玛尔简《岁月中的牧羊生活》

Whenever my travels lead me back to the countryside, be it for work or familial gatherings, the sight of the grasslands of my childhood home always kindles a warmth that springs forth like a silver finch from my heart. Now a resident of the city’s ceaseless buzz, I was once a child of the expansive, open grassland. My thoughts forever dwell there, cradled in the vast, embracing arms of those endless meadows that clutch tightly at my imagination.

Each sighting of cattle and sheep, or the figures of young men and women herding them with leisurely grace across the fields, sends my soul on passionate wings against the backdrop of the vast blue above. The grassland of my youth, under its dome of sky singing with melodious tunes carried on the breeze, captivates and envelops me in its timeless beauty. Time and again, my hurried steps have kicked up dust along the narrow sheep trails, stirring the air as subtly as the gentle ripples across the surface of Haizi Lake.

Immersed in the spirit of the grassland, my thoughts and principles of conduct are imbued with the unmistakable essence of the prairie, forging an unbreakable bond within my soul. Compelled by this bond, my gaze perpetually seeks the horizon, and in the quiet of the night, my dreams unfailingly wander the familiar prairies of home. I adore the graceful and elegant jiji grass on my hometown’s prairie, standing tall and slender like the figures of the Yao’ao’er girls and the charming Russian olive flowers, their faces blooming with comfortable smiles like the Yao’ao’er girls. I also cherish the red willows on the prairie, resilient and unyielding like guardian warriors. It was the prairie that bestowed upon me, during my childhood, aspirations and hope, the source of my soul’s monologue. It was also the prairie of my hometown that taught me the meaning of tolerance, openness, resilience, and never giving up.

In the tender years of my childhood, spent amid the stretches of my hometown’s prairie, I embraced the rustic chores with youthful zeal. Primary and junior high summers were seasons of toil under the vast, open skies—I herded sheep, cut grass, assisted Ana in milking the cows, steamed buns, and even learned the careful art of shearing sheep. With summer’s heat pressing upon us, I would lead a grey-haired donkey, burdened with a basket and sickle, across the prairie’s expanse to gather grass, preparing for the winter’s need.

Ana often remarked that I was taller than the donkey itself. Yet, there I was, the donkey’s reins looped about my waist, navigating through grass that towered over my head. Sickle in hand, I would slice through the green swathes, clutch them firmly, and stow them in the basket. Trudging over the saline-alkali-crusted earth—uneven and taxing—each step was measured, and each patch of grass was chosen carefully to keep the load evenly balanced. Despite the sweat that drenched my face and stained my clothes, soaking through to my skin, I felt a boundless energy. The sun would anoint the straw hat upon my head while the prairie’s breath, fresh and invigorating, filled my lungs. The cheerful calls of cattle and sheep, the melodious strains of shepherd songs, were a balm to my spirit. Before long, I’d be returning, baskets brimming with the day’s bounty.

The prairie of my hometown was set in a challenging saline-alkali zone, a stark landscape often misrepresented in films as idyllic expanses that filled unsuspecting minds with fanciful dreams. In truth, it was a harsh terrain where every step impressed deep into the white crust of salt, layered thick over loose dust, baked hard by relentless sun. Rain transformed this solid crust into treacherous mud, making each step labour as shoes sank into the mire. On days I ventured out to cut grass, I prayed for calm, clouded skies—a merciful reprieve from rain or scorching sun—that made my labour a little easier.

My uncle, aunt, and brother often cut grass during the summer holidays. They would set out before the faintest light touched the horizon, guiding the cattle and sheep and slicing through swathes of grass as they went. Left behind, I tended the home front—sweeping out the sheep pens, tidying the yards, and preparing meals to sustain them through their trying day.

By morning, I would journey to the fields to deliver breakfast—perhaps a simple fare of yoghurt, rice soup, or steaming milk tea paired with freshly baked buns. Under the burgeoning glow of the golden sun, they would pause and rest there, wiping the sweat from their brows, their faces alight with the satisfaction of the morning’s yield and the small joy breakfast brought.

Come midday, they would secure the morning’s cut, tie up neat bundles of grass, and trek back home for a well-deserved lunch. The post-lunch hours were spent in reprieve, resting as they waited for the sun’s blaze to wane. But the afternoon beckoned them back to the fields, to the day’s most gruelling stretch, their faces flushed and dripping with sweat, every crease on their skin a testament to their toil.

As dusk drew the day to a close and the air turned cooler, they would hurriedly gather the afternoon’s bounty. The fruits of their day’s labour were loaded upon the grey donkey, accompanied by the evening chorus of cattle and sheep. Guided by the twinkling stars and the moon’s gentle glow, they would return home, their bodies weary but spirits undeterred. While they busied themselves sorting the grass, I would water the livestock.

The fear of a lost sheep was ever-present in the minds of the herders. Should one go missing, my uncle and aunt would venture out in pursuit, hoping to find it mingling among a neighbour’s flock. Failing that, their search would stretch into days filled with anxious, sleepless nights for those left waiting, the uncertainty unsettling our hearts.

Amid these pastoral summers, I grew, nourished by the grassland’s rugged charm. The fierce sun of my homeland deeply bronzed my skin, etching lines of resilience, patience, and determination into my very being—traits that mirrored the enduring spirit of the prairie itself. These were the days of my youth, marked by both the mundane and the memorable, each moment threading into the tapestry of my childhood and adolescence on the grassland.

During the languid summers and school-free weekends, I wandered the narrow sheep tracks of the prairie alongside the local girls. Together, we shepherded flocks along the shores and grasslands, sustained by flasks of milk tea and Luoyang cake, our modest feast under the relentless sun. Despite the heat, our hearts swelled with purpose and fulfilment. We chatted and sang with abandon, recounting old and newly minted tales, our laughter echoing across the fields as we playfully chased one another without a hint of weariness.

Arriving at the lakeshore, the temptation to pluck the varied blossoms was irresistible. We gathered handfuls of blue mallow, weaving them into crowns that we wore with a regal air, fancying ourselves as princesses of the prairie. We frolicked and splashed by the lake’s crystal waters, occasionally casting sand towards the graceful birds gliding above.

The song of the Yugur shepherd girls, light and vibrant as a mountain spring, resonated around us:

The clear waters of the lake flow over the shore,

The Yugur shepherd girls bloom like flowers,

The abundant wool, like white clouds,

Gently spun and quickly wrapped...

This melody, laden with dreams of a resilient and joyful life, lingered in our ears, a soft echo of our youthful hopes.

As the sun descended and the time to return home drew near, our footsteps grew heavy. Our playful chatter subsided into a focused silence as we guided our flocks along the path home, the journey seeming more a crawl than a walk, our throats parched, and bodies drained. The homebound track stretched endlessly before us, the narrow sheep paths challenging with every step.

Life on the prairie repeated itself week after week, incredibly arduous during storms. Rainstorms forced us to seek shelter beneath heaps of grass or sprint home to escape the pelting hail. Winter brought its trials with biting winds and snowstorms. The vast silence of the prairie was pierced only by the howling wind, which seemed to cut through every layer of our thick clothing. We would sometimes ignite dried thistle grass for warmth, the days short and the nights endlessly long. The livestock, too cold to graze properly, often bolted towards home, leaving us scrambling to gather them back. Despite the freezing nights threatening their survival, we could not let them return until they had eaten their fill.

This harsh life was a constant reminder from my parents: “Study hard, or you’ll endure this suffering forever.”

The grassland profoundly shaped my young soul with its brutal environment yet rich cultural tapestry. Stories like the Swan’s Harp and the legend of Huang Daichen filled my childhood with magic and mystery, their tales of beauty and sorrow weaving through my daily life. As I matured, I wished for a better life for these characters from my childhood fantasies.

Though now distanced by city life, the sight of my hometown’s prairie fills me with guilt, as if I’ve betrayed the path that led me to adulthood. To ease this ache, I return to the fading beauty of the prairie, its thistle grass, horse lilies, and the environment I deeply cherish. My relationship with the grassland is complex, torn between longing for its rustic charm and wanting to leave its hardships behind. Yet, in my heart, the grassland remains a vivid tapestry of life and memory; its essence is a folk song that continues to resonate within me.

Life is fleeting, filled with unfulfilled dreams. Still, I am fortunate to occasionally return to my roots to reconnect with the grassland that nurtured me. Though I can never fully repay its gifts, my soul forever wanders through the prairie paths of my youth, eternally attempting to give back to the land that raised me.