Wolf Totem: A Novel by Jiang Rong
Chen felt his heart clutch and his hair stand on end as he tried to come to grips with the ruthlessness of the war between man and wolf. Both sides used cruelty to attack cruelty and cunning to thwart cunning. However much Chen hated the ferocity of the wolves, when he contemplated the sinister use of the cruel trap he was setting, his hands shook. The trap would be perfectly concealed alongside the irresistible temptation of a meaty horse carcass, where only the smell of horsemeat, horse grease, and horse dung hung in the air—no human or metal odors. In Chen’s mind, even the most cunning wolf would take the bait, suffer a broken leg, and wind up being skinned, its bloody, hide-less carcass thrown to the wild. He was reminded of all the Han armies, from the Zhou through the Qin, the Han, the Tang, the Song, and the Ming, that had been drawn deep into the grassland, thanks to beautifully executed traps, and annihilated. Mounted warriors in olden days had not relied on overwhelming numbers to sweep away advanced civilizations. The true defenders of the grassland had employed military prowess and wisdom learned from the wolves to protect their territory against the fire and steel, the hoes and plows lined up behind attacking Han armies. The old man spoke the truth, but Chen could not keep his hands from shaking.
Bilgee laughed spiritedly. “A little soft in the heart, I take it. Have you forgotten that the grassland is a battlefield, and that no one who’s afraid of blood can call himself a warrior? Doesn’t it bother you that those wolves wiped out an entire herd of horses? If we don’t use violent means, how will we ever beat them?”
Acknowledging the truth of the old man’s words, Chen breathed deeply and, despite his mixed feelings, scraped out a spot in the snow and ice. But as he was placing the trap in the indentation, his hands shook again; this time it was from fear over what could happen if he wasn’t careful with this, his first attempt. As the old man stood beside him giving instructions, he stuck his herding club into the trap’s gaping mouth; if it accidentally snapped shut, the club would keep Chen’s hand from getting caught. He felt a warm current throughout his body; with the old man standing by to help, he managed to stop his hands from shaking and laid his first trap without incident. As he was mopping his brow, he discovered that Bilgee was sweating more than he was.
“Young man,” Bilgee said after exhaling his relief, “you do the next one all by yourself. I think you’re ready.”
Chen nodded and walked back to the cart to get two more traps. Picking a spot by a second horse carcass, he carefully laid the third trap; then they each took two of the final four traps and set them separately, the old man telling Bayar to assist Chen.
The sky remained overcast as dusk settled in. After examining Chen’s work, the old man smiled and said, “You’ve concealed them well. If I were a wolf, you’d get me for sure. But it’s getting late. What do we do now?”
“Well, I’d say we use a broom to remove our footprints and count our tools to make sure we don’t leave anything behind.”
“You’ve learned a bit of cunning,” the old man said approvingly.
They began sweeping, from where they’d started all the way back to the wagon, inspecting their work as they went along. “How many wolves do you think we’ll catch with these traps?” Chen asked as he was putting away the tools.
“Don’t ask about numbers when you’re hunting. You won’t catch anything if you do. After the people do their job, they leave the rest to Tengger.”
They mounted up and, pulling the wagon behind them, rode off.
“Will we come back tomorrow morning to see how we’ve done?” Chen asked.
“We can’t go back, whether we get any or not. If we catch one, we need to give the pack plenty of time to see what’s happening. They’ll get suspicious when no one comes to claim their prey, and they’ll surround the dead horse site to figure out what to do next. The job we’ve been given isn’t to trap a few wolves, but to draw the pack out. No need for you to come here tomorrow. I’ll check things out from a distance.”
They made their way home in a good mood. Chen was thinking about a litter of wolf cubs and was planning to ask Bilgee how he should go about getting one, knowing it was a dangerous, difficult type of hunting that required exceptional skill, but was also one of the most important means of controlling the rampant growth of wolf packs. Wiping out one den of cubs meant one less wolf pack to worry about. But wolves call upon their highest powers of intellect and most ferocious skills in order to keep their young safe. Chen had heard tales of gripping adventure and lucky escapes regarding the theft of wolf cubs, and he was mentally prepared to take on the challenge. Two spring seasons had passed since the hundred or more students had come to the grassland, and none of them had single-handedly stolen a litter of cubs. Chen knew there was no guarantee that he’d be the first, yet he’d planned to accompany Bilgee as often as necessary to learn how it was done. But after the killing of the horse herd, the old man had no time for cubs, and all Chen could do was ask him to pass on his experience.
“Papa,” he said, “while I was tending sheep the other day, a female wolf took one of my lambs right under my eyes and carried it up to Black Rock Mountain. She must have a den up there, and I’m thinking of going back tomorrow. I was going to ask you to go with me...”
“I can’t tomorrow,” Bilgee said. “There’s too much to do around here. You say she went up to Black Rock Mountain?”
“Yes.”
The old man stroked his beard. “Did you follow her?”
“No. She was too fast for me. There was no time.”
“That’s good. If you had, she’d have led you on a wild-goose chase. They won’t return to their dens if they’re being chased.” The old man paused a moment. “She’s a clever wolf,” he said. “Last spring the production teams found three dens with cubs up there, so this year no one’s going back. I’m amazed that a wolf would go there to have her cubs. You can go tomorrow, but take others with you, and plenty of dogs. Make sure you take brave and experienced herdsmen. I don’t want you and Yang to try it alone; it’s far too dangerous.”
“What’s the hardest challenge?” Chen asked.
“There are plenty of things to worry about,” the old man replied, “but finding the den is the hardest. I’ll tell you how to do it. Get up before dawn and find a spot high up in the mountains. Lie there until just before sunup, then scan the area with binoculars. After hunting all night, the wolf will be coming back to feed her cubs. If you see where she goes, that’ll be where her den is. Start a circular search with some good dogs, and you should be able to locate it. But then you’re faced with the difficult task of actually getting the litter, and that means dealing with an angry mother wolf. Be very careful.” His eyes became veiled. “If not for the loss of those horses,” he said, “I wouldn’t let you do this. Stealing wolf cubs is normally something old people on the Olonbulag are reluctant to do.”
Chen didn’t dare ask any more questions. Bilgee had been incensed over the decision to launch a large-scale raid on wolf dens, and Chen was afraid he’d stop him from going if he pressed the issue. And yet stealing wolf cubs required knowledge; since his goal was to raise a cub, not kill it, he’d have to move quickly, not waiting until the cubs were weaned and had opened their eyes. He planned to check with Batu, the best wolf hunter in the brigade. Still incensed over the loss of the horses, he would definitely share his experience with Chen.
Night had fallen by the time they made it back to the old man’s yurt. Inside, the rug had been restored to its original state; three lanterns in which sheep’s oil burned lit up the spacious yurt, and the squat table in the center was laid out with platters of fresh-from-the-pot blood sausage, sheep’s stomach and intestines, and fatty meat, all emitting fragrant steam. The stomachs of the three hardworking men growled. Chen took off his deel and sat at the table; Gasmai laid the platter of sheep gut in front of him, since that was his favorite, then picked up a platter of the old man’s favorite, sheep breast, and placed it in front of him. She then handed Chen a little bowl of
“You Mongols aren’t wasteful when it comes to consuming a sheep. Instead of throwing away the diaphragm, you turn it into a delicious dish.”
“When hungry wolves eat sheep,” the old man said with a nod, “they finish it off—fur, hooves, everything. When natural disasters hit the grassland, finding food isn’t easy, not for people and not for wolves, which is why every part of a sheep is consumed.”
“Then you must have learned how to eat sheep from the wolves,” Chen said.
They laughed. “Yes, that’s about it,” they agreed. Chen ate three more lengths of sheep intestine.
Gasmai laughed happily, and Chen recalled her telling him that she preferred guests who wolfed their food down. But knowing just how wolfish he must have seemed embarrassed him, and he dared not eat more. He knew how much Bilgee and his family liked this particular delicacy, and he’d already finished half of it. Gasmai cut off a piece of blood sausage and picked up another length of intestine with the tip of her knife. “I knew you wouldn’t be in a hurry to leave,” she said with a smile, “so I cooked two lengths of intestine. One’s for you, all of it, and I expect you to be like a wolf, no leftovers.” Everyone around the table laughed as Bayar reached up and took the second link from Gasmai. In the two years he’d been there, Chen had still not figured out what sort of relationship he should have with Gasmai. Elder sister-in-law seemed most appropriate, but sometimes he felt she was more like his own big sister, while at other times she was like a kindly old aunt or a perky younger one. Her happy nature was like the grassland itself—bighearted and innocent.
Chen finished off an entire length of intestine, which he washed down with half a bowlful of butter tea. “Bayar isn’t afraid of grabbing a wolf’s tail or crawling into a wolf’s den or riding a wild horse,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid that something will happen to him?”
“That’s how we Mongols are,” Gasmai said with a smile. “When he was young, Batu had more courage than Bayar. There was no adult wolf in the den Bayar crawled into, and since cubs don’t bite, clearing out the den was nothing to brag about. But when Batu crawled into a den, the mother was still inside. And he had the courage to drag her out.”
Amazed by this bit of news, Chen asked Batu, “How come you never told me? I want to hear it now, in detail.”
The laughter during the meal had lightened Batu’s spirits a bit, so he took a big swig of the liquor in his glass and said, “I was thirteen. Papa and some other men had just found a den after a long search. It was so big, so deep, there was no way to dig in far enough, so Papa decided to see if there was a mother wolf inside by smoking her out. But even after all the smoke had cleared, no wolf emerged, and we assumed the den was empty. So I took some matches and a gunnysack and crawled in to get the cubs. I was barely inside when I saw the wolf’s eyes, no more than two feet from me, and I nearly peed my pants. I lit a match and I saw that that scared her, her tail between her legs like a frightened dog. I lay there, not daring to move, but as soon as the match went out, she charged. I didn’t have time to back out, and I figured that was it for me. Imagine my surprise when I realized she wasn’t coming at me, but was going to jump over me to get out of the den. Well, I knew they weren’t expecting that outside, and I didn’t want the wolf to get to Papa, so I found the nerve somehow to straighten up and block her way. My head rammed into her throat, so I pushed up and drove her head against the ceiling. Now she couldn’t get out and she couldn’t get away. She clawed madly, ripping my clothes, but it was me or her, so I sat up straight, pinning her throat and head against the ceiling to keep her from biting, then reached out and managed to grab her front legs. Now she couldn’t get her teeth or her claws in me. But I was stuck too. I couldn’t move, and my strength was running out.”
Batu related his experience dispassionately, as if it had happened to someone else. “Meanwhile, the people outside wondered what was keeping me. Sensing that something was wrong, Papa crawled in and lit a match. There I was, pinning a wolf to the ceiling with my head. He told me to hold on and not move as he wrapped his arms around my waist and began slowly edging toward the opening, with me pushing up with my head and holding on to the wolf’s legs as it moved with us. Papa yelled for the people outside to grab hold of his legs and pull; they had no idea why until his body was halfway out the opening. They stood there with their knives and clubs, and as soon as we got the wolf to the entrance, someone jabbed a knife into her mouth and stuck her to the top, while the others ran up and beat her to death. Once I recovered my strength, I crawled back into the tunnel, which kept getting narrower, until it was barely big enough for a child. But then it opened onto a room where a litter of cubs was curled up on a chewed sheepskin with clumps of fur everywhere, nine altogether, all alive. To protect her litter, the mother had nearly shut the entrance to the room where they slept with dirt and kept guard outside. The smoke hadn’t killed her because she’d made small openings here and there to the outside. All I had to do was move the dirt out of the way, reach in and grab the cubs, throw them into my sack, and back out...”
Chen could hardly breathe as he listened. Apparently, the family hadn’t heard the story in a long time, for they too were tense. Batu’s story was different from others Chen had heard about taking cubs from a den. “People say a wolf will fight to the death to protect her cubs,” he said. “But not this one. Why?”
“Actually,” the old man said, “wolves are afraid of people, since we’re their only predators. This wolf had nearly been smoked out, and when she saw someone holding a lit match as he worked his way into her den, how could she not be afraid? She was a mature wolf, but I could see she was no more than two years old, and that this was her first litter. It was sad. It’s something no one would have brought up if you hadn’t asked.”
There was no smile on Gasmai’s face. Her eyes glistened from a layer of tears.
“Chen Zhen’s going up to the mountains tomorrow to get a cub,” Bayar said, “and I want to go along. He and the others are too big to crawl inside. I’ll stay in their yurt tonight and head out with them first thing in the morning.”
“All right,” Gasmai said, “go ahead. But be careful.”
“No!” Chen said, waving his hands. “Something might happen. He’s your only son.”
“This spring our group raided one den,” Gasmai said, “and we still owe them three. If we don’t deliver at least one more litter, Bao Shungui will punish us.”
“I don’t care,” Chen insisted. “I’d rather not go than take him with me.”
The old man pulled his grandson over. “You stay home, Bayar. I’m going to catch a big wolf or two, and instead of cubs, I’ll give them the pelts to meet our quota.”
9
By half past three in the morning, Chen Zhen and Yang Ke, along with two big dogs, were perched on a hill in the vicinity of Black Rock Mountain. Their horses, cowhide fetters in place, were hidden behind the hill. Erlang and Yellow had strong hunting instincts, and getting up so early could only mean one thing: a hunt. They were sprawled atop the snow, not making a sound and alertly looking all around. Clouds blotted out the moon and the stars, turning the gloomy grassland extraordinarily cold and terrifying. Chen and Yang were the only two people within miles, at a time when the wolf pack was on the prowl, when an attack was most likely. Close up, Black Rock Mountain was like a sculpture of enormous beasts, its sinister pr
Suddenly the baying of a wolf off to the northwest tore through the silence and echoed in the valleys around them, the fading strains sounding like a flute or a reed pipe, drawn out and cheerless. The sound died away and was followed by the distant barking of a dog. Neither sound stirred the two dogs beside Chen. They were familiar with hunting protocols: guarding the pens at night required constant barking; hunting in the mountains demanded strict silence. Chen stuck one of his hands down into the fur between Erlang’s front legs to warm it and wrapped his other arm around the dog’s neck. Yang had fed both dogs about half full before setting out; on a hunt a dog must not be too full or overly hungry. Too much food deadens the dog’s fighting spirit; too little saps its strength. The food they’d been given was already doing its job; Chen’s hand warmed up quickly, and he used it in turn to warm the dog’s icy nose. Erlang wagged his tail lightly. Having the dog beside him steadied Chen’s nerves.
After several rough nights, Chen was as tired as he’d ever been. Two nights earlier, Yang had invited a few herdsmen friends to come along for some cub hunting, though he didn’t believe there could be any active dens on Black Rock Mountain and no one was willing to get out of bed so early. The herdsmen tried to talk Chen and Yang out of going. Instead, feeling rebuffed, the two friends decided to go on their own, which is why their only companions on the mountain were the two loyal dogs.
Yang held Yellow tightly in his arms and whispered to Chen, “Look, even Yellow’s kind of spooked out here. He can’t stop trembling. I wonder if he smells a wolf nearby...”