Mending the Fire补火

There was no wind, only cold. And the cold cut deeper than any wind ever could. When the wind came, a man could still stamp his feet or swing his arms to keep himself warm. But once the cold settled in, the body simply went numb. To move was misery; to stand still was no better. The slightest shift—a shoulder, a knee, the turn of a neck—felt as though a bone might snap.

The harvest had long been finished. The frozen earth had split into hard, jagged plates, as though it might burst apart at any moment. Frost settled over the salt-white clods and blanketed the roots of the reeds, driving the cold deeper into a man's heart.

It was before dawn in early winter on a farm in the Gobi. Looking ahead between the shafts of the ox cart, everything dissolved into a dim wash of black and grey. The workers' houses seemed to grow lower and smaller until even the nearest lamp disappeared. Man, oxen, and cart were swallowed by the same heavy darkness.

The farther they traveled, the farther they had to go for firewood. Anything close to the settlement had long since been gathered. Whenever the farm workers had a day off, whole families went out together carrying shoulder poles and baskets, bringing back every branch they could find. Behind each dwelling they stacked the wood into tall, square piles, solid and orderly, quiet assurance that they would make it through another winter.

There were still hours before daybreak. The carter dared not fall asleep yet. He had to drive the ox cart across the farthest stretch of virgin wasteland before the oxen finally gave up any hope of turning back. Only then would he lean against the fodder, close his eyes, and return to the dream that had been interrupted when he rose before dawn.

More than once he had fallen asleep before reaching the main track. He would wake with a start to find the oxen already lying beside the cattle shed, quietly chewing their cud. For a moment he would sit there in bewilderment before the truth dawned on him. The oxen, it seemed, were just as reluctant to set out as he was. They had simply turned around and brought themselves home.

The shaft ox had belonged to three different owners before this one. He was old now, but steady. Only one horn remained. The other had been broken off seven years earlier in a fight over a cow—a reminder of the strength he had once possessed. The young ox on the outside was barely a year and a half old. He still resisted the harness and was at the age when the whip and the stick did most of the teaching. The middle ox, Split-Nose, had grown old as well. He never pulled evenly, saving his strength for the great sand dunes. Closest to the cart was Little Yellow. Gentle in the mouth but powerful in the shoulders, he would pull with all his might as long as there was enough fodder.

For a carter, good oxen alone were not enough. The cart had to be sound. The harness had to fit. Above all, the whip had to be right—the handle, the lash, and especially the whipcracker. A man who knew how to handle a whip needed only a good cracker. One clean snap, landing squarely across the tail, would send a shiver through the flesh, and at once the traces would tighten. Even so, the whip could never be used carelessly. Least of all with Split-Nose. Brush him by accident and he would simply stop where he stood, sulking like an offended old man. The carter would have to climb down, rub the place where the whip had touched him, and silently let him know no harm had been meant. Only then would Split-Nose forgive him and move on.

No carter was without affection for his oxen. Yet it was often because of the oxen that a carter suffered most. In weather like this, with nothing but a bellyful of coarse grass, they still had to haul a loaded cart for dozens of miles across the sand, scarcely finding time even to stop and chew their cud. If the carter lost his concentration for a moment and a trace slackened, the whip would come down. The oxen wanted dignity no less than men did. If they wished to avoid the lash, they had to stay alert every step of the journey. It was no easier for them than it was for the man behind them. Their only hope came at nightfall, when the harness was finally lifted from their shoulders and, if fortune smiled, a few extra handfuls of bran would be mixed into their fodder. For that small kindness, they labored through an entire lifetime.

没风，只是寒气，寒气比风更利。风来了，人还能动动，可寒气一来，人就麻木了，动也不是，不动又不是，随哪处一动，骨头会断似的。

庄稼早收完了，地冻得裂裂壳壳，随时要炸开。霜落在盐碱土疙瘩上，蒙在芦苇根上，刺得人心更寒。

这是戈壁农场初冬的凌晨。从牛车辕杆望去，迷朦黑灰的一片，队上的房子在矮下去，小下去，最近的灯火也消失了。人、牛、车全陷在昏沉里。

柴是越捡越远了。近处的柴，队上农工一挨着休息，便全家出动去背，去挑，在自家屋后，砌出高大方正的垛，显出过冬的沉稳。

离天亮还早，这时不敢瞌睡，非得将牛车吆过那片最远的生荒地，牛没了指望，这才敢将身子歪在草料上，接着起床时未完的梦往下做。好几次没出大道，在牛车上睡了，迷糊醒来，牛竟卧在牛栏门口倒磨。愣着一想，牛也懒得出车，自己回来了。

辕牛已换过三个主人。老了，但稳健，只剩一只角，七年前为争情斗掉一只，可见当年的雄猛；边套一只岁半小牛，不服套，正是吃鞭子挨棒子的时候；中套豁鼻子，不拉平套，只在翻大沙丘时使力，也老了；内套小黄，口轻力大，只要草料够，十分卖力。

吆车的除了牛要好，车要好，套要好，鞭子更要好；鞭子杆要好，鞭要好，鞭鞘更要好。会打鞭的，只要鞭鞘好，一鞭下去，嗑叭一声脆响，不偏不倚，落尾巴上，那肉肋一抖，套绳就直了。但也不能随便落鞭，尤其豁鼻子，鞭子无意碰着，干脆赌气不走，得下车在落鞭处摸上几下，有过歉意表示，才会消气再走。

吆车人没有不疼牛的。可牛又总让吆车人害着受罪。这天寒地冻的，装一肚子草，赶拉几十里沙路，连倒磨的时间都没有。路上稍一走神，套松了，鞭子就下来。牛想活得自尊，少挨打，就得时时提防鞭子，也轻松不了。一天唯一指望，只盼天黑卸了套，草料里多几两麸皮，这么苦熬一生。

Beyond the virgin wasteland lay the ancient riverbed.

The Tarim River changed its course every twenty or thirty years. But how long had it been since it last flowed here? A hundred years? Perhaps two. Only a few thick trunks of desert poplars still lay along the collapsed banks. Time had weathered their bark into that murky grey-yellow found only in the deserts and wilderness. Yet from those ancient trunks it was still possible to imagine the life that had once flourished here: a broad river gliding quietly across the open plain, its waters unhurried, its banks lined for miles with a thriving belt of green. Now the river had long since found another course. Somewhere, another desert was drinking its waters. Somewhere else, another wilderness had turned green because of it. Here, it had left behind nothing but the memory of what once had been.

As they went deeper, the riverbed grew narrower. The old trees climbed higher along the banks, crowding together and leaning toward the empty channel as though they still believed the long-dry river might one day grant them a trace of moisture. From time to time a bank of dark cloud drifted overhead, only to remind them that rain still fell—hundreds of miles away. Many times they seemed to hear water striking the riverbed, but it was always a dream. Some trees had fallen, held upright by stronger trunks beside them. Others had been struck by lightning and still refused to fall. Dark-faced and silent, they stood their ground with such stubborn resolve that they commanded respect.

Ahead, a few cold shafts of light slipped through the gaps in the forest and reached the riverbed. The tangled branches seemed to stir, arranging themselves like soldiers quietly taking their positions. Only when a great full moon rose above them and settled over the riverbed did everything grow still again.

Then, without warning, a vast ruin emerged before them.

Its city walls, gate towers, tents, chimneys and flagpoles could still be faintly discerned, dark against the cliffs of sand, as though an ancient settlement had been buried by the desert but had never entirely disappeared.

Before and beyond the ruins, it seemed as though ranks of warriors were stepping forward. Their faces were dark with ash, yet every one of them stood erect. At their head stood a leader of imposing strength and dignity. It was as if an ancient battle had never truly ended. The warriors had struggled and fought through the ages. Their bodies had long since stiffened, yet none had fallen. None had broken. None had yielded. They had forged all their longing into stone, leaving it to stand between the earth and the sky.

Suddenly a towering wall of sand stretched across the desert, forming a barrier several miles long. The man, the oxen, and the cart slipped into its shelter and picked their way slowly along its base. The hours before dawn in early winter were always the hardest. Drowsiness seeped into every limb, while the cold shook the body without mercy. Three padded cotton jackets wrapped him tightly. The hemp rope around his waist could be tightened no further. His cotton cap was pulled down as far as it would go. Nothing that could keep out the cold had been wasted. His hands disappeared into his sleeves, borrowing warmth from his own arms. Only his nose remained exposed. It ought to have been tucked beneath the collar, but then the back of his neck would have been left bare.

Why, he wondered, had a man ever been given a neck?

Without one, perhaps people would have been spared all this hunching, shrinking, and foolish struggle against the cold.

过了生荒地，不远是古河床。这塔里木河，二十年、三十年一改道。这河床是哪年改造的道呢？怕有一、二百年了吧。从那片倒伏的河床两岸几缕粗的胡杨树杆，从树杆腐蚀出的，只能在荒原沙漠才有的那浑浊灰黄的树斑，可以想见当年曾有过怎样的生机；漠漠荒原，一条宽宽水涟，缓缓悠悠淌着，岸边数里，蓬勃出一片绿带。而今，不知哪片荒漠又得了它，又不知在哪里润着绿了。给这里，只留些苦苦的记忆。

再深处走，河床窄起来。沿河的古木更往高处拔，俨俨壁壁，参差错落地往河心挤压，以为早已干涸的河床还能恩赐一丝水气。偶尔，一片黑云压过来，只是让他们看看，雨是落了，落在几百里外。好多次明明听到水在冲击河床，却是场梦。有些倒了，却被另几支强悍的扶着；有些被雷击过，反而不倒，阴沉着脸，硬是挺着，倔得让人敬畏。

河床前，几缕冷冷寒光，从林间缝隙直透河床，枝枝丫丫的林木就活动开了，像布着阵法。直至一轮大而圆的月亮冒出头，又压在上面，才安静下来。突然，眼前横亘出一片废墟，城墙、门楼、帐帷、烟囱、旗杆依稀可辨，黑魆魆布在沙的崖壁上。

废墟前后，似有排排壮士出列，黑灰着脸，个个昂然。为首的头领，更是雄壮伟岸。那场远古决战，厮杀至今，将士拼斗苦磨，身体早已僵硬，却没倒下，不摧折，不沉沦，只将渴望凝练成岩石，涵盖在天地间。

霍然一处沙壁，布出三五里屏障。人、牛、车闪了进去，挨着沙壁下摸索混走。这初冬的凌晨最是难熬，倦意困得人酥酥麻麻，寒气压得人抖抖嗦嗦。三件棉衣裹着，腰上的麻绳不能再勒紧了，棉帽扣得严实；没浪费的，每寸都用上了；手在袖筒窝着，由胳膊肉供暖；鼻子多出来，按理该躲衣领下的，可后脖又弓出截肉。人为什么要长脖子呢？没它，人要省去许多收头缩脑的蠢相。

The carter climbed down from the ox cart and gathered a few dry twigs. He piled them into a battered enamel basin set on the mud-brick stand beside the cart and struck a flame. The fire caught at once, filling the frozen air with its soft, steady murmur. The first warmth reached his nose.

A violet glow spread around the ox cart, making the darkness beyond seem deeper still. The carter shivered and instinctively turned toward the fire. The flames were a pleasure simply to look at. Their light slipped between the shafts and fell across the sharp hipbones of the shaft ox. Between them, the ox's tail began to sway with unexpected cheer, and the four narrow backs, ridged like the spines of fish, seemed to loosen and move more freely in the night air. The carter stretched out his stiff, numbed hands and cupped them around the brazier, as though he feared the fire might somehow slip away.

Fire was a wonderful thing. Though it could never be touched, it could always be felt. It was real. The carter thought that no man could simply imagine the warmth of a steamed bun, a piece of pork, or the embrace of a woman. Fire alone invited such wandering thoughts. If they led nowhere, that was hardly the fire's fault. At least it kept a man warm.

He laid two more sticks upon the brazier. The wood protested at first, hissing and crackling as sparks leapt into the darkness, but before long it yielded, becoming warmth and light. Watching the flames, the carter felt quietly content.

As the fire began to die down, he added another two sticks. The flames sprang back to life, dancing eagerly once more. For a while he was content again. Then the feeling slowly slipped away, leaving behind an emptiness he could not explain. After sitting there for a long time, he reached into his cloth bag, took out a corn cake, and buried it beneath the hot ashes.

He never ate breakfast. The two corn cakes he carried each day were always saved for noon. Eating them together left him feeling fuller than eating them separately. But this morning was different. Something within him had quietly changed.

The evening before, as he drove the ox cart back to the settlement, he had caught sight of a woman's foot—the wife of the leader of Team Five.

She came from east of the pass only once every six years to visit her husband. Husband and wife could scarcely bear to be apart, yet the underground dwellings were shared by several men at a time. The only place where they could find a little privacy was among the tamarisk dunes.

The foot had rested quietly upon the sand. Its sole was remarkably white, while beyond that pale line the instep was broad, dark, and full. For reasons he himself could not explain, it reminded him of a corn cake—charred over the fire and flattened beneath someone's foot.

For that reason alone, he decided it was worth eating one of his corn cakes before dawn.

He lifted it from the ashes and chewed it slowly, savoring every bite.

The corn cake tasted surprisingly good.

Its crust had been scorched black, almost to charcoal. But it was only cornmeal blackened by the fire, and that, too, deserved to be eaten with care. The finest part was the thin layer between burnt and unburnt, where the fire had stopped just short of consuming it. It could never be swallowed in great bites. It had to be tasted slowly, almost reverently. Anything less would have been a waste.

There were still three hours before dawn. He wished he could spend all three of them eating. So that morning he decided to roast the same corn cake five times over, drawing out the pleasure for as long as he could. Until then he had always eaten simply to fill his stomach. This morning, for once, he wanted to give his tongue its share as well.

Looking beyond the brazier, he found the night half asleep. Upon the ox cart lay a world no larger than the cart itself: a basin of glowing fire, a whip resting quietly at hand, and a corn cake waiting for its next turn in the embers. It was enough.

The carter felt content.

吆车人下车找了些小柴，堆在破脸盆里，放在车架的土坯上，擦着了火。火苗一窜，在寒气里发出悦耳的呼呼声，鼻子先暖和了。牛车四周映出一片紫红，车外的夜更深更黑了，吆车人打了下哆嗦，赶紧看火，火苗红得可爱，透过辕杆，漏了些在辕车两块干瘦突起的股骨上，夹在中间的牛尾竟欢腾摇摆起来，四条鱼脊型的牛背在夜气里也扭快了些。吆车人伸出僵硬麻木的手，抱在火盆上，好像怕火丢了似的。

还是火好。尽管摸不着，却能感觉到，是实在的。吆车人想，人就不能凭空去感觉一只馒头，一块猪肉，或是一个女人。火苗逗人去想些不着边际的事，尽管白想，那不是火的错，至少人还是暖和了。

他往火盆放了二杆柴，柴在挣扎呼叫，不时噼噼啪啪爆出了几个火星，但很快顺从，变得温暖而美丽，吆车人很舒心、挺满足。火渐渐在小，又添二杆柴，火苗又起劲晃动，吆车人满足过一阵却不满足了，总感到空得难受。想了很久，弄不明白，就从布兜摸出只苞谷窝头来，煨在火里。他是从不吃早饭的，两只窝头并在中午吃，要比分开吃感到饱些。但今天早上他想提前吃掉一个，因为今天他心情有点特别，因为他昨天傍晚吆车回来看到过一次女人的脚，五组长老婆的脚。六年一次从关内来探亲，亲得不能分开，地窝子又都是统铺，只能在红柳沙包干那事。他见到的那只脚平躺着，脚底很白，分界线后面是黑而肥的脚面，使他想到一只烤焦后踩扁的窝窝头。因此，今天早上提前吃掉一只窝头是值得的。他从火盆里扒出那只窝头，细细嚼了起来。

味不错，外面已焦糊成炭，但它是苞谷面炭，同样应该认真吃掉。最有味的是介于烤焦未焦的那部分，不能大口吃，得仔细品尝，不然太浪费。离天亮还有三小时，他希望这三小时能不停地吃，所以今天这只窝头，吆车人计划分五次烧烤，不能像以往吃饭那样只考虑肚子而不去关照舌头。

从火盆往外看，夜在昏睡，车上一个小天地：一盆火，一杆鞭，一只即将受用的窝头，吆车人满足了。

After climbing a succession of towering sand dunes, the ox cart reached the crest, and the world suddenly opened before them.

The land stretched vast and bare, without the slightest concealment, reaching unbroken beneath the first light of morning to the foot of the Tianshan Mountains. At their hazy base, a few Uyghur villages lay scattered among drifting veils of mist. Beyond the villages, the Gobi spread outward in a boundless sweep until it met the mountains. A few wisps of cloud drifted lazily toward the mountain passes, where they lingered, waiting to merge with the mist descending from the snow-covered peaks.

Behind those mountains rose still more mountains, range upon range, dark and immense, like a great sea holding back its waves. Hidden within them seemed to lie countless dragons, poised to take flight. Yet everything remained perfectly still.

The carter had always regarded those silent mountains with reverence. At the same time, he felt an irresistible urge to venture into them, as though somewhere among those hidden ridges lay an answer waiting to be found. The unfathomable Tianshan stirred both wonder and longing in him. One day, he thought, he would like to herd sheep in those mountains. Standing upon a summit, looking down from above, he imagined he would see much farther than he ever could from the seat of an ox cart.

The ground gradually leveled out. Standing on the cart, he cracked the whip several times, each report ringing crisp through the morning air. Both man and oxen seemed to awaken. He shrugged off two of his padded jackets, keeping only the lightest one, then jumped down from the cart. One hand rested on the shaft, the other swung the whip as he called softly to the oxen. His thin legs moved briskly beside the sixteen steady legs of the team, his felt boots brushing sand from the edge of the track with every stride.

Behind the wheels rose little clouds of dust, carrying with them the dry scent of alkali earth mixed with cattle dung.

In the distance, whirlwinds twisted across the desert like dragons, lifting great columns of sand. They wound their way along the sand track, roaring as though determined to sweep everything before them away. Then, almost without warning, they broke apart into a dozen drifting serpents, crawling and writhing across the dunes until they became trapped in shallow gullies, where they dwindled into thin wisps of dust and vanished.

Suddenly three or five goitered gazelles flashed into view. Like shooting stars they darted into a grove of desert poplars, then vanished into the ancient riverbed. A handful of black shapes burst into the air, followed by the lazy, indifferent calls of crows.

Six or seven fresh cow pats lay scattered along the sand track, lightly dusted with sand. They looked a little untidy, but they belonged here. Without them, the little gully would have seemed unbearably lonely. Without them, the air would not have carried that peculiar scent of cattle dung, dry straw, and desert sand.

The gully had been carved long ago by floodwater. The marks left by the current had later been gnawed away by the wind, leaving cracked banks, jagged edges, the faint trails of goitered gazelles, and the tiny footprints of darting lizards. Together they formed a small world of their own.

The sand track had not been made by human feet. It was not really a road. A few gazelles crossed it from time to time, but that did not make it their path. Water had passed this way more than once, yet it had never stayed long enough to leave a course behind. The wind visited almost every day, but the wind had never cared for roads. Perhaps this track was something else altogether—the vein of the desert itself, a pathway shaped by heaven and earth, along which the wandering spirit of the Gobi quietly traveled.

The water had long since disappeared, yet a desert poplar, nearly five meters tall, rose from the level sand beside the track. For three years the carter had passed it every day without ever seeing a single drop of water, not even a trace of rain. He could never understand how it had survived, let alone grown so strong. The roots hidden beneath the sand must have spread many times farther than the tree revealed above the ground, searching blindly for water as though they possessed eyes of their own. Year after year they endured in silence. Driven by the relentless sun and the endless wind-blown sand, they had only grown deeper and stronger.

翻几百米沙丘，跃上丘顶，眼帘豁开。

天地宏大，一片旷漠，全无遮掩，在初阳里直直延伸到天山脚下。朦胧的山脚下，淡淡的雾气里洒落着几处维吾尔族人的村落。村落往上，戈壁恢恢茫茫布到山脚。山脚处，游丝着几缕散云，踱到山的丫口，稳住不动了。等着与雪峰上下沉的雾气聚合。

山背后的山峦，重重叠叠，混黑一片，似狂澜深藏的海，潜伏着万千条欲欲腾飞的龙。然而，看着却无声无息。吆车人对这无声无息的山，一直敬畏，又想去冒犯，弄个明白。这深不可测的天山使他激动、令他遐想。他想进山去牧羊，脚落在山顶上，眼往下看，一定比坐在牛车上看得远些。

路平坦些了，站在车上，清清脆脆，打几声响鞭，人牛都抖擞起来。脱两件棉袄，着件小袄，蹦下车来。一手扶辕，一手晃鞭，吆喝着牛。两条细腿拢着棉裤，棉裤拢着毡筒，踢着路边沙土，随十六条牛腿快步挪动。

车轮下滚出一团团带些牛粪，盐碱味的尘烟。

远处，龙似的旋风，卷起团团沙尘，摇曳着身躯，贴着沙丘，沿着沙径，呼天抢地喧嚣，大有横扫一切的决心。忽又化作十数条游蛇，漫散开，滚爬、蠕动，困在些小沟坎里挣扎，蜷缩成一缕缕细烟，散了。

不知何处闪出三、五只黄羊，流星般撩进胡杨林里，刹那间窜入河床，惊起几个黑点，传来了乌鸦们懒洋洋的叫声。

六、七块牛粪，顺沙径蹲着，还算新鲜，蒙些沙土，就是邋遢了些，但它们倒是该落在这沟里的，不然，这沟也太寂寞了，不然，这沟里就不会有牛粪、稻草、沙土的混合气息了。

这沟是那年洪水带出来的，琢磨出的水痕又经那年风的嘶咬，斑斑裂裂、齿齿豁豁、与黄羊踩出的路径，蜥蜴窜梭的脚痕，落下一方小小天地。

沙径不是人踩出来的，不是路，黄羊偶尔穿过几回，不能算作是羊腿的路数；水路过几次，但没留下；风倒是时时光顾，但风从不认路。那它是天造地设大漠的经脉，是漫游的魂魄了。

沙径早没了水，却平地拔出棵五米高的胡杨。吆车三年，天天路过，从未见过一滴水，一滴雨、真不明白它靠什么活下来，还活的壮实。那它躲在沙土下的根，一定有它露脸在外的好几个大，长了眼似的追水，慢慢苦熬，有了酷日风沙的追逼，那根系更强了。

A desert poplar is what it is.

It is never graceful, never delicate. It is nothing like the trees of the south, where every branch and every leaf seems eager to please the eye. Nor is it like the ornamental trees in city parks, forever being trimmed and shaped by gardeners, their natural limbs bent, twisted, tied, and cut until they wear an expression of practiced charm, as though their only purpose were to win affection.

The desert poplar grows for no one but itself.

Seen from a distance, it looks dull, awkward, almost foolish. Look again, and it becomes something entirely different—a company of pioneers driven to the edge of survival, stubborn, unyielding, a little wild, refusing to give way. Before long, respect comes naturally.

Winter is the hardest season of all. There is no reason to hope for moisture, not even the slightest trace of it. Yet each tree stands exactly where it is, asking nothing, begging nothing, living with quiet dignity.

The long season of waiting lasts until June. Perhaps, if fortune smiles, the snowmelt from the Tianshan Mountains will wander across the Gobi, following the sand track and the dry gullies, leaving behind a little water. Or perhaps it will turn aside only a short distance away. Then the trees wait again. One year. Two years. Perhaps forever. If they wither, they wither stubbornly. If they die, they die no differently.

Fortune does come, though perhaps it favors the strong. Some groves flourish even in winter, carrying themselves with quiet confidence. Their trunks stand firm and straight. Their branches are lean, hard, and full of strength, as though winter means nothing to them.

When summer arrives, it takes only a few days of mist drifting down from the snow mountains, or a few evenings when the warmth of the setting sun lingers a little longer over the cooling desert, for every branch to burst into green. Every leaf is thick and resilient. Together they weave a dense canopy through which even the fiercest sun cannot pass.

A traveler crossing the desert beneath the blazing sky sees the grove from afar and feels cooler before ever reaching it. Tired legs begin to move of their own accord. Once inside the shade, he no longer wishes to leave.

Birdsong fills the air. The trunks and leaves seem to make their own breeze. Off comes the shirt. Off come the shoes. The sand is brushed from face and skin, and at last the whole body breathes. Even the lungs seem to cool.

Only a single step beyond the shade, the desert burns like a furnace. But that furnace belongs to another world. Beneath these trees, it has no power.

Farther on, more islands of cool green sway gently in the breeze, inviting the traveler onward. If he regrets leaving one patch of shade, another is already waiting. Beneath the trees lies a deep carpet of fallen leaves, soft enough to make a man forget himself.

All he wants to do is lie down and sleep.

The carter thought to himself that this ancient desert was lonely enough to unsettle the human heart. Perhaps the trees felt that loneliness too. No matter how hard their own lives might be, they would still give everything they had to bring forth a crown of leaves.

And the leaves never betrayed them.

When despair closed in, they gave the trunks a reason to hope. When they finally fell, they did not drift far away. They returned to the roots, where the sand quietly buried them. Year after year they lived, died, and returned to the earth, giving back to the trees that had sustained them.

Because of them, this endless desert, this vast Gobi, was no longer lifeless. It possessed a little more warmth, a little more of what it meant to be alive.

In the distance, the tamarisk dunes began to emerge.

Standing on the ox cart, one hand resting on the shaft and the other lightly swinging the whip, the carter searched the dunes with quick, practiced eyes. He hoped to find the finest stand of tamarisk before anyone else did—enough to fill an entire cart.

For a family living on a farm in the Gobi,

that single cartload of firewood

was all the hope they had

for the long winter ahead.

荒漠的胡杨就是荒漠的胡杨，决不婀娜，决不妩媚。不像南国那些林木，每根枝条，每片叶子都想取悦于人。更不像都市公园那些娇柔花木，整日让园丁修剪打整，硬把那些天然成趣的枝干捆、折、扭、蹩，做出一脸媚态，宠成一脸的巴结相。这荒漠胡杨，只为自己长。大眼望去，一副木讷憨厚的傻样。细眼看去，却像群陷入绝境的拓荒者，固执，倔强，带些蛮横，让人不得不敬重了。尤其到了冬季，别指望得到一丝潮气，别梦想挨着丁点水气，一个个犟头倔脑，矗在那里，没一点乞求的意思，活得骨气。

这漫长绝望的季节一直要熬到六月份。或许，下几个月来了运气，天山的洪水，顺着戈壁，沙径，沟壑，无意淌了些水给它。或许，就在不远处，一拐、溜了。那它们就再等，一年，两年，也许永远，枯了，死了，也是倔的。

运气还是有，强者的运气要多点吧。那片林子就活得旺，尽管是冬季，依然显得自信、沉稳而有生气。树杆壮实挺拔，枝条精瘦有力，根本不在乎什么冬季。而一到夏季，只要雪山吹出那么几天雾气，只要落日的余温在沙漠寒寂的夜晚多留几天，所有的枝条便勃发出一片绿。每片叶都坚韧厚实，交叉重叠出稠密的绿荫，再毒再猛的炎阳，休想跨一步进去。旅人在烈日下一路颠簸，远远一见那林子，心就先凉快了，疲乏的懒腿自然勤快，一头躲进去，不想出来了。鸟语啁啾，让人悦目。树杆、树叶自己就给了你风。衬衣，脱了，鞋，脱了，抖抖脸上、身上的沙土，光身纳凉，心肺一起凉透。一步外，是只要把人烤干的炉子，这火炉与你不相干，尽可在凉处得意。不远处，还有成片摇摆着的凉爽绿荫，诱得人心痒，你感到可惜，那就换一处，再凉快。树下是层层叶丘，松软得让人心醉。自在得只想瞌睡。

吆车人想：这万古荒漠，寂寞得让人心慌，怕这树杆也寂寞了，自己再苦，也要舍命养育些叶子出来。叶子从不负心，让枝杆在绝望时有了希望，落了，也不远去，归在根处，沙土就地埋了。天长日久下来，自生、自灭、自埋，回报树杆。使这亘荒的沙漠、戈壁有了生气，又平添几分人情味。

红柳沙包隐隐可见了。

吆车人站在车上，一手扶辕，一手晃鞭，两只眼睛在快速寻察，他希望在那片红柳沙包里尽快找到一蓬最好的红柳架，足够装满一车，那是戈壁农场生活的一家人在寒冷漫长冬季里的全部希望啊！

No one could say how many ages had passed. Tens of thousands of years, at least. No one knew which ancient flood, or which wandering wind, had thrown those first tamarisk branches here. Those that could not endure the bitterness had long since died out. The ones that survived were those willing to wear life down slowly, to live through hard days.

They crouched in dry clusters across the sandy wasteland. Apart from their toughness, the branches had little to recommend them. They stood without being straight, bent without bending into any graceful shape. The leaves clinging to them were no more than a few grey-yellow specks, and most of the stems remained bare. Yet the merciless wind and sand kept falling over them day and night, senselessly, endlessly, as though determined to bury them alive. So they moaned softly with the wind and sand, forcing themselves upward another inch. Buried again, they rose again.

Hard to live. But if that was the life given to them, then hard as it was, they still had to live.

Now and then a flood would come, twisting this way and that through the desert. Whichever shrub it happened to touch counted itself lucky. The tamarisk could not move from where it stood. It could only wait, guarding its place and waiting for fortune. The water should have come this year, but it did not. Then perhaps next year. Still it did not. Just when it seemed there would be no year left to hope for, at last the water came, and they drank all they could, not knowing when, or in what lifetime, it might come again.

If life aboveground was too hard, then they sought a way to live underground. Downward they reached, drinking a thread of moisture left from fifty years before. Deeper still, they found water that had lain there for two hundred years and drank that too. Deeper again. Whatever ground they had taken hold of, they would never let go.

And still they had to contend with the fireball overhead, the wind and sand beating straight into them, the teeth of camels and goitered gazelles, and the salt and alkali earth always ready to drain them dry. Life depended on endurance. There was no such thing as being unable to endure; there was only the question of whether one wished to endure. Those that wished to endure could live. Those that wished to live had to grow strong. Otherwise there was no surviving such bitter years and months.

How many times had all hope vanished completely? A whole generation died. In the end, it was still the stronger ones that endured. These stubborn, seed-bearing lives gave the tamarisk its spirit and kept it from disappearing. Those that multiplied afterward inherited the same fate of suffering. What awaited them was still this endless hardship. Endure, then. Somehow, they had to go on enduring. And when a good year finally came, they would still put out a few blossoms, as if to show the world that had tried so hard to kill them.

And truly, the tamarisk bloomed.

Over tens of thousands of years, sand buried the shrubs and the shrubs kept growing. Layer after layer, year after year, they built themselves into tamarisk mounds, solid and towering on the barren flats of the Gobi. Some rose several meters high, others only a few feet, but beneath them there was no knowing where they ended. No one knew how large they truly were. Across the Gobi, they were everywhere, spreading to the farthest edge of the desert plain, and then beyond that edge, and beyond again.

In this lifeless place, these were the lives that knew how to live.

有多少年代，没个数，起码该有几万年了。不知是哪次洪荒，是哪阵风，把些红柳枝条扔在这里了。耐不住苦熬的，都死绝了。活下来的，都是些想熬命，过苦日子的。干巴巴、一窝窝蹲在沙荒地里。那枝条除了有股子韧性，简直不算什么，挺而不直，弯也没弯出个样来。附在上面的叶子，只是灰黄灰黄的几个小点，多数枝杆还是秃的。那无情的风沙还是没日没夜、没头没脑铺盖下来，简直要活埋它们，它们便和着风沙呜呜咽咽低吟着，硬是顶出那么一寸，又埋，又顶。难活啊，命该如此，难活也得活啊。偶尔，来股子洪水，七扭八拐，挨着谁是谁的运气，不能动窝，干守，等运气。明明今年该来水的，没来。明年吧，没来。以为没年头了，总算来了，把它吸个够啊，不知何年何月再有呢。地上难活，在地下找活路吧，往深处吸啊，挨着五十年前一丝水气，吸了。再深，两百年前的水气，吸了。再深。把住的地盘决不松手。还得对付顶头那只火球呢，劈头盖脸的风沙呢，骆驼、黄羊的牙齿呢，随时要把它们榨干的盐土碱土呢。日子就靠撑了。没有撑不下去那句话，只看想不想撑下去。想撑的就能活命。想活命的，就得壮实。不然顶不过这苦日月的。多少次，完全没指望了。死一批。到底还是壮实些的耐熬，这些有种的，到底让红柳有了种气，没有灭绝。繁衍下来的，又是受罪的命，要的就是这没有尽头的苦日月了。撑吧，怎么也得撑下去，挨着好年头，还要开些花出来，给那些要命的看看。

果真，红柳开了花。

数万年下来，沙埋柳长，积年累月，堆成一个个红柳沙包，扎扎实实巍巍峨峨屹立在戈壁荒滩上，大的数丈，小的数尺，下面就没底了，谁也不知有多大。戈壁滩里，到处都是它们，漫延到戈壁滩尽头的尽头，再尽头。

这没命的地方，活着这些命大的。

Digging up firewood demanded both strength and luck. On a lucky day, a single tamarisk mound could yield enough roots to fill an entire cart. If even the slightest trace of wood showed through the sand, there was a place to begin. Plant your feet wide, brace the pry bar, draw a deep breath, and with a single heave the buried root would rise from the sand. One after another they came, some as thick as a man's waist. The shovel knocked away the packed sand, revealing wood as deep red as cured meat.

Luck did not always hold. Sometimes several mounds yielded nothing more than a few thin roots. Worse still were the living roots, stubborn as iron bars, clinging deep beneath the sand. However fiercely the axe struck them, they answered only with a silent defiance.

Getting the wood onto the cart required skill of its own. The front, beside the shafts, was the face of the load, where the finest roots had to be displayed. The rear deserved no less care. A proper load needed both a good beginning and a good ending. The sides mattered too, for the people buying the firewood would walk all the way around the cart before making up their minds. The middle could be packed a little lighter, but never so loosely that daylight shone through. Even the bottom layer mattered. A few heavy roots had to be laid there first, otherwise the deception would be exposed when the cart was unloaded. When every piece had found its place, the load stood neat and square.

Only then was it ready to go.

The greatest pleasure of the day came at noon.

Not the work, but the meal.

Only after the firewood had been dug, the cart loaded, and the heart finally settled could the carter truly enjoy it.

He chose a level patch of sand. The desert itself became his table, broad and generous. The view had to be open. The fire had to burn well. There had to be plenty of salty earth nearby. The ground had to stand a little higher than its surroundings, and even the seat deserved care, wide enough and long enough to rest on comfortably.

When everything was ready, he took out a single corn cake with almost ceremonial care and buried it beneath the glowing embers. What mattered was not the fierce blaze but the gentle heat that remained after the flames had died. Otherwise the outside would burn while the frozen center stayed cold. There was nothing to do now but quiet his hunger, roll himself a mohe cigarette, and wait, smoking slowly.

When the corn cake was ready, he tossed it from one hand to the other, brushing away the ashes. Golden. Fragrant. Crisp.

Good.

First came a pinch of salt. Then he carefully uncorked a small medicine bottle that held half a bottle's worth of rendered fat. Breaking off a slender twig of tamarisk, he dipped out a tiny dab and spread it over the hot cake until its surface shone.

One bite brought the taste of wood smoke, the taste of salt, the richness of fat, and beneath it all the quiet sweetness of cornmeal.

It was a meal to be savored slowly.

Very slowly.

When it was finished, he drank a little water and called himself full.

The embers still glowed warmly.

The taste lingered at the corner of his mouth.

He found himself wishing there were another corn cake waiting in the fire.

Then he regretted having eaten the first one too quickly.

There was nothing to do now but roll a cigarette.

He reached for the tobacco, rolled it carefully, lit it, and drew on it slowly. A cigarette could never take the place of a meal, but at least it gave the mouth something more to do.

Then he watched the oxen eating.

Their broad mouths worked patiently, the lower jaw grinding against the upper. A mouthful or two disappeared, yet the pile of fodder beneath them seemed hardly to shrink. From their nostrils a thin stream of mucus joined the saliva hanging from their lips, gathering beneath the chin until it formed a glistening strand nearly half a foot long, swaying in the sunlight.

The carter wiped the corner of his own mouth.

A faint breeze drifted across the desert. Above him the sun burned steadily; before him the embers still gave off their warmth. Between the two, his whole body softened with heat. Sleep tugged gently at his eyes, but he dared not give in to it.

So he rested his head upon the fodder and looked up at the sky.

The sky was empty.

挖柴既要力气，又要运气。运气好了，一个红柳沙包能出一车大柴。沙里露一丝柴痕，有下手处了，二腿支个八字，支好撬杠，憋足劲，“嘿！”的一声，腰直柴出，一连串下去，都有人腰粗呢，用砍土墁将沙土拍了去，赤红赤红如腊肉一般。有时却连挖几个沙包，只忙得几杆小柴，再不就是碰上活根柴，铁条似地顽固在沙里，发火猛砍，只闷出几声冷笑。

柴是挖了，装车也有名堂。靠辕杆角架那头是脸，要摆出有面子的大柴，车尾不能马虎，得有头有尾，两侧不能小看，用户人家是会转圈验柴的，中间虚点吧，但虚到透亮也不行，脚底柴也要紧，得有几杆大柴镇底，不能卸到最后露馅。行，四四方方一车，神车上了。

一天里，最高享受，莫过于中午那顿野餐。受用时间，一般安排在挖完柴，装上车，定下心来美了。

找块平整沙地，桌面自然宽绰气派，景一定要好，火一定要大，盐土一定要多，地势一定要高，凳子一定要宽要长。这么摆设完毕，一只窝头，恭恭敬敬，请了出来，煨进炭里。讲究的是大火燃尽后的细火，不然外面焦了，里面的冰是不会化的。稳住肚子，卷支莫合烟，边吸边等。

窝头出炉，二手交替，拍打几下，黄、香、脆，不错，先蘸些盐巴，一只药瓶，内装库存的半瓶大油，小心打开，找支红柳枝枝，挑出粒大油抹上，窝头油亮可口，一口下去，柴烟味，盐土味，大油味，拌着苞谷窝头的清香，腾入口内，还是慢慢细细受用呦！毕。加喝些水，算是饱过。看那炭火还旺，回味咀边余香，不能再有一只出来，后悔刚才嚼得太快。

就卷支烟吧，于是，摸烟，卷烟，点烟，吸烟，烟不能为饭，嘴倒是多动过几回。

就看牛吃草吧，牛嘴肥厚，下唇左右磨着上唇，一把草料，三五口下去，下面还有一堆。上唇鼻孔，一溜鼻涕，与下唇口水，合为一股，于下巴处挂出半尺来长，在阳光下闪晃。

抹了下唇边口水。

沙漠微微起了些风，顶头太阳，眼前炭火，烤得人软软的，直想瞌睡，又不敢瞌睡，那就把头枕在草料上看天吧，天是空的。

At last they were heading home.

The man thought of the fire waiting in the earthen hut. The oxen thought of the few handfuls of bran that would soon be waiting in the feed trough. Each carried a little warmth in mind.

Yet there was always one worry: the cart might bog down before they reached home.

If that happened, both man and beast would suffer.

A trace might snap. The carter might shout until his throat blistered. Still the cart would not move.

Anger flared as suddenly as fire.

The oxen became its victims.

Whatever came to hand became a weapon. If the whip failed to satisfy his rage, he seized the wagon pole, a plank, anything at all, striking wildly without thought. The oxen twisted and lurched, trying to avoid the blows, yet the more they struggled, the harder they were beaten. Confused, the ox being struck threw all its strength into the harness. The others merely trembled, waiting for their turn. Their tails made one hopeless attempt after another to shield their bodies. Thick hides split and bled, while the blows landed hardest on the dry bones beneath.

When the stick broke, he picked up a root. When the root splintered, he reached for another. Only after breaking several of them did he realize that his own hands were bleeding as well.

At last he dropped to the ground, gasping for breath.

The oxen looked back at him from the corners of their eyes.

There was nothing either man or beast could do.

Soon regret took the place of anger.

He felt as though he had beaten his own child by mistake. Yet his pride would not allow him to go over and comfort the oxen. After thinking it over, he gathered a little extra fodder and offered it to them instead, as a silent apology.

The oxen stood there for a moment, as though considering whether to forgive him. Then they began to eat, slowly and without hurry. From time to time one of them lifted its head with a mouthful of grass still between its lips and looked back at him. Its tail curled upward, and a thin stream of frightened dung slipped onto the ground.

The cart had to be unloaded completely.

The empty wagon was driven several hundred meters ahead to firmer ground, where it waited.

Now it was the carter's turn to become the beast of burden.

Load by load, like an ant carrying its home, he moved the firewood across the sand.

The proud cart he had admired only moments before

had come to nothing.

A good team of oxen made all the difference.

With the right animals, even the great dry gully could be crossed without unloading the cart. The gully stretched for nearly three hundred meters, climbing steadily over loose sand that never packed firm. It was the most dangerous stretch of the journey.

At the foot of the slope, the carter stopped to catch his breath. He checked every trace and every knot, then ran a hand gently over the oxen's backs, speaking to them in a low, reassuring voice. He did not rush the climb. Instead, he walked up the slope alone, testing the ground beneath his feet. Wherever the sand looked especially treacherous, he spread patches of hard earth and laid down a few branches before returning to the team.

Only then did his face change.

He picked up the heavy stick and began to circle the oxen, studying them one by one. From time to time he struck the stick against his own palm, as though punishment was about to begin. The experienced oxen needed no further warning. For those slower to understand, he merely waved the stick before their eyes. Then he returned to the shafts and began tapping the wooden frame, softly at first, then harder, then faster.

Tap after tap, both man and beast tightened.

Their muscles drew taut.

Suddenly the stick crashed down upon the wood.

The carter raised it high above his head and let out a cry unlike any human voice, long and piercing, ending in a single explosive command:

"Pull!"

All four oxen lunged forward together.

The stick never stopped moving. It swept above their heads and backs but seldom landed. If one ox hesitated, the stick flashed downward, stopping only inches above its body. The carter's face became almost unrecognizable. From his mouth poured a strange torrent of sounds, half groan, half threat, as though he were suffering every blow himself while urging the oxen onward.

The team pulled as one.

The oxen lowered their horns until they nearly scraped the sand. Their eyes bulged with effort. Their nostrils roared like bellows.

When they reached the steepest part of the slope, both man and beast seemed possessed. The stick flew faster than before. The cries grew longer, sharper. The carter's face was filled with fierce resolve. Every muscle in every ox twisted and strained. Sand exploded beneath their hooves. Their tails jerked violently. Their lean legs drove forward without pause, each hoof sinking deep into the loose sand. The traces stretched as rigid as iron rods. The wheels had long since disappeared into the sand, yet they still turned.

Little by little,

they dragged the cart onto the crest.

"Whoa—"

Ahead, the worst of the road was behind them.

The carter rested both legs upon the shafts, cradled the whip in his arms, and allowed himself a few moments of peace before climbing onto the load of firewood.

Evening came.

The wind began to rise.

Across the sand track, washed in the slanting light of the setting sun, the desert seemed alive with surging veins of blood.

Amid the deepening roar of the wind,

the trembling sun hung low above the horizon,

like the freshly cut heart of an ox.

November 2003

Xunmu Wu

总算是往回赶了，人想着地窝子里那塘火，牛想着食槽里那几两麸皮，心中各有温暖。可又在担心半路抛锚，那人、牛就有没死没活的罪受。套拽断几根，嗓喊出泡来，车不动就是不动。火冲天起，拿牛出气，操起什么拿什么，鞭子不解气，压车棒，木板，没头没脑乱砸，牛身子歪来斜去躲打，越躲越打得凶。牛懵了，打谁谁使力，另一头就抖着身子等着挨棒，尾巴毫无指望的遮掩，厚厚的牛皮在出血，干枯的骨头更首当其冲。棒子断了换柴，柴打断几根才知自己手在出血。一屁股坐地喘气，几头牛斜眼看你，人，牛全无可奈何。

又心痛起来，像打错了孩子般难受，自尊心又不让自己去安慰。想想，取些草料哄它，算是赔罪。牛愣愣想想，也就不紧不慢吃起来，不时衔口草回头看你，尾巴一弓，屁眼淌出些稀稀的粪，是吓的。整个车都得卸，空车走出几百米，在路硬处等。吆车人就成了牛，蚂蚁搬家似的挪那堆柴。得意半天的架子白搭。

牛用的好，显然不同。即使翻那座干沟，从不卸车的。那干沟有近三百米，一溜上坡，是片永远压不实的细沙路，最具险恶的。车到坡口，暂歇口气，套整利落，手抚牛背，好言细语打气，还不忙爬沟，自己先上沟，摸摸路段，特险恶处，找些硬土、细柴铺好，这才踱下沟来。脸色骤变，操起大棒，围着牛边打量边转圈，大棒不时在自己掌心拍打，似要对牛加刑，却不下手，知趣的牛，不必招呼了，不知趣的，拿大棒在牛眼睛前面晃上几下，这才绕到辕杆处，使大棒在角架上轻轻敲打，渐渐加重加快，敲着、敲着，人，牛的肌肉被敲得绷紧，突然猛敲一棒，高举大棒，并发出一声非人尖吼，此声拉出极长，尾声喷一声“加！”，四牛一并用力，射了出去。大棒是不能停的，只在牛头，牛身上面挥舞，并不落下。有怠慢的牛，一棒下去，只顿在半空，那吆车人神形古怪，嘴不停发出既像挨棒的呻吟又像揍人的恐吓声。牛力配合得当，牛角硬是贴着沙地往前顶，牛眼鼓的要掉下。牛鼻子风箱般呼呼直响。到险恶处，吆车人整个就疯了，棒子舞得更快更猛，尖叫声更长更利，满脸腾出杀气。整个牛身也疯了，抽搐扭动着每根骨头、每块肌肉，随着沙土蓬垢，牛尾巴下得劈叭屁声，干瘦的牛腿步步紧凑，蹄子一脚一个深坑，套绳拽得棍子般硬，轮子早陷进沙里，竟还在转，硬是拖上沟顶，“吁―――”。

往前，没多少险路了，两腿支在辕杆上，鞭子抱在怀里，自在一会。翻身坐在车顶上。

黄昏，风在起动，夕照斜泄下的沙径，血管喷涌，轰鸣声里，一颗颤动落日，如刚宰杀的牛心。

2003年11月