text: The first winter snow melted, moistening the air, while chilling and freshening the fields. The dense winter grass on the wild field was yellow and sere, so bleak it resembled a desert plateau where no grass would grow.
  
  Only the sky was the same blue as in late autumn. The sky was high and clouds were sparse, like a clear lake. The vultures flying high in the sky were smaller than rust spots on a mirror. Unable to catch marmots and mice, which were hibernating inside their dens, the vultures had to fly high into the clouds to broaden their search for rabbits, but the wild Mongolian rabbits, which could camouflage themselves by changing color, hid in the tall grass, hard for even foxes to find. Bilgee had once said that many vultures starved to death each winter.
  
  When the snow covered the bottom half of the grass, the livestock had much less grass for winter grazing, which was why the herders had to move once a month. Once the pastureland turned white from all that grazing, they'd herd the cows and sheep to another yellowish snow field, leaving the remaining grass beneath the snow to the horses, who could dig up the grass with their hooves.
  
  None of the moves took them very far, just far enough to be away from where the livestock had been grazing. It usually took half a day, too little time for the cub to bite through the cage no matter how hard he tried. Chen breathed a sigh of relief, having finally, after two weeks of racking his brain, found a solution to the problem of the cub's survival during their constant moves.
  
  Chen and Yang had also figured out how to make the cub enter the cage: they would trap him under a covered basket on the ground, then lift the shaft of the oxcart and slide the cart under it with the cub inside. All they had to do after that was lower the cart and secure the basket, and the cub would be safely on the cart. They reversed the procedure when they reached a new site. They were hoping to move the cub the same way each time until they settled in one place, where they would build a stone pen; that would be the end of their troubles and enable them to live side by side with the cub. They'd raised him with puppies, and since they had basically grown up together, they'd surely produce results—a few litters of wolfhounds, true descendents of the grassland wolves.
  
  Chen and Yang spent a great deal of time sitting with the cub, rubbing his head as they chatted. At moments like this, he would rest his head on one of their legs, prick up his ears, and listen curiously to their conversation. When he was tired, he'd shake his head and rub his neck against their legs or raise his head for them to scratch his ears or cheeks. The scene would draw the two men deeper into their fantasy about their lives with the cub.
  
  Holding the cub to brush his coat, Yang said, "Our little wolf wouldn't try to run away if he had his own litter. Wolves care about their families, and male wolves are model mates. So long as no wild wolf came along, we wouldn't have to chain him; he could play on the grassland and return to the pen on his own."
  
  Chen shook his head. "He wouldn't be a wolf if he did that. I don't plan to keep him here. My initial dream was to have a real wolf friend. If I rode into the hills by the border and yelled out, 'Little Wolf, Little Wolf, time to eat,' he'd bring his whole family, a group of true grassland wolves, and run happily toward me. There'd be no chains around their necks, their teeth would be sharp, and they'd be strong. They'd roll in the grass with me, lick my chin, and bite my arms, but not hard. But now that the cub's sharp teeth are gone, my dream has become just that, a dream."
  
  Chen sighed softly. "But I don't want to give up. I have a new fantasy now: I've become a dentist and have given the cub four sharp steel teeth. Next spring, when he's fully grown, I'll secretly take him to the border and free him in the mountains of Outer Mongolia, where there are still wolf packs. Maybe his father, the White Wolf King, has fought his way to freedom and opened a base for them. This cub is smart enough to find his father, and when they're together, the White Wolf King will sniff out the bloodline in the cub and welcome him back. Armed with his sharp steel teeth, the cub will be invincible and may even take over as king in a few years.
  
  "Little Wolf clearly has the best genes of all the Olonbulag wolves. He's stubborn and extremely smart; by rights, he should have been the next king of the wolves. But only if he could return to the real Mongolia, where few people inhabit a vast territory. There are only twenty million people in the real Mongolia, which is a spiritual paradise that venerates the wolf totem; it is free of a farming population that hates wolves and wants only to kill them. The vast, lush grassland is where our little wolf ought to display his prowess. I committed a crime when I destroyed the future of such an outstanding little wolf cub."
  
  Yang fixed his gaze on the distant mountains, the light darkening in his eyes. He sighed and said, "If you'd come here ten years earlier, maybe your dream could have come true, but your latest fantasy is a pipe dream. Where are you going to find a set of dental tools? Not even the banner hospital has those. The old herdsmen have to travel eight hundred li to the league hospital to have their teeth fixed. What are the chances of taking a wolf there? Stop dreaming. We need to face reality."
  
  That reality was the cub's injuries. His paws had healed, but the blackened tooth was getting looser by the day and the gums were swelling up. He no longer tore at his meat, and sometimes, when his hunger made him forget about the bad tooth, he took a big bite, but the pain caused him to drop it and open his mouth wide to suck in cold air. He licked the bad tooth until the pain was gone before he started eating again, this time chewing on one side, and very slowly.
  
  What worried Chen most was the injury to the cub's throat, which had yet to heal. He continued to smear medicated powder on the food, but the cub still had trouble swallowing, even though the bleeding had stopped. He coughed constantly. Since he didn't have the nerve to ask for help from the vet, all Chen could do was borrow books to study on his own.
  
  The cows and sheep that would feed the people through the winter had been slaughtered and frozen. The four people in Chen's yurt were allocated six sheep each for the winter, twenty-four in all. They also were given one cow. Their grain allotment remained the same, thirty jin each a month, while the herdsmen, though given the same amount of meat, received only nineteen jin of grain. As a result, the meat in Chen's yurt was enough for all: people, dogs, and the cub. In addition, there were sheep that had died from the cold or illness, and since the herdsmen didn't eat them, they could be fed to the dogs and the cub. Chen no longer had to worry about finding enough meat for the cub.
  
  Chen and Gao Jianzhong took most of the frozen meat to their section's storage shed, three rammed-earth rooms on the spring pasture. They kept only a basket of meat in the yurt and went to the shed to restock their supply.
  
  Winter days are short on the grassland, with only six or seven hours for the sheep to graze, barely more than half of the summer grazing time. But, except for the white-hair blizzards, winter is a time of rest for the herders. Chen planned to spend more time with the cub and do some reading and take notes. He was waiting to see what sort of show the cub would put on for him during snowy days. Grassland dramas centered on the wolves' wild nature, wisdom, and mysteriousness, and Chen was confident the cub wouldn't disappoint his biggest fan.
  
  During the long, severe winter, wolves that had fled across the border faced conditions ten times harsher than on this side of the border, while his cub would be living in a herders' camp, where there was an abundant supply of meat. His fur was now fully grown, and he looked bigger, every bit like a mature wolf. When Chen buried his fingers in the thick coat, he could feel the cub's body warmth, like a burning brazier, better than gloves. The cub still would not respond to his new name, Big Wolf. He feigned deafness if they called him that, but would run over happily to jump onto their legs and knees if they called him Little Wolf. His puppy companion often went into the pen to play with the cub, who no longer bit down hard. Sometimes he'd even mount the puppy, as if mating. Watching the intimate yet violent behavior, Yang Ke would smile and say, "Looks like we can expect something next year..."
  
  There were things about the cub's wolf nature that never changed: one, no one could be near him when he ate, not even Chen or Yang; two, he would not let anyone pull him along when out walking, and anyone who tried would be in for the fight of his life. Chen always tried his best to honor his rules. The cub's craving for and enjoyment of food was much stronger during the freezing winter months than in the other seasons. Each time Chen fed him, he would snarl and bare his fangs until Chen was nearly out of the pen before he felt safe enough to return to eat. Even then he'd growl menacingly at Chen. Though still not completely recovered from his injuries, he was gaining strength and seemed to be making up for the lost blood with his voracious appetite.
  
  Nonetheless, the bad tooth and the injury in his throat affected his wolf nature; it now took him seven or eight bites to swallow a meal that he'd once been able to gobble down in two or three mouthfuls. Chen wondered if he would ever completely recover.
  
  A leaden bleakness heavier than in the depths of autumn permeated the winter pastureland at the border region rarely visited by humans. The quiet, dreary, monotonous grassland looked even more lifeless than ever. A sense of unending, boundless sorrow rose up repeatedly in Chen Zhen; he thought he'd lose his mind or go numb from the boredom if not for the cub and the books he'd brought from Beijing. Yang Ke once told him that when his father was a student in England he learned that the suicide rate was much higher among Europeans who lived close to the North Pole. The Slavic Depression that had been common for centuries on the Russian grassland and Siberian wasteland was closely tied to the long, dark winters on vast snowy fields. But how did the Mongols manage to spend several thousand years in a similar environment with healthy bodies and high spirits? They must have developed those as a result of their tense, violent, and cruel battles with the wolves, Chen concluded.
  
  Physically, the grassland wolves were half of the grassland residents' enemies, but they were the inhabitants' spiritual masters. Once the wolves were exterminated, the bright red sun would no longer light up the grassland, and the stagnant stability would bring dejection, a withering decadence and boredom, and other more terrifying foes of the spirit, obliterating the masculine passion that had characterized them for thousands of years.
  
  After the disappearance of the wolves, the sale of liquor on the Olonbulag nearly doubled.
  
  Wolf totem, the soul of the grassland, the symbol of the grassland people's free and indomitable spirit.
  
  The young wolf grew bigger; the chain grew shorter. The sensitive cub, never an animal to be cheated, protested like an abused prisoner when he realized that the length of the chain was disproportionate to his size. He pulled at it with all his might, tugging and ramming the wooden post as a way to get Chen to lengthen the chain; he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied, even if that meant being strangled to death.
  
  Chen added a few inches to the chain, as the wound on the cub's throat had yet to heal. But even he had to admit that it was still too short for the grown-up cub. The only reason he didn't lengthen it more was that extending the cub's running distance would give him more power when he tugged at the chain. Chen was worried that one day he'd wear the chain out, or break it.
  
  The cub, seemingly engaged in a prison battle, cherished every inch added to the chain. As soon as it was lengthened, he'd run madly in circles, rejoicing over the new inches of freedom he'd gained. The desolation vanished from Chen's heart each time he sat down by the cub, as if he'd received a transfusion of roiling wolf blood.
  
  As he watched him, he realized that the cub wasn't only celebrating the added length of his chain, for after the excitement abated, he kept running, and Chen felt that his instincts were telling him to train for speed, for the skill to escape. He struggled against his chain with more power than during the summer and fall. As he grew stronger and more mature by the day, he stared out at the grassland with a longing in his eyes; he could almost reach out and touch the freedom, and that made him hate the chain even more. Chen realized how cruel his imprisonment was yet felt the cub would surely die if he ran away to roam the snowy land in the depths of winter, when even adult wolves are barely able to survive.
  
  The cub continued to fight the chain, which delayed the healing of his throat. Chen felt his own throat tighten whenever he looked at the cub. All he could do was check the chain, the collar, and the post more often to prevent the cub from running away into the land of freedom and death before his own eyes.
  
  Pangs of guilt struck Chen's heart. In this barren, uninhabited land, he enjoyed the company of a young wolf whose life generator created the power to help him through the seemingly endless winter. He'd learned so much from the clash in nature and destiny of two species on a fertile yet bramble-covered wasteland. He worshipped and admired the wolves. Had it really been necessary to imprison the cub and deprive him of his freedom and happiness so he could overcome Han ignorance and prejudice and succeed in his study of the wolves?
  
  Chen sank deep into doubts and worry regarding the series of actions he'd taken.
  
  It was time to do some reading, but he couldn't seem to lift his feet. He felt he'd developed a spiritual and emotional dependence on the cub. He finally dragged himself away, though not without constantly looking back and wondering what else he could do for the imprisoned animal.
  
  The cub's temperament eventually sealed his fate.
  
  Chen Zhen always felt that losing the cub in the harsh winter climate was an inevitable plan by Tengger, who also launched a lifelong assault on Chen's conscience, so that he'd never be forgiven.
  
  The cub's injury took a turn for the worse on a windless, moonless dark night when the dogs did not bark and the stars did not shine. The ancient Olonbulag was quiet and lifeless, like vegetation trapped in a fossil rock.
  
  In the second half of the night, Chen was awakened by a violent shaking of the chain. A heightened sense of fright made his head unusually clear and his hearing uncharacteristically keen. He detected, amid the sounds of the chain, indistinct wolf howls from the mountains across the border. The intermittent howls sounded old and sad, anxious and angry. Defeated wolf packs that had been driven out of their homeland may have been under attack by stronger wolves from the other side of the border; maybe only the White Wolf King and a few wounded and lone wolves were left, and they had run south to the no-man's-land between the border marker and the highway. They could not return to the old blood-soaked place. The White Wolf King's anxious howl seemed to be an urgent search to gather together the defeated and dispersed wolves for one final battle.
  
  It had been over a month since Chen had last heard the howls of free Olonbulag wolves, and the tremulous, feeble, anxious howls transmitted a message that had been worrying him. He wondered if Bilgee was crying at that moment, for hearing the howls of desperation was worse than hearing nothing at all. Most of the strongest, most ferocious, and smartest males had already been eliminated by the hunters. After snow blanketed the grassland, the army vehicles were of no use, so the hunters exchanged them for fast horses and continued to hunt wolves, who seemed to have lost the power to find their way out and create a new territory for themselves.
  
  This was Chen's greatest fear. The return of the long-absent wolf howls rekindled hope, longing, resistance, and a fighting spirit in the cub. Like an imprisoned grassland prince, he heard his aging father's call, a call for help, and he grew anxious, agitated, and violent, so much so that he wanted to respond with a howl as loud as a cannon shot.
  
  But his injured throat would not allow him to answer his father and his own kind. Crazed by anxiety, he grew reckless, jumping and running, jerking the chain and the wooden post, oblivious to the possibility of mortal injury. Chen felt the frozen ground move; given the clanging and clamoring from the pen, he could imagine the wolf cub running, crashing, coughing up blood.
  
  Frightened, he jerked away his felt blanket and quickly put on his fur-lined pants and deel before running out of the yurt. Blood was visible in the beam of his flashlight. The cub was bleeding openly, but he kept running and crashing, his tongue lolling involuntarily from the pressure of the tightening collar. The chain was stretched taut, like a bow at the breaking point. Bloody icicles hung from his chest, while beads of blood splattered the ground.
  
  Chen ran up, without regard for anything, in an attempt to hold the cub by his neck, but the cub took a large patch of sheepskin from Chen's sleeve the moment he reached out. Yang Ke ran over anxiously, but even with two of them they couldn't get close. The madness that had been building up inside the cub turned him into a demon with eyes reddened from killing, or a cruel, enraged, suicidal wolf. They hurriedly dragged over a large thick, filthy felt used to cover the cow dung, and lunged at the cub to press him to the ground.
  
  Seemingly engaged in a bloody life-and-death struggle, the cub went completely wild; he gnawed at the ground, bit the felt and anything else he came into contact with, and continued shaking his head to free himself from the chain. Chen felt as if he himself were losing his mind, but he forced himself to calm down and call out in a tender voice, "Little Wolf, Little Wolf." Finally, the cub exhausted his energy and slowly gave in. Chen and Yang sat wearily on the ground, gasping for breath as if they'd been engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a wild wolf.
  
  In the light of dawn, they pulled the felt away to see the consequence of the cub's crazed struggle for freedom and longing for his father's love: The infected tooth was now protruding from his mouth; the root had broken when he tore at the felt. He was bleeding, his wounds possibly made worse by the dirty felt. His throat was still bleeding as well, worse now than when they'd first moved here. The old wound had clearly been reopened.
  
  His eyes bloodshot, the cub kept swallowing the blood, but it was everywhere: on their deels, on the felt, inside the pen, a worse sight than when a foal was killed. The blood quickly turned to ice. Chen's knees buckled from the fright and he stammered in a shaky voice, "It's all over. He'll die for sure."
  
  "He's probably lost half his blood," Yang Ke said. "He'll bleed to death if we don't do something fast."
  
  They didn't know how to stop the bleeding. Eventually, Chen got on his horse to go ask for Bilgee's help.
  
  The old man, shocked by the sight of blood on Chen, went back with him. "Do you have anything to stem the bleeding?" the old man asked.
  
  Chen brought out four bottles of Yunnan White Powder. Bilgee entered the yurt, where he found a cooked sheep lung, which he soaked and softened in warm water from a vacuum bottle. He cut off the hard windpipes and separated the two halves before smearing powder on the surface of the softened lungs. He took it out to the pen for Chen to feed the cub, who caught and swallowed one of the halves as soon as Chen pushed the food basin in. He nearly choked, for the lung had swelled up after soaking up the blood in his esophagus. The soft organ remained in the throat for a while, like blood-stemming cotton, before slowly going down. The expanded lung put pressure on the blood vessels while helping to medicate the esophagus, slowly reducing the bleeding after the cub had swallowed both lung halves.
  
  The old man shook his head and said, "It's useless. He's bled too much, and he's injured his throat, a mortal wound. Even if you could stop the bleeding this time, could you stop it the next time he heard wolf howls? This is terrible for the cub. I told you not to, but you insisted on raising him. Seeing him like this is worse than having a knife in my throat. It's no life for a wolf; not even dogs have it this bad. It's worse than the ancient Mongolian slaves. Mongolian wolves would rather die than live like this."
  
  Chen pleaded with the old man. "Papa, I want to raise him to old age. Please, is there any way to save him? Please, teach me all your cures."
  
  The old man glared at him. "You still want to raise him? You need to kill him now, while he still looks like a wolf and has a true wolf spirit. That way he'll die as if in battle, like a wild wolf. Don't let him die an ignoble death, like a sick dog! Let his soul complete its cycle."
  
  Chen couldn't stop his hands from shaking. He never imagined that one day he would have to kill the cub with his own hands, a cub he'd raised in the face of incredible hardships. Holding back his tears, he made one last attempt to plead with the old man: "Papa, please. How could I bring myself to kill him? I have to save him, even if there's only a tiny shred of hope."
  
  The old man's face darkened. He began to cough out of anger. He spat out a gob of phlegm and shouted, "You Chinese will never understand the Mongolian wolves."
  
  Incensed, he climbed onto his horse and, with a vicious whip on the animal's flank, rode off in the direction of his yurt without looking back.
  
  Chen's heart felt the blow of that whip.
  
  The two friends, Chen and Yang, stood on the snowy ground like wooden posts, completely lost.
  
  Yang looked down. "This is the first time Papa ever got that angry with us. The cub really isn't a cub anymore. He's a grown wolf, and he'd fight us for his freedom. They really are the 'freedom or death' species. Look at him; he's not going to live. I think we should follow Papa's advice and give the cub the dignity he deserves."
  
  Tears had by then formed a string of icy beads on Chen's face. He sighed and said, "It's not that I don't understand what Papa said. But how can I bring myself to do it? If I have a son someday, I don't think I'll dote on him the way I did the cub. Just give me some time to think."
  
  The cub, having lost most of his blood, got to his feet shakily and walked to the side of the pen, where he pawed at the snow piled on the edge. He opened his mouth and Chen quickly grabbed him. "He must be trying to numb the pain with the snow," he said to Yang. "Should I let him do it?"
  
  "I think he's thirsty. How could he not be after losing so much blood? I say let him do whatever he wants; let him be the master of his own fate from now on."
  
  Chen let go and the cub gulped down mouthfuls of snow. Weakened and assaulted by the cold and pain, he shook violently, like an ancient grassland slave stripped of his fur deel as punishment. Finally, no longer able to stand, he fell to the ground, where he struggled to curl up, covering his face with his tail.
  
  The cub convulsed violently each time he sucked in a lungful of cold air, and the convulsions stopped only when he breathed out. That went on for a long time, sending tremors through Chen's heart. He had never seen the cub in such a frail, helpless state. He went and got a thick felt blanket, and when he placed it over the cub, he seemed to feel that the animal's soul was leaving his body little by little, as if he were no longer the cub he had raised.
  
  At noon, Chen cooked a pot of porridge with diced sheep rump. After cooling it with some snow, he took it over to the cub. Although still displaying his usual ferocious appetite and greedy look, the cub could no longer eat like a real wolf. Instead, he took many breaks to cough and to bleed. Obviously, the wound in his throat still had not healed. A pot of meat porridge that the cub would normally finish in one meal lasted two days for three meals.
  
  Over those two days, Chen and Yang took turns watching the cub, their hearts in their throats. But he was eating less and less, and could barely swallow anything except his own blood from the previous meal. Chen Zhen got on his horse with three bottles of grassland liquor to get help from the brigade's veterinarian. The vet took a look at the blood on the ground, and said, "Don't bother. Lucky it's a wolf; if it were a dog, it'd be long dead."
  
  Not leaving a single pill, the vet leaped back onto his horse to visit another yurt.
  
  On the third morning, Chen walked out of the yurt and saw that the cub had pushed the felt aside and lay on his back, stretching his neck to take in short, rapid breaths. He and Yang ran over to check on him and were thrown into a panic. His neck had swollen so much it was almost bursting through the collar, which was why he tilted his head back to breathe. Chen quickly loosened the collar by two holes; the cub kept gulping in air, while struggling to his feet. They forced open his mouth, only to see that the throat was swollen, as if from a tumor, and the skin had turned cankerous.
  
  Chen fell to the ground, in total despair. The cub strained to push himself up and drag himself over to sit in front of Chen, his mouth hanging open, the tongue lolling to one side. Bloody saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth as he sat there looking at Chen, like watching an old wolf, as if he wanted to tell him something. He was breathing so hard he couldn't make a single noise. Tears rained down Chen's face; he held the cub by his neck and touched his head and nose against the cub's for one last time. The cub's strength vanished and his front legs began to tremble violently.
  
  Chen jumped to his feet and ran to the side of the yurt, where he found a spade with a broken handle. He turned, holding the spade behind him, and ran toward the cub, who was still sitting there panting hard, but on the verge of toppling over again. Chen stepped behind him, raised the spade, and, with all the strength he possessed, brought it hard down on the cub's head. The cub didn't make a sound as he slumped to the ground, a true Mongolian grassland wolf till the very end.
  
  At that instant, Chen felt that his own soul had been crushed out of him; he seemed to hear again the sound of his soul leaving through the top of his head, but this time it appeared to be for good. Like a ghostly white icicle, he stood frozen in the wolf pen.
  
  Not knowing what had happened, all the dogs came over and sniffed at the dead wolf; they then ran off in fright, all but Erlang, who barked angrily at Chen Zhen and Yang Ke.
  
  Yang said tearfully, "We have to follow Papa's example and take care of the rest. I'll remove the pelt. Why don't you go inside and rest."
  
  "We raided the den and took the cub together," Chen said woodenly, "so we have to take the pelt together."
  
  They struggled to control their shaky hands and carefully removed the pelt from the cub's body. The fur was still dense and shiny, but the cub's body had only a thin layer of fat left. Yang placed the pelt on top of the yurt while Chen found a clean gunnysack for the body and tied it behind his saddle. They rode up into the hills, where they found a rocky surface covered with hawk droppings. They brushed the snow away and gently laid the cub's body down.
  
  On that cold, solemn sky-burial ground, the peltless cub no longer looked like his old self. To Chen, he was like any other adult wolf that had been skinned after dying in battle. Facing the ghastly white carcass of their precious cub, Chen Zhen and Yang Ke didn't shed a single tear.
  
  On the Mongolian grassland, nearly every wolf arrived in a fuzzy coat and then left skinned, leaving their courage, strength, wisdom, and the pretty grassland behind for the humans. At this moment, the cub had been stripped of his battle garb and relieved of the chain; he could finally roam the vast grassland freely, just like members of the pack and all other grassland wolves that had died during the extermination. He would return to the pack and rejoin the ranks of grassland warriors, for Tengger would never reject his soul.
  
  They looked up at the sky at the same time, where two hawks were already circling above their heads. They looked down and saw that the carcass was freezing, so they quickly got on their horses and rode down the hill. On flat ground, they looked back to see the hawks spiral near the rocky surface. The carcass hadn't completely frozen, so the cub would be given a quick sky burial and taken to lofty Tengger by the hawks.
  
  By the time Chen and Yang returned to the yurt, Gao Jianzhong had already found a long birch pole and placed it by the door. He stuffed the pelt with dry yellow grass, while Chen Zhen threaded a thin leather rope through the cub's nostrils and tied one end to the tip of the pole. Together, the three of them raised the pole and planted it in the snowbank by their door.
  
  A fierce northwestern wind sent the cub's pelt soaring, combing through his battle garb and making him appear to be dressed formally for a banquet in heaven. Pale smoke rising from the yurt's chimney wafted under the pelt, making it seem as if the cub were riding the clouds, roiling and dancing freely and happily in the misty smoke. At that moment, there was no chain around his neck and no narrow, confining prison under his feet.
  
  Chen's vacant gaze followed the impish, lifelike figure of the cub's pelt as it danced in the wind; it was the undying outer shell the cub had left behind, but the beautiful and commanding figure seemed to still contain his free and unyielding spirit. Suddenly, the long, tubular body and bushy tail rolled a few times like a flying dragon, soaring in the swirling snow and drifting clouds. The wind howled and the white hair flew. The cub, like a golden flying dragon, rode the clouds and mist, traveling on snow and wind, soaring happily toward Tengger, to the star Sirius, to the free universe in space, to the place where all the souls of Mongolian wolves that had died in battles over the millennia congregated.
  
  At that instant, Chen Zhen believed he saw his very own wolf totem.
  
  Epilogue Early in the second spring after the wolves disappeared from the Olonbulag, the Inner Mongolian Production and Construction Corps sent down an order to reduce the number of dogs so that they could save the precious sheep and cows to supply the agricultural units in need of meat. The first unfortunate victims were the puppies. Nearly all the newborn puppies were tossed and sent to Tengger, and sad wails from the bitches could be heard everywhere on the grassland. Sometimes the mother dogs were seen digging up puppies their owners had buried behind their backs; they would often run around in circles holding the puppies in their mouths. The women wailed; the men shed silent tears. The big dogs were getting thinner by the day.
  
  About six months later, someone in a corps truck shot and killed Erlang after he'd left the yurt and was wrapped in his own thoughts out in the grass. The killer took his body. Outraged, Chen and the other three students ran to the corps headquarters, but no culprit was found. The newly arrived Chinese, united behind the issue of eating dogs, hid the killer as if shielding a hero who was being pursued by an alien race.
  
  Four years later, one early morning during a white-hair blizzard, an old man and a middle-aged man rode alongside an oxcart heading to the border highway; on the cart lay Bilgee's body. Two of the three sky-burial grounds had already been abandoned, as some of the herdsmen had adopted the Han custom of underground burial. The old man insisted on being sent to a place where wolves might still roam, so two of his cousins took his body to the no-man's-land north of the border highway.
  
  The younger cousin said, "The wolves up north howled all night, and didn't stop till daybreak."
  
  Chen Zhen, Yang Ke, and Zhang Jiyuan believed that Bilgee had suffered more than most but that he was also the luckiest, the last Mongol to have a sky burial and return to Tengger.
  
  Not long after that, Chen, Yang, and Gao were assigned to company headquarters, where Yang became a grammar school teacher, Gao was sent to drive tractors, and Chen worked as a storehouse guard. Zhang Jiyuan was the only one left, kept on as a horse herder.
  
  They left Yir and her puppies with Batu, while the loyal Yellow followed Chen. But every time Gasmai came with her oxcart and dogs, Yellow had a great time with his family and followed the carts back to the herding team. No one could stop him, and he would return to Chen only after spending a few days back home. He'd return no matter how far the herding section moved, even from a hundred li away; but he always looked unhappy on his arrival. Chen was worried that something might happen to Yellow on the way, but his worries vanished when the dog showed up again. He wouldn't deprive Yellow of the pleasure and freedom of being with his grassland family. A year later, however, Yellow was "lost." The grassland people knew that their dogs would never get lost or be eaten by wolves, since there were no more wolves; even if there had been, a wolf pack would never kill a lone dog. Yellow could only have been killed by people, people who did not belong to the grassland.
  
  Chen and Yang were back in a place inhabited mostly by Chinese, living a settled life. Most of the people around them were professional soldiers and their families from all parts of China, as well as soldiers from the Student Army Corps from Tianjing and Tangshan. But emotionally, they knew they could never live a purely Han-style life. After work and study sessions, they often climbed a small hill nearby, where they could gaze into the distance at Tengger in the northwest, searching for traces of the cub and Bilgee in the blindingly bright, towering clouds.
  
  In 1975, the Inner Mongolian Production and Construction Corps was formally disbanded, but the Majuzi River area, with its lush grass and abundant water, had already been turned into a desert by farming. Most of the workers—along with their concepts and lifestyle, as well as their houses, machines, vehicles, and tractors—remained. The Olonbulag regressed by the year, and a sheep killed by a wolf would be a topic of discussion for days, whereas more and more horses were stepping in mouse holes, injuring themselves and their riders.
  
  A few years later, before Chen Zhen returned to Beijing to take the graduate school entrance exam, he borrowed a horse to say good-bye to Batu and his family. Then he made a special trip to visit the ancient den where the cub had been born. The den was still dark, deep, and solid, but spiderwebs covered the entrance and a pair of slender green grasshoppers were struggling to free themselves. Chen pushed the grass aside to look in and detected an earthy smell, not the pungent, acrid odor of wolves. Tall grass grew on the land outside the cave where the seven cubs had played and sunned themselves. Chen sat by the cave for a long time, but there was no wolf cub, no hunting dogs, not even a puppy with him.
  
  In the thirtieth summer after the Beijing students had been sent down to the Olonbulag, Chen Zhen and Yang Ke left the capital in a blue Jeep Cherokee on their way to the grassland.
  
  Upon graduating from the Academy of Social Sciences, Chen had joined a national affairs institute at a university where he conducted research on system reform. After receiving a bachelor's degree in law, Yang went on to get a master's degree and was given a license to practice law. By this time he was the founder of a highly regarded Beijing law firm.
  
  The two old friends, now in their fifties, had never stopped thinking about the grassland but had been afraid to return. At the thirty-year mark, an important anniversary in the life of a Chinese, they decided to go back to see their friends, to the Great Ujimchin Steppe they'd been afraid to visit, and the old wolf cave at the foot of Black Rock Mountain.
  
  The sky was still a clear blue when the Jeep entered Inner Mongolia, but anyone who had spent a long time there knew that Tengger was not the same. The sky was dry and cloudless; the Tengger of the grassland was now the Tengger of the desert. Under the dry hot sky, no dense green grass was visible; large patches of hard sandy soil filled the spaces between sparse, dry yellow grassland, as if giant sheets of sandpaper had been spread out across the ground.
  
  On a highway, half covered with dry sand, caravans of trucks equipped with iron cages to transport sheep and cows rumbled toward them, trailing thick columns of yellow dust as they made their way to China proper. They hardly saw a yurt or a herd of horses or cows along the way; every once in a while they spotted a flock of sheep, but they were small and thin, with dirty, tangled black wool. Even the "processed" sheep looked better than those. The two friends nearly gave up on the trip, not wanting the moist, lush grassland in their hearts to be replaced by dry dust.
  
  Yang pulled over and stopped, and, as he brushed the dust off of his body, said to Chen, "I've been so busy over the past decade I haven't had time to come back. Now that the people in my firm can work independently, I've finally found some time, but to be honest, I'm scared about seeing the grassland. Zhang Jiyuan came for a visit this past spring and told me about the desertification. So I've had plenty of time to prepare myself emotionally. But I'm afraid it will be worse than I imagined."
  
  Chen patted the steering wheel. "Why don't I take over? It's barely been twenty years since Papa died, and we're already seeing the bad end he predicted. We really should pay our respects to him, and, besides, Little Wolf's cave will be filled up by sand if we wait a few more years. That cave is the only remaining relic left by wolves that dominated the grassland for thousands of years."
  
  "I miss Uljii too," Chen added. "I'd really like to see him again so I could ask about the wolves and the grassland. But unfortunately he felt so bad about the grassland that he left after retirement and now lives in the city with his daughter, where he's recovering from some illness. Since China doesn't have a competitive, scientific, and democratic system for selecting top talent, honest and frank people are denied a chance to rise up. Uljii, a rare expert on wolves and grassland, was buried under the yellow sand of our current system, which is far worse than the yellow sand of the grassland, because the system was the true origin of the dust storm there."
  
  The Jeep continued in the dry, dusty wind for over five hundred miles, and by the time they were close to the Olonbulag their arms were tanned and prickly from the sun. They entered the Olonbulag the next day, and finally saw connected patches of sparse pastureland, since this was, after all, a border area corner of the Great Ujimchin Steppe. But they could not bear to look down at their feet, for just beneath the grass, sand and surface, rocks met their eyes. Sometimes there were long, thin gray mushrooms that looked like bean sprouts. In the past, decomposing fertilizer from livestock droppings would be at the base of the dense grass.
  
  Chan and Yang were worried. They knew that farther on there was a thousand-year-old river, with water that came up to the horses' knees or even their bellies. Big trucks had been the only vehicles that could cross it, and Jeeps like theirs had to speed up if they had any chance of crossing. During the rainy season, the flood river would cause the suspension of mail delivery and create shortages of food and other necessities for two weeks, even a month. As Chen and Yang talked about how they were going to cross the river, they reached the near riverbank. One look ended the discussion. The fast-flowing water of the old days had receded until the rocky riverbed was exposed; nothing but wet sand and a few wormlike streams crisscrossed the dry rocks. The Jeep crossed the river easily, but their hearts grew heavier.
  
  Shortly after crossing the river they felt as if they'd entered a battlefield; cement posts and wire fences were all over the once vast and lush Olonbulag, and the Jeep had to travel down passages created by chain-link fences. Chen studied the fences, which enclosed areas of several hundred acres each. The grass inside the enclosure was much taller than that outside, but the overall appearance was still of a sparse pastureland, for sandy soil was visible under the grass.
  
  Yang Ke said, "Those are what they call grass kulun. After receiving a parcel of pastureland and some livestock, herdsmen build fences around them for lamb birthing and don't live here during the other three seasons."
  
  "How could so little grass be enough?" Chen asked.
  
  Yang replied, "I've heard that the herdsmen have been reducing the number of livestock, some cutting the total in half."
  
  They passed a few more of the grass kulun areas, where they saw three or four redbrick houses with tiled roofs and birthing pens. But obviously, no one lived there at the moment, for no smoke rose from the chimneys, nor were there any dogs or calves by the front doors. The people might have herded their livestock deep into the mountains, where the animals were free to roam.
  
  As he looked at the chain-link fences, Chen said emotionally, "In the past, who would dare build a fence on a grassland famous for its Ujimchin warhorses? At night, a horse could get tangled up in it and, in the worst cases, die struggling. But the horses whose hooves once shook the world have been driven off the Mongolian grassland. I've heard that sheepherders now use motorcycles, a sign of prosperity they show on television. Actually, that was because the grassland could no longer feed the horses, which disappeared after the wolves. The cows and sheep will soon follow, I'm sure. Horseback races have turned into motorcycle races, and may one day evolve into a race of ecological refugees. We've witnessed the 'impressive victory' of an agrarian society over a nomadic herding society. Current government policy has developed to the stage of 'one country, two systems,' but deeply rooted in the Han consciousness is still 'many areas, one system.' It doesn't matter if it's farmland or pastureland, forest or river, city or countryside; all they want to do is mix them all up to create a 'unified' flavor. With the 'impressive victory' has come a tremendous amount of subsidies, but the grassland could not return even if the subsidies continued for the next century."
  
  They rode along a dirt path leading to the site of their previous company headquarters, eager to see the herdsmen or, for that matter, anyone. But they crossed the familiar mountain ridge, only to see the old site replaced by a dying yellow sandy grassland overrun by mice whose tracks snaked across the ground amid piles of dry sand. The row of brick and rammed-earth houses was gone. As Chen drove around the once bustling company headquarters, he didn't have to worry about running into any walls, but he got stuck several times in collapsed mouse dens. It had only been two decades, but the remains of the past were completely covered by yellow sand, as if wiped off the face of the earth.
  
  Chen sighed. "Mice are kings on a wolfless grassland. They dig deep holes and store up large quantities of food, giving them hegemony over the grassland. We like to say that everyone shouts 'Kill it!' when a mouse crosses the street, but deep down we worship the mouse and place it at the head of our zodiac."
  
  Yang took the wheel and sped off to a nearby hill. They looked to the north, where they spotted some cows and a few houses with chimney smoke, but still no yurts. Yang headed toward the nearest chimney smoke.
  
  They had been driving for a dozen li when a column of yellow dust rose up on a dirt path in the distance. Chen hoped it would be a herder on a fast horse, but when it drew close enough, they saw it was a shiny Yamaha motorcycle. The rider was a Mongol teenager wearing a jacket-like shirt and a baseball cap. The motorcycle screeched to a stop by the Jeep. Chen was shocked to see a small-caliber rifle slung over the youth's shoulder and a medium-sized hawk tied to the seat, dripping blood. Chen was reminded of the startled and fearful look in Bilgee's eyes when he first saw one of those weapons, and was surprised to see a young Mongol boy in possession of one, not to mention that he was riding an advanced, imported two-wheel vehicle.
  
  Yang greeted the boy in Mongolian and identified himself. A distant look of indifference appeared on the fair-skinned boy's face. Staring at the Cherokee, he told him in Chinese with a Shandong accent that he was Chulu's youngest son and was spending his summer break from a high school in the league capital. It took Chen a moment to recall that Chulu had been an outsider, a minor cadre in charge of basic construction at the old pasture headquarters. Zhang Jiyuan and other old classmates had told him that the pasture employees and retired soldiers from the corps who stayed behind were all given land and livestock after the grassland system was changed. They became Han-style herders, adding an additional 30 percent of Han settlement pastureland to the Olonbulag.
  
  Chen asked the youngster, "Why'd you shoot the hawk?"
  
  "For fun."
  
  "You're a high school student. Don't you know you're supposed to protect wild animals?"
  
  "The hawks take the lambs, so why can't I shoot them? There are so many mice here that hawks fly over from Outer Mongolia. So what if I kill a few of them!"
  
  Yang asked about Batu and Gasmai's house. The boy pointed to the north and said, "On the other side of the border highway, the last and biggest stone pen in the north." Then he spun around and sped off to the hills with his hawk, not looking back.
  
  Chen and Yang suddenly felt like outsiders; they sensed they were not welcome there. Yang said, "Let's go to Batu's. Only with him and Gasmai will we not feel like we belong."
  
  The Jeep sped up and headed toward the border highway on the ancient path they'd taken when moving to a new pasture. Chen scanned the hills for marmots but didn't see a single one, even after driving dozens of li. "Do you really think you'll find marmots now that teenagers have hunting rifles?" Yang asked. Chen stopped searching.
  
  They passed some occupied houses, but few dogs ran out, and those that did were small. No more scary scenes of being surrounded, chased, and nipped at by a dozen or so big furry dogs when they passed a yurt. Even the barking was devoid of the ferocity that had been so effective in repelling wolves.
  
  Yang said, "Now that the wolves are gone, the dogs will disappear, and when they're gone, there'll be no more battles. Without battles, only sloth and inertia remain. Grassland dogs may become pampered pets even before the dogs in Beijing."
  
  The Jeep entered Section Two's golden treasure land—the spring birthing pasture. But what greeted them was a monochrome of barren land and sandy grass, with yellow dust and grainy salt in the air. Chen's eyes reddened as he stared at far-off Black Rock Mountain to the northeast of the grass fields, wishing he could ask Yang Ke to head straight for the foothills.
  
  Yang said, "I've watched Animal Kingdom on TV for twenty years, and the more I watch, the angrier I get at you and at myself. If not for you, I wouldn't owe the grassland so much. Those seven cubs were the finest, each a precious, rare specimen of its kind, and they all died at our hands. I was your number one accomplice. Even my son, whenever he mentions it, calls me stupid and ignorant. Peasants! Cruel! From the legal perspective, I have to shoulder substantial responsibility, because I supported you when you wanted to raid the wolf den. If I hadn't gone with you that night, you wouldn't have had the courage to do it alone. We committed a crime, and that will never change."
  
  Chen was silent.
  
  Yang went on, "You've spent twenty years studying systems models, economic politics, and urban and rural issues in China and abroad. Why, in the end, did you return to the topic of national character?"
  
  "Do you think other problems can be solved if that one can't be?"
  
  Yang gave the question some thought before answering. "I guess you're right. We haven't found a solution to this problem since Lu Xun brought it up more than half a century ago. We Chinese seem incapable of ridding ourselves of that flaw. It's been twenty years since the launching of the reforms, and we've made quite a bit of progress, but we're still on shaky legs."
  
  The Jeep reached a high point on the highway from which they could look down on the seemingly unending border, a sight that made them stare wide-eyed. The twenty-li-wide military zone and no-man's-land had been breached by growing human and livestock populations and had become a lively pasture. It was the first place deserving of being called a pasture they'd seen, after driving five hundred miles.
  
  The grass was about half the height of what they'd been used to seeing, but it maintained the dark green color. Protected by the military restricted zone for decades, this part of the grassland showed no obvious signs of desertification. The moisture from the primitive grassland across the border might also have helped lend the land a dewy, moist, tender shade of green, replacing the dry, withered scenery that had greeted them along the way.
  
  There were redbrick houses with tiled roofs on land that was dotted with stone pens and sheds, like fortresses spread across the border. The houses were all built on higher ground, clearly the center of the pasture settled by each family. Dozens of flocks of sheep and herds of cows were grazing. What amazed the two men was the size of the sheep flocks, likely three thousand in each, some reaching four thousand. Nomadic herding had clearly been replaced by settlement grazing to have flocks that big.
  
  Yang took out a pair of binoculars and scanned the area carefully. "These flocks are way too big," he said. "You and I never herded any this size. There are twice as many sheep than we herded. Won't the shepherds die of exhaustion?"
  
  Chen said, "The flocks we used to herd belonged to the collective. With a privately owned flock, size isn't a problem. If an individual can't handle it, he can hire people to tend to the flock and create jobs. Profits always increase the incentive to work harder."
  
  Facing such a vibrant settlement pasture, Chen's knees went wobbly. He felt that what they were seeing was actually a false prosperity, just before the Inner Mongolian grassland died off.
  
  Two motorcycles and a fast horse rushed toward the Cherokee; Chen Zhen finally saw a horse rider, something he hadn't seen in a long time. The motorcycles reached them before the horse, and a brawny man in a blue deel was on one of them. Chen and Yang shouted at the same time, "Bayar! Bayar!"
  
  When they jumped off the Jeep, Bayar gave Chen a bear hug. "Chen Zhen!" he shouted. "Chen Zhen! Aniang—Mother—knew it was you when she saw the vehicle, so she told me to come show you the way." He gave Chen another hug before moving on to hug Yang Ke. "Aniang knew you'd be with Chen Zhen. Come, you can both stay with us."
  
  With Bayar were two teenagers, one sixteen or seventeen, the other fourteen or fifteen. Bayar said, "Say hello to Grandpa Chen and Grandpa Yang." The boys greeted them and circled the Cherokee to check it out. "They're on summer break," Bayar said, "back from school in the league capital. I'd like them to go to college in Beijing so that you two can keep an eye on them. Get in your Jeep. Aniang is almost sick from waiting for you to arrive, has been ever since she heard from Zhang Jiyuan that you were coming back."
  
  The Jeep followed the motorcycles and the horse as they raced toward the farthest chimney smoke. Batu and Gasmai, now both gray-haired, had walked two li to welcome them. Chen leaped off the Jeep. "Aniang! Aniang! Batu!" They hugged each other as hot tears streamed down their faces. Gasmai's tears fell on Chen's shoulder, as she pummeled him with both fists and said indignantly, "It took you twenty years to return! Other students have been back more than once. I thought I'd die before you came."
  
  "You can't die," Chen said. "I'm the one who deserves to die, so let me go first."
  
  Gasmai wiped off his tears with her calloused hands and said, "I knew you'd forget everything, even Papa and Eeji, once you buried your nose in a book, so how could you remember your grassland home?"
  
  "I've thought about the grassland every day over the past twenty years," Chen said. "I'm writing a book about this place and your family. I could never forget my home on the grassland. I've been living here, with you, all along."
  
  Chen helped the two of them into the Jeep and drove them back to their house. They had a gigantic stone pen, twice the size of the one back at the herding team. As they passed the pen he saw, to the west of the fence, a row of spacious new houses, equipped with TV antennae and wind-powered generators. Beneath a window was an old Beijing Jeep with a faded canvas top. Sandy soil covered the area; nothing grew there except for sparse, waist-high wild vegetation. Chen parked by one of the houses, feeling intense disappointment that now, twenty years later, he could not step into the yurt where the old man had lived.
  
  Chen and Yang unloaded cigarettes and liquor, canned drinks, jellies and milk candy, shawls, knee patches, leather belts, lighters, and other gifts, like pesticides. They took everything into the Mongolian-style living room, which was over a hundred square feet, furnished with sofas, tea tables, a TV and VCR, a liquor cabinet, and drinking paraphernalia. In the middle of the wall hung a large yellow tapestry showing Genghis Khan from the waist up. The Great Khan's slanting eyes seemed to be observing his Mongol descendents and their guests with a tender look. Chen spent a few respectful moments before the picture.
  
  Gasmai said, "A relative of Papa's brought that over from Outer Mongolia when he visited the Olonbulag. He said we were doing well over here and our roads were nice, but our education and pasture weren't as good as theirs."
  
  They all sat down to some milk tea and fresh dairy products. Gasmai had outgrown her love for the milk candy, but she appreciated their thinking of her. She said with a smile, "You remembered! Back then you gave the candy to the dogs, not to me."
  
  Gasmai quickly found a new favorite in the fruit gelatin, which she tried for the first time. Mimicking Chen Zhen, she squeezed the gelatin squares into her mouth, one after the other, and laughed. "How did you know I lost all my teeth? These are perfect for a toothless old woman."
  
  Chen touched the side of his head and said, "I'm getting old too. See the gray hair here? I've lost a few teeth too. But how could I have forgotten you? I've told lots of people in Beijing about how you grabbed a wolf's tail and even broke its tailbone, all by yourself. Many of them want to come to the grassland to meet you."
  
  Waving her hands, she said, "No, no. Our Outer Mongolian relative said that they have a special preserve for the wolves and have banned wolf hunting. On TV here they're also talking about banning wolf hunting. So why do you keep telling people about the bad thing I did?"
  
  It was getting dark, and from outside came the familiar sounds of sheep hooves. Chen and Yang went outside, where they were surrounded by sheep that rushed toward them like a flood. A shepherd dressed in Chinese clothes was herding the flock on horseback. Chen thought that the man must be a new employee on the grassland. They went up to help him herd the flock into the pen. Batu smiled. "I see you two haven't forgotten your old profession. Even after twenty years you remember not to herd sheep too fast when they're full."
  
  Chen laughed. "I'll never forget anything about the grassland. This is a huge flock. How many are there?"
  
  Batu said, "Nearly four thousand."
  
  Yang whistled and said, "If they bring in an average of a hundred and fifty yuan or more, you're talking about nearly seven hundred thousand yuan for the sheep alone. Add in the cows, the houses, the cars, and the motorcycles, and you're a millionaire."
  
  "Assets on sandy land aren't reliable," Batu replied. "If this pasture turns into a desert, like those of the outsiders, then we'll be poor herders again."
  
  "How many sheep can your pasture support?" Yang asked.
  
  As he closed the gate of the pen, Batu said, "With enough rainwater, the pasture can support over two thousand sheep, but only a thousand if there's a drought, which we've had regularly in recent years. We haven't had enough rainwater for four or five years. Keeping even a thousand is very hard."
  
  Chen was shocked. "Then why are you still raising so many?"
  
  "You're probably going to talk about capacity, right? The herders here are from Gasmai's herding section and were trained by Papa. They understand the importance of capacity and take good care of the grassland. I'll raise half of the flock for only six months and will sell two thousand before the snows come. That means selling fourteen hundred or more big lambs born this year, plus a few hundred brown sheep, and the old ewes. Then we'll have enough grass to feed the remaining flock for most of the winter, and make up the difference by buying a big pile of dry green grass with some of the money from the sale of the sheep. In late summer or early fall, I'll take the sheep into the mountains. Because of the droughts, most of the mosquitoes died out, so the sheep can survive and put on some fat in the mountains."
  
  They went back into the living room. "The families in our section still follow the old Mongolian ways," Batu continued. "We raise more sheep when the grass is good, and fewer when the grass is bad. When raising our sheep, we follow Tengger and the grass, and avoid greedy people. But, of course, the outsiders know nothing about the old rules, so they often sneak their sheep over to eat our grass when they finish theirs. It's very upsetting. Then there are the local Mongolian drunks. They trade all the sheep they were allocated by the government for liquor. Then when their wives run away and their children go astray, they live off the rent they collect from leasing the pasture, about ten or twenty thousand yuan a year."
  
  "Who leases their pastures?"
  
  "Outsiders from farming-herding areas," Batu said indignantly. "These people don't give a damn about capacity, so they raise two or three thousand sheep on land that can only support five hundred. Their sheep graze the land for a few years and turn it into sand; then they get out of their lease, sell their sheep, and go back home to do business with the money they got here."
  
  "I never imagined that the outsiders could actually get worse," Yang said to Chen. "Sooner or later they'll ruin the grassland completely."
  
  Feeling more confident about Batu and Gasmai's pasture and family enterprise, Chen said, "I'm so happy to see you're doing well."
  
  Gasmai shook her head. "The big grassland is gone, and our small one won't last forever. The land is dry, and Tengger refuses to give us rain. Our pasture is getting worse by the year. I have to put four kids through school, then save some money so they can get married and build houses. There are also the medical expenses and the savings we need for hard times. Kids these days only care about today and want to buy whatever they lay their eyes on. They saw your fancy Jeep just now, and they're already trying to get Bayar to buy one like yours. I'm afraid that once the old folks are gone, the youngsters will ignore the old rules and raise as many sheep as possible so they can own new cars, big houses, and nice clothes."
  
  "Now I see why they pestered me about the price of the Jeep as soon as I got out," Yang said.
  
  "Mongols should also practice birth control," Gasmai continued. "The grassland can't support too many children. The two boys will have to return to herd sheep if they can't get into a college; then we'll have to divide up the household and the sheep after they get married. Each flock will be smaller, which will likely make them want to raise more. But the size of the pasture doesn't grow. The grass will be crushed if a few more houses are built on this tiny piece of land."
  
  Bayar was slaughtering a sheep outside; after a while, his wife, an equally robust Mongol woman, came in with a basin brimming with meat. Chen and Yang brought out the cans and other vacuum-packed food. Even though it wasn't completely dark yet, the lights were turned on in the living room.
  
  Chen said to Batu, "Hey, that's bright. Now you herders no longer have to use sheep-oil lamps. Back then I often burned my hair when I tried to read by an oil lamp."
  
  "How long does the electricity from the wind-powered generator last?" Yang asked.
  
  Batu laughed. "When it's windy, the generator will churn all day and store the electricity in batteries that will last two hours. If that's not enough, I also have a small diesel generator."
  
  Soon car horns sounded outside; nearly everyone in Gasmai's "tribe" arrived in cars and motorcycles, turning the spacious living room into a sardine can. The old grassland friends were particularly affectionate; friendly thumps from fists kept falling on Chen and Yang, who were then made to drink so much they began to sway and spew nonsense.
  
  Lamjav, Laasurung, Sanjai, and other old friends followed suit and asked to borrow the car from Yang, who, in a drunken stupor, said yes to them all. "No problem. No problem at all. And come to me when you need to file a lawsuit." Then he tossed the keys to Lamjav.
  
  The others all burst out laughing, before breaking into song. The last song was one made popular by Mongolia's most famous male singer, Tenggeer. The voices were high, old, and sad, with the resonance of wolf howls.
  
  The drinking and singing went on all night; the tears never stopped flowing.
  
  During the drinking feast, "orders" were placed for Chen Zhen and Yang Ke as if they were divorcés sent back from Beijing. There would be two feasts a day, each hosted by a different family with drinking, eating, and singing. The blue Cherokee was turned into a vehicle for the old herders for test drives and entertainment, and for transporting the liquor they bought. It was also used to bring over friends from other sections, turning Batu's yard into a parking lot.
  
  By the following afternoon, nearly half the cars and motorcycles from the brigade were parked outside Batu's house, but there were few horses. One of the herders said, "People would probably give up raising Mongolian horses if not for the difficulty of herding sheep on motorcycles during snowy winters. Only one of the Second Brigade's four horse herds is left, and it's only half its previous size."
  
  "The wolves are gone and grass is getting sparse," Batu said. "The horses are lazy and can't run very fast. They're smaller than before. No one wants our horses anymore."
  
  Chen noticed that all the old men of Bilgee's generation were gone. The grammar school students that Yang Ke had taught were now the main workforce.
  
  In three days, the two men drank so much that their blood pressure shot up and they suffered accelerated heartbeats. Luckily, the Han vegetable garden was well stocked, so they enjoyed a large salad at every meal; otherwise, even their cholesterol levels would have suffered. Half of the herding in the section was halted by the series of drinking parties, and the families had to rely on outside help. Chen was told by one of the hired hands that they were paid two hundred a month plus two adult sheep, room and board included. They also got year-end bonuses for a good job.
  
  Both friends spent that day and slept the night in the homes of their former hosts.
  
  On the fourth day of their visit, Chen chatted with Gasmai and her family well into the night.
  
  On the early morning of the fifth day, Chen Zhen and Yang Ke got into the Jeep Cherokee and headed toward Black Rock Mountain.
  
  The mountain gradually came into view as the Jeep crossed the border highway. Yang Ke slowed down on the grassland dirt path.
  
  Chen sighed and said, "The presence of wolves is the ecological index to the existence of the grassland. When the wolves are gone, the grassland loses its soul; life here has completely changed. I miss the lush green, primitive grassland."
  
  Rubbing his temple with one finger, Yang said, "I'm nostalgic too. As soon as I got here, my head was filled with herding scenes. It may be thirty years, but it seems like yesterday."
  
  The Jeep was now entering the pasture south of the highway, where the grass was so short it looked if it were hugging the topsoil, like a driver training ground. Yang drove off the dirt path and headed toward Black Rock Mountain.
  
  The reedy grove in the foothills was long gone, leaving behind dry, yellowing land of short, sparse grass through which the Jeep traveled up the gentle slope.
  
  Yang asked, "Do you think you can find Little Wolf's den?"
  
  "How could a student forget the location of his teacher's house?" Chen said forcefully. "I'll stop at the foothills nearest to the old den, and we can walk the remaining distance. We have to walk."
  
  As the Jeep neared the birthplace of the cub, Chen felt a sudden anxiety, like an old war criminal asking for forgiveness at a memorial, which, in this case, was the burial ground of the seven Mongolian wolf cubs he'd killed. Five hadn't opened their eyes or been weaned, and the sixth had just learned to run. He had snipped off the canines of the seventh cub, stripping him of his freedom with a chain during his short life, and in the end crushing his head. Someone who loved freedom and was increasingly respectful of freedom had committed a vicious act of the kind perpetrated only by the most tyrannical, totalitarian people. He had trouble facing the bloody crimes he'd committed in his youth. Sometimes he even loathed the result of his own research, for it was precisely his curiosity and research interests that had taken away the happiness and freedom of seven wolf cubs. The manuscript he'd completed was written with their blood, animals in which the noble blood of the White Wolf King may have flowed. For over two decades, he'd been tormented by this blood debt. But he also understood why grasslanders who killed wolves would willingly give their own bodies to the wolves at the end of their lives. It was not simply so that their souls would rise up to Tengger, or as a consequence of their belief in "returning flesh after eating flesh." They probably also felt a heavy burden of guilt and wanted to repay a debt to the grassland wolves they revered. There were no more sky-burial grounds on the grassland.
  
  Over the past two decades, the admirable, lovely, and pitiable Little Wolf had often appeared in Chen's dreams and thoughts, but not once did the cub bite him or seek revenge. Little Wolf always ran to him joyfully, wrapping his legs around Chen's, rubbing up against his knees, and licking his hands and chin. In his dreams, Chen would wake up on the grassland to see Little Wolf lying by his head, and he would instinctively cover his throat with his hand. But the cub saw him waking up and would simply roll on the grass to expose his belly for him to scratch. In the countless dreams over the past two decades, Little Wolf never showed resentment; instead, he was as affectionate as a loving child. What puzzled Chen was that not only did the cub not hate or snarl at him, but he always displayed the friendship and affection of a wolf. This sort of ancient, bleak, tender, and innocent affection could never be found in the human world.
  
  At the sight of the loose rocks and wild grass on the barren slope, Yang seemed to recall the cruel extermination of nearly thirty years ago; guilt feelings and self-reproach showed in his eyes.
  
  The Jeep stopped, and Chen pointed to a level area and said, "That was the cubs' temporary hiding place. I was the one who dug them out; I was the culprit. The cave had collapsed when I left the Olonbulag and not a trace of it remains now. Let's walk from here to the old den." With Chen leading the way, with a backpack, they meandered their way toward the small hill.
  
  When they reached it, they saw that the dark spot originally hidden by tall brambles and grass stalks had turned into a barren slope. The green tent of reeds the wolves had used as a cover was also gone. Several yards ahead, the hundred-year-old cave came into view. Now completely exposed, it looked bigger than before, almost like an abandoned cave dwelling on a loess hill in northern Shaanxi. Holding his breath, Chen rushed up and, as he got closer, realized that the cave was the same size. It only looked bigger because it no longer had tall grass as a screen. The shape hadn't changed much, owing to years of drought, but the ground was littered with pebbles and dirt. After walking up to kneel by the cave, Chen took a few seconds to calm himself before looking inside, which was half filled with tumbleweeds and bramble stalks. He took a flashlight from his backpack to shine into the opening and saw that the bend in the tunnel was nearly blocked by rocks, yellow sand, and weeds. Despondent, he sat down on the ground and stared blankly at the ancient cave.
  
  Yang shone his flashlight at the tunnel. "This is it," he said. "This is the cave. You crawled inside from here. At the time, I was scared witless, afraid you'd run into the mother wolf and fearful that the wolves outside would attack me. I don't know where we got our nerve back then."
  
  Bending down, Yang yelled into the cave, "Little Wolf, Little Wolf, time to eat. Chen Zhen and I are here to see you." He acted as if he were once again calling out to the cub at the new pastureland, where the young wolf had dug a cave of his own. But this time the cub would not leap out.
  
  Chen rose and brushed the dirt off, then squatted down to pull up the grass in front of the cave. Then he took out seven Beijing sausages. The biggest one was intended for the cub he had raised. After respectfully placing them on the ground, he took out seven sticks of incense, stuck them in the ground, and lit them. Finally, he took out the first page of his completed manuscript and burned it as an offering. With the flame licking at Chen's name and the title, Wolf Totem, Chen hoped that the souls of the cub and the old man, Bilgee, would receive his promise and his deep sense of remorse. The fire did not die out until it reached his finger. Then he took out a bottle of the old man's favorite liquor and sprinkled it on the sandy ground around the cave. He knew the old man had left his footprints by every old wolf den on the Olonbulag pastureland. He'd upset the old man by ignoring his objections to raising a cub, and that was something for which he'd never be able to atone.
  
  Chen and Yang stretched out their arms, palms up, and looked at Tengger, following the rising green smoke to search for the souls of the cub and the old man.
  
  Chen wanted to yell out, "Little Wolf, Little Wolf...Papa, Papa...I'm here to see you." But he couldn't bring himself to do it, for he didn't deserve it. He didn't dare disturb their souls, afraid that they'd open their eyes to see the yellow, dying "grassland" below.
  
  Facing the quiet wolf mountain, Chen Zhen did not know when he'd be back again.
  
  In the spring of 2002, Batu and Gasmai phoned Chen Zhen to say, "Eighty percent of the Olonbulag pastureland is now desert. In another year the whole area will change from settlement herding to raising cows and sheep, more or less like the animal pens in your farming villages. Every family will build rows of big houses."
  
  Chen Zhen didn't know what to say.
  
  A few days later, a yellow-dragon sandstorm rose up outside his window, blocking the sky and the sun. All of Beijing was shrouded in the fine, suffocating dust. China's imperial city was turned into a hazy city of yellow sand.
  
  Standing alone by his window, Chen looked off to the north with a sense of desolation. The wolves had receded into legend, and the grassland was a distant memory. A nomadic herding society was now extinct; even the last trace left by the wolves on the Inner Mongolian grassland—the ancient cave of the wolf cub—would be buried in yellow sand.
  
  ⁂
  
  Glossary:
  
  BANNER: An administrative unit roughly equivalent to a county in China proper.
  
  CAPITALIST-ROADERS: Party officials who implemented pragmatic economic policies in the countryside in response to the disastrous Great Leap Forward. The president, Liu Shaoqi was labeled the "Number one capitalist-roader in the party." The term became the catchword for witch hunts during the Cultural Revolution.
  
  DEEL: A long belted robe, often made of animal skins.
  
  FOUR OLDS: Old ideas, old culture, old customs and old habits. "Destroy the four olds" was a campaign, launched in 1966, during which the Red Guards terrorized the countryside.
  
  HEILONG RIVER (JIANG): The river (Black Dragon) after which China's largest northeastern province is named.
  
  LEAGUE: An administrative unit roughly equivalent to a prefecture.
  
  LI: About one third of a U.S. mile.
  
  PRODUCTION BRIGADE: The largest labor unit in a commune.
  
  STUDY SESSIONS (GROUPS): Meetings, usually scheduled as punishment for political errors, for which reform was the goal, the works of Mao Zedong the tool.
  
  THREE DIFFICULT YEARS: Three years between 1959 and 1962, following the so-called "Great Leap Forward" (1958), during which upwards of twenty million people died of starvation.
  
  WORK POINTS: Computations of labor rewards in the countryside.
  
  YELLOW EMPEROR: The mythical founder of the Chinese race.
  
  YUAN: Chinese currency, valued at the time (the 1970s) at roughly four to the dollar.
  
  YURT: A round felt building. The preferred Mongol term is "ger."