that for thousands of years, which was why there were always animals for them to hunt. Most of the time they sold the marmot skins but not the oil, for it was used widely, mostly on leatherwork, turning it a rich brown color, soft yet resilient. The leather would retain its salt if marmot oil was regularly applied during the rainy season, thus prolonging its life and reducing the frequency of accidents. They often ran out before hunting season arrived.
  
  With an eye on his leatherworking tools, one day Bilgee said to Chen, "I only have half a bottle of oil left, and I have a craving for marmot meat. It tastes best at this time of year. In the old days, aristocrats wouldn't eat mutton around this time. Tomorrow I'll take you out hunting for marmot."
  
  "When he brings them home," Gasmai said, "I'll treat you to some tea and cakes fried in marmot oil."
  
  "That's great news," Chen said, "but I can't keep coming here for food."
  
  Gasmai laughed. "Once you started raising the cub, you pretty much forgot about me. How often have you come for tea over the past few months?"
  
  "You're the section leader, and I've already caused you trouble over that cub. I haven't dared come to see you."
  
  "If not for me," Gasmai said, "your cub would have been killed by herdsmen long ago."
  
  "What did you say to them?"
  
  Gasmai smiled. "I said that the Chinese hate wolves and they eat them, all but Chen Zhen and Yang Ke, that is. The cub is like their adopted child. They'll be just like us Mongols once they learn everything about wolves."
  
  Filled with gratitude, Chen thanked her effusively.
  
  Gasmai laughed out loud. "You can thank me by making some dumplings for me. I also like your mutton-stuffed flat bread." That made Chen happy. She then signaled with her eyes and pointed to the dejected old man. "Papa likes those Chinese mutton cakes too."
  
  Chen laughed. "We still have half a bundle of the green onions Zhang Jiyuan bought at the brigade office. I'll bring it over tonight, and you and Papa can eat all you want."
  
  A faint smile appeared on the old man's face. "No need to bring any mutton; we just killed a sheep. Gao Jianzhong's mutton cakes are much better than those sold in the restaurants. Make sure you ask Yang Ke and Gao Jianzhong to come drink with us."
  
  That night, Gao taught Gasmai how to make the fillings, roll the wrappings, and fry the cakes. Then they sang, ate, and drank until the old man abruptly put down his bowl and said, "The corps wants the herdsmen to settle in one place, saying that way we wouldn't get sick so often and our workload would be reduced. What do you think? You Chinese like to settle in one place, right?"
  
  "We're not sure the herdsmen can change their nomadic lifestyle after all these years," Yang Ke said. "I personally don't think so. The shallow grass here can't stand trampling, so the people and their livestock have to move to a different site after a month or two. If we settled in one place, it wouldn't take a year for the surrounding area to turn to sandy land, and the place would be nothing but a desert. Besides, how and where is each family supposed to choose a place to settle down?"
  
  The old man nodded. "It's crazy to promote settlements on the grassland. People from farming areas know nothing about it. They like to settle down, and that's fine. Why force others to do the same? Everyone knows that life would be easier if we didn't keep moving. But we've been doing that for generations. It's what Tengger wants us to do.
  
  "Take the pastureland, for example. Every seasonal pasture has its separate function. The spring birthing pasture has good grass, but it's short. The livestock would die if a winter snowstorm covered the grass. We can't settle there. There's tall grass on the winter pastureland, but it wouldn't last long if the livestock grazed there through the first three seasons. The summer pasture has to be close to water, or the animals would die of thirst. But those are all in the mountains and the animals would freeze to death in the winter. We move to an autumn pasture for the grass seeds, but would there still be seeds left if the livestock stayed to graze in the spring and summer? Every pasture has many downsides and one advantage. The whole point of nomadic herding is to avoid the downsides and make good use of the advantage. If we settle in one spot, we'll face all the downsides, with no more advantage. Then how do we keep herding?"
  
  The three Chinese students nodded in agreement. Chen, of course, could find one advantage in settling down—it would make raising his cub easier—but he kept silent.
  
  The old man drank a lot and ate four big cakes stuffed with green onions and mutton, but his mood seemed to worsen.
  
  Chen exchanged shifts with Yang Ke the following morning so that he could go hunting with Bilgee. A gunnysack with dozens of traps was tied behind the old man's saddle. Marmot traps are very simple: a two-foot wooden pole and a steel noose made of eight thin wires twisted together. A hunter sets the trap by planting the wooden pole near a marmot's den and places the noose about two inches above the ground at the entrance. When a marmot leaves the den, it is caught by the neck or hind leg.
  
  "The last time I used your traps," Chen said, "I didn't catch any big ones. Why's that?"
  
  Bilgee chuckled. "I didn't teach you the secret of trapping marmots, that's why. Olonbulag hunters never reveal their secrets to outsiders, afraid they'll kill off all the animals. But I'm getting old, so I'll teach you my secret. The outsiders use fixed traps, but the marmots are smart—they scrunch up their bodies to slip out of the noose. My traps are flexible and will tighten at the slightest touch. Once a marmot is caught, by either the neck or the hind leg, it'll never get away. So before you set a trap, you need to make the noose smaller, then enlarge it. When you let go, watch the noose spring back."
  
  "How do you make it stay open?"
  
  "You have to make a tiny hook with the wire, then loop the opening of the noose through the hook and bend the hook gently, but not too gently. If the hook isn't bent enough, the wind will blow the noose close. But if the hook is bent too much, the noose won't close by itself and you won't catch a marmot. It has to be just right, and flexible. When a marmot goes through the trap, it touches the wire at some point and the noose snaps shut. Do it that way, and you'll get seven big marmots with ten traps."
  
  Chen slapped his forehead. "Ingenious!" he said. "No wonder my traps never worked. The marmots could come and go as they wished."
  
  "I'll show you later. It isn't easy, because you also have to take into consideration the size of the den and the animal's tracks. There's one additional trick. You can watch me; then you'll know how to do it. But don't reveal this to anyone else."
  
  "I won't," Chen promised.
  
  "One more thing. You hunt only males, or females with no young. If you catch a mother and her babies, you have to let them go. No grassland Mongol would break the rules of our ancestors, which is why, after hunting marmots for hundreds of years, we still have marmot meat to eat, marmot skin to sell, and marmot oil to use. The marmots damage the grassland, but they benefit us. In the past, poor herdsmen survived the cruel winters by hunting marmots. You Chinese will never know how many poor Mongols the marmots have saved."
  
  The horses sped through the dense autumn grass, their hooves kicking up moths in various colors: pinks, oranges, whites, blues. There were also green, yellow, and multicolored grasshoppers and other autumn insects. A few purple swallows circled overhead, singing in their shrill voices; sometimes they darted right past the horses, and sometimes they shot up into the sky, enjoying the insect feast provided by the horses and humans. When they'd gorged themselves, a new batch appeared to eat its fill. The old man pointed at the hills ahead with his club and said, "That's the Olonbulag marmot mountain. The animals there are fat and furry; to us it's a treasure mountain. You'll also find plenty of them on a small marmot hill on the south and another to the north. In a few days, the herdsmen's families will come, since marmots will be easy to catch this year."
  
  "Why is that?"
  
  The old man's eyes darkened as he heaved a long sigh. "With fewer wolves, the marmots are easily trapped. The wolves fatten themselves up with marmots in the fall; without the fat, they wouldn't survive the winter. They only kill the big ones, so they'll have marmots to eat every year. Out here, only the herdsmen and the wolves understand the rules set by Tengger."
  
  As they neared the marmot mountain, they spotted some tents in one of the gulleys. Cooking smoke was rising by the tents, where a large cart and a water wagon gave the impression of a temporary work site.
  
  "Oh, no! They're one step ahead of us again." The old man's face darkened as he rushed toward the tents, his eyes burning bright with anger.
  
  They could detect the aroma of marmot meat and marmot oil even before they reached the tents. They quickly dismounted to see a giant pot on the stove. It was half filled with boiling marmot oil in which the carcasses of large marmots were stewing after having been fried and their fat removed. The meat was golden brown and crispy. After scooping out a fried marmot, a young worker was adding another skinned and gutted animal to the pot. Old Wang and another worker were sitting on a rickety wooden box, beside which lay a bowl of yellow sauce, a dish of salt and pepper, and a plate of green onions. They were happily drinking from a bottle and chewing on meat.
  
  A large wash basin nearby was filled with skinned marmots, mostly young foot-long animals. Set up on the grass were several door planks and a dozen willow baskets. Marmot skins of various sizes, as many as two hundred of them, had been laid out to dry. Chen walked into one of the tents with the old man and saw more than a hundred dried skins piled waist-high. In the middle of the tent was a three-foot gas can half filled with marmot oil; there were also a couple of smaller cans.
  
  The old man ran out of the tent and walked up to the basin, where he brushed aside the smaller marmots on top with his club. Below them were a few thin female marmots with little fat, the sight of which so angered the old man that he banged on the basin with his club and shouted at Old Wang, "Who said you could kill the females and their babies? This is brigade property; these marmots have survived thanks to the efforts of generations of herdsmen. How dare you! Look how many you've killed without permission!"
  
  Old Wang, who was half drunk, continued eating. "I wouldn't dare kill marmots on your territory," he said casually. "But this is not your territory anymore, is it? Your brigade is now part of the corps, right? We were sent here by Chief of Staff Sun, who said that marmots not only destroy the grassland but also serve as the main source of food for the wolves before winter sets in. If we kill all the marmots, the wolves won't survive the winter. So marmots are included in our wolf-extermination campaign. The doctors at the division hospital also say that marmots carry the plague. With so many people coming here, will you take the responsibility if someone dies from one's bite?"
  
  Bilgee was quiet for a while, but soon he was no longer able to contain his anger. "That should not be done, even if the order came from the corps!" he shouted. "What will the herdsmen use to make leather goods if you kill all the marmots? Who will be responsible if someone's reins break, startling the horse and injuring the rider? You are sabotaging production."
  
  Old Wang belched. "We have orders from our superiors, so naturally someone will take the responsibility. Go talk to them if you want. Why yell at those of us who do the hard work?" He glanced at the gunnysack on the old man's saddle. "You came to hunt marmots, didn't you? So you can, but we can't, is that it? You don't raise these animals, so whoever kills them gets to keep them."
  
  His beard quivering in anger, the old man said, "Just you wait. I'll go get the horse herders. These pelts and this oil have to be delivered to the brigade."
  
  "The corps mess hall asked for the meat and oil, so that's who's getting it. You can have people come and take them by force if you want, but someone will take care of you afterward. As for the pelts, well, the officials want them and Director Bao is going to deliver them himself."
  
  With his hands hanging limply at his sides, the old man choked on his anger and was speechless.
  
  Chen Zhen said coldly, "You're really proud of yourself, aren't you? All those dead marmots, big and small. What will you kill next year?"
  
  "Didn't you people call us migrants? Migrants, migrants, mindless immigrants. What do we care about next year? We go where there's food and never worry about the year after that. You have plenty of concern for marmots, but who cares about us migrants?"
  
  Chen knew it was pointless to reason with these ruffians. Now he just wanted to know how they'd managed to kill so many—had they learned to set traps?—so he changed his tone. "How did you catch so many?" he asked.
  
  "So you want to learn from us," Wang said smugly. "Well, you're too late. There aren't many dens left. We sent back a cartload of meat and oil two days ago. But, if you really want to know, then go up that hill and take a look. Hurry or you'll miss everything."
  
  Chen helped the old man back onto his horse, and then they rode up to the hilltop. Down on the northeastern slope four or five men were bent over, busy at work. Chen and Bilgee galloped toward them. "Stop!" the old man shouted. "Stop!" The workers stood up and looked around.
  
  Chen was shaking at the sight. There were six marmot dens on the hillside, which, Chen knew, were connected. Four holes were blocked with rocks.
  
  What terrified Chen most was that the leading worker was holding a young two-foot-long marmot in his hand. A string of firecrackers was tied to the struggling marmot's tail, which was attached to a rope that was in turn wrapped around a piece of old felt the size of a fist. Red specks of chili peppers were sprinkled all over the felt, which reeked of diesel fuel. Beside that worker, another worker held a box of matches. If Chen and the old man had come a moment later, the workers would have already put the young marmot down the hole and lit the firecrackers to smoke out the den.
  
  The old man ran up and stuck his foot in the hole. Then he sat down and screamed at the two workers, telling them to put down what they had in their hands. Since they had been under Bilgee's supervision over the summer, they didn't dare argue.
  
  Never before had Chen witnessed such a greedy, malicious extermination scheme. Young marmots carrying into the dens lit firecrackers, along with chili peppers and diesel fuel, would wipe them out.
  
  Marmots boasted the deepest, steepest animal dens on the grassland, with a highly intricate internal structure, including built-in smoke prevention mechanisms. If men tried to smoke them out, they'd quickly block off the narrow passage in the main hole. But they were caught off guard by the ruthless method adopted by these worker-hunters from the semiherding areas. The frightened young marmot would run straight to the animals at the bottom of the cave, and before they had a chance to block off the passage, the firecrackers would go off and the pungent smoke would force an entire den of marmots to flee. With only one opening left, they would be met with clubs and gunnysacks. Simple but unimaginably cruel; all the workers needed was a young marmot for bait. Within a few days, the men had virtually wiped out a marmot mountain that had been in existence for thousands of years; the marmots were now near extinction.
  
  Bilgee banged his club on the ground, sending broken shards of rock flying all over. His eyes nearly popping out of his head, he shouted, "Cut off those firecrackers! Cut the rope, and put the young marmot back into the den!"
  
  The workers took their time untying the rope and refused to let go of the marmot. Old Wang rode over on a light wagon. He no longer appeared drunk. With a broad grin, he gave the old man a cigarette and then turned to scold the workers. He walked up to the man holding the marmot, snatched the animal away, and cut off the rope. Then he went back to the old man and said, "Don't worry; I'll let this one go."
  
  Bilgee got slowly to his feet and brushed the dirt off. "Let it go this minute. And don't interfere with our work ever again."
  
  Old Wang smiled ingratiatingly. "I wouldn't dare," he said. "I'm just following orders. We won't stop the wolves if we don't kill off the marmots, so this is considered eliminating a scourge for the people. But you're right, of course. Without the marmot oil, the reins won't be durable, and accidents could happen. We need to leave some marmots for the herdsmen."
  
  He put the marmot down on the flat surface outside the hole, where the animal swiftly disappeared from sight.
  
  Old Wang sighed. "In all fairness, it's hard getting a whole den of these things. We went to a lot of trouble to catch that young marmot today. Since we've been using firecrackers, they've been too scared to come out."
  
  Not giving an inch, the old man said, "We're not done yet. You send the stuff to the brigade office immediately. If Lamjav and the other horse herders got wind of this, they'd come and knock over your tent and your carts."
  
  "We'll get our stuff together and be on our way. I'll report to Director Bao myself."
  
  The old man looked at his watch. Clearly worried about the marmot mountain to the north, he said, "I'm going to see someone. I'll be right back." Then he and Chen mounted up and rode toward the border highway.
  
  Firecrackers went off behind them after they had crossed a pair of hills, and then everything turned quiet. The old man said, "We've been tricked." They turned back and rode up to the top of the hill, where they saw Old Wang, a damp cloth covering his mouth and nose, directing the workers to catch and kill the marmots. Dead animals were already strewn on the ground outside the marmots' den, while thick, acrid smoke continued to pour from it. The last few marmots were clubbed to death the moment they came out. The old man was coughing violently, so Chen helped him over to a place upwind as he thumped him on the back.
  
  With damp cloths over their faces, the workers looked like bandits; they quickly dumped the marmots into a gunnysack, which they then tossed onto the cart before riding down the mountain.
  
  "How could they could trap another baby marmot so quickly?" Chen asked Bilgee.
  
  "They'd probably trapped two, and had one in the hemp sack that we couldn't see. Or they might have tied firecrackers to a long pole. They're nothing less than bandits, worse than horse thieves in the old days!"
  
  Bilgee stood up with the aid of his club and surveyed the marmot dens, now completely emptied. He was shaking; tears streaked his face. "What cruelty! I know these dens," he said. "I set traps here with my father when I was a boy. Generations of my family caught marmots here, and now there are no more. Year after year, they'd be chirping happily. It was a fertile den for well over a hundred years, and those bandits wiped it out in the time it takes to smoke a couple of pipes of tobacco."
  
  Chen was as upset as Bilgee, but he tried to console the old man. "Don't be angry anymore, Papa. Let's go see if there's anything we can do."
  
  As they traveled along, their horses slowed down to graze from time to time. Chen saw that the grass was much greener there than back at the pastureland. It had thicker stalks and was bursting with seeds. He spotted little piles on the ground, each the size of a magpie nest, and knew that field mice had been gathering grass and leaving it outside their dens to dry before they carried it in.
  
  The old man reined in his horse where the grass was densest. "Let's stop and rest a bit," he said. "The horses can get some of the good grass from the mice. See how they thrive, now that the wolves are gone? These piles are several times thicker this year than last."
  
  They dismounted and removed the horses' bits so they could graze. They happily nosed away the dry yellow surface grass to get at the fresh green grass underneath. With green juice streaming from their mouths, they snorted as they ate, one pile after another, permeating the air with a grassy fragrance. The old man kicked a pile away to reveal a hole the size of a teacup; a large mouse stuck its head out to check around. When it saw someone touching its winter stockpile, it ran out, bit the old man's boot, and scurried noisily back into the hole. A moment later, they heard the sound of a bridle shaking. They turned around in time to see a foot-long field mouse biting one of their horses on the nose, which was already bleeding. Loud squeaks erupted all around them.
  
  "What has the world come to," the angry old man shouted, "when a mouse is bold enough to bite a horse? If they keep killing wolves, the mice will start eating people." Chen ran over, grabbed the reins, and tied them to the horse's front leg so that the horse would be sure to cover the opening with its hoof before starting to eat.
  
  The old man kicked at some more piles. "See how close they are to each other? They've picked out the best grass; not even Xinjiang mating sheep get grass this good. The mice, which pick only the good stuff, are worse than grass cutters, which cut down the bad along with the good. If they store up enough this winter, not many of them will die of hunger or cold, which means the females will have plenty of milk in the spring and give birth to even more mice. They'll steal our grass and make more holes. Next year they'll overrun the place. See, when there are fewer wolves on the grassland, the mice turn from thieves to bandits, no longer having to sneak around."
  
  As he looked down at the piles of grass, Chen's sadness was mixed with fear. A battle between humans and mice was waged on the grassland every autumn. The mice were a sneaky enemy, but they had a weakness. By digging holes deep enough to store food for the winter, they needed to pile the grass to dry, or it would rot inside their dens. That made them an obvious target, providing the opportunity for people to initiate their mouse extermination campaigns.
  
  When a herdsman spotted a pile of grass on a pastureland, he sounded an alarm for the production teams to bring back the sheep, cows, even the horses to forage the piles of grass. The pastureland grass would be turning yellow, while the piles made by the mice would still be green and fragrant, with oily seeds. The livestock would fight over the grass, and it would take them only a few days to finish it off before it dried. It was a natural form of mouse population control.
  
  But humans and their livestock needed the cooperation of wolves when they launched their autumn battles. This was when the mice were at their fattest, perfect for the wolves to feast on. Mice that were cutting and moving grass were easy to catch, and the piles showed the wolves where to find the biggest rodents. But most important, the wolves made the mice wary during their critical grass-collecting season, which indirectly led to starvation in the winter. Humans had their livestock finish off the grass while the wolves were a deterrent to the mice from cutting down grass at will.
  
  For thousands of years, wolves and humans, along with their livestock, worked together to effectively control the population of mice. The grass they gathered delayed the process of yellowing, which in turn supplied the livestock with green grass for about ten days, extra time to store up fat. And so, the battle waged jointly by men and wolves achieved many purposes. Meanwhile, on the distant winter pastureland, beyond the reach of man and their livestock, wolves disrupted grass-collecting activities by the mice, which they then ate. How could farmers understand the strategies of grassland combat, which in the end preserved them all?
  
  The horses' bellies bulged as they gorged themselves for nearly half an hour. The brigade's livestock would be outmatched by the vast supply of grass piles. In the face of an unprecedented battle scene, the old man was lost in thought. "Can we bring the horses here? No, that won't work. This pasture belongs to the sheep and the cows. Bringing the horses would disrupt the established order. But there are so many piles that even baling machines would be unable to complete the job. This is a disaster in the making."
  
  "A man-made disaster," Chen said angrily.
  
  They remounted and continued on, heading north, utterly dispirited. Along the way, they saw more piles of grass, some denser than others, all the way to the border.
  
  As they neared the small northern marmot mountain, they heard some loud cracks that sounded like neither gunfire nor firecrackers. Then it was quiet again. Bilgee sighed. "The corps leaders sure found the right person to be their extermination adviser," he said, despair in his voice. "Wherever you find wolves, you'll find Dorji, even at the wolves' last outpost."
  
  They spurred their horses on, only to encounter an army vehicle coming out of the valley. They reined in their horses as the vehicle came to a halt. In it were the two sharpshooters and Dorji. Staff Officer Xu was driving, and Dorji was in the backseat, with a bloody gunnysack by his feet. The trunk was filled. The old man's gaze was drawn to the long-barreled rife in Staff Officer Batel's hand. Chen could see that it was a small-caliber hunting rifle, something the old man had never seen before; he couldn't take his eyes off it.
  
  "Out hunting marmots?" Batel asked. "No need, I'll give you two of ours."
  
  "Any reason we shouldn't go up there?" Bilgee asked, glaring at the man.
  
  "We killed all the ones outside their dens, and those inside don't dare come out."
  
  "What's that in your hand?" Bilgee asked. "Why does it have such a long barrel?"
  
  "It's used for duck hunting," Batel said. "Small-caliber ammunition is perfect for killing marmots. They keep the fur virtually undamaged. Here, take a look."
  
  The old man took the rifle and examined it and the bullets very carefully.
  
  Wanting to show the old man the advantage of his rifle, Batel got out of the vehicle and took it from Bilgee. He spotted a squeaking mouse on the grass pile outside its cave about twenty yards away. He took aim and fired, blowing the mouse's head off. The old man shook all over.
  
  Staff Officer Xu laughed. "The wolves all left for Outer Mongolia," he said. "Dorji took us everywhere, but we didn't see a single one. Luckily I brought the rifle with me for killing marmots. They're so stupid they didn't even run back to their dens when we got closer, as if they were waiting for our bullets to hit them."
  
  "These two can hit a marmot's head from fifty yards," Dorji gloated. "We killed every one we spotted along the way. It was a lot faster than setting traps."
  
  "Why don't you turn back and go home?" Batel said. "I'll drop two large marmots off at your yurt on my way back."
  
  The vehicle took off before the old man had regained his composure from the shock of witnessing the power of this new weapon. As the smoke and dust from the army vehicle cleared, Bilgee turned his horse around and draped the reins over its neck to let it find its way home. Everyone talks about how China's Last Emperor suffered, Chen was thinking as he rode beside the old man. But the last nomadic herdsman is suffering a great deal more. How much more difficult it must be to accept the destruction of a ten-thousand-year-old grassland than the overthrow of a thousand-year-old dynasty. The once energetic old man was deflated, his body suddenly shrunk to half of its original size. Tears coursed through the wrinkles on his face, spilling onto patches of wild blue-white daisies.
  
  Not knowing how to lessen the old man's sorrow, Chen held his tongue, before finally stammering, "Papa, the autumn grass is really good this year... The Olonbulag is truly beautiful... Maybe next year..."
  
  "Next year?" the old man replied woodenly. "Who knows what bizarre things will happen next year? In the past, even a blind old man could see the grassland's beauty. It's no longer beautiful. I wish I were blind so that I wouldn't have to see how it's being destroyed."
  
  He swayed in the saddle as his horse plodded ahead. He closed his eyes. Old, guttural sounds emerged from his throat, infused with the aroma of green grass and fading daisies. To Chen, the lyrics sounded like simple nursery rhymes:
  
   Larks are singing, spring is here;
  
   marmots are chirping, orchids bloom;
  
   Gray cranes are calling, the rain is here;
  
   wolf cubs are baying, the moon is rising.
  
  He sang the same thing over and over, as the melody turned ever lower and the lyrics became indistinguishable, like a stream flowing from some faraway place, crisscrossing the vast grassland before disappearing in the undulating grass. Chen Zhen wondered if the nursery rhyme had been sung by the children of the Quanrong, the Huns, the Tungus, the Turks, and the Khitans, as well as the offspring of Genghis Khan. Would the future children of the grassland be singing the song or even understand it? Or would they be full of questions: What are larks? What's a marmot? Gray cranes? Wolves? Wild geese? What are orchids? What's a daisy?
  
  A few larks rose up above the vast, yellowing grassland; they flapped their wings and hovered in midair, singing clear and happy songs.