The Waning Moon月缺

Every shepherd in the Tianshan knew the way. From Ku'erchu it crossed nineteen kilometers of gravel plain, climbed over the Tianshan Pass, followed a scrub-lined river for another thirty kilometers, then crossed seven barren ridges where not a blade of grass would grow. Beyond them lay a rich grassland.

From Yazhilike to Shenggou, from Shenggou to Luzhida, across two hundred and twenty kilometers of pasturelands, two hundred and twenty shepherds tended twenty-two thousand sheep.

All of it belonged to a single wolf.

In those endless days the wolf appeared like a ghost, anywhere across the pasturelands, and vanished like a ghost again. People and livestock alike lived in fear, exhausted by endless pursuit. Only after countless failed attempts did the shepherds finally lure it into a trap.

Many years later they still spoke of the day the wolf was captured. They all said the same thing. From that day on, almost every sheep seemed suddenly fatter. Even the donkeys brayed with new spirit. The whole pasturelands lay beneath clear skies. Sheep bleated. Donkeys called. The shepherds laughed with relief, shouting the news from one to another. They crowded around the trap, striking the wolf with clubs and stones.

The old captain stopped them.

“Don't let it die. Send it to the zoo. Let people see a wolf.”

They cut pine poles, built a cage, forced the wolf inside, nailed the entrance shut, and only then dared to look at it carefully.

Their surprise was complete.

The wolf was thinner than an ordinary starving dog.

Its teeth were ordinary.

Its coat was nothing more than coarse, mixed fur.

Only the eyes were different.

Cold.

Withdrawn.

Dark enough to leave every man uneasy.

Before long they forgot it.

So much the better, they thought.

From then on the shepherds could sleep in peace.

The flock could graze without fear.

Only one shepherd was different.

That night, while the others slept soundly, he left the shepherds' hut again and again and stood beside the cage for a long time.

Years of fear returned to him one by one.

It was over.

Too quickly.

Too completely.

The wolf was locked inside the cage. Every nail held firm. Every strand of wire was real. It could not escape.

Yet he grew even more uneasy.

He knew it could not end like this.

For the first time, something stirred deep inside him.

A vague longing.

Once a man had escaped danger, why should part of him long to return to it?

The pasturelands had become too simple.

Too peaceful.

Nothing remained that could stir the blood of a young man.

On the night that would decide his life, not even a sliver of moon appeared.

Only the wolf's eyes.

Mysterious.

Impossible to look away from.

One glance.

That was enough.

It became the great mistake of his life.

Those eyes had no end.

He was young.

He slipped into them.

With all the fierce curiosity of youth he searched for what could never be found. He tried to measure the distance between man and beast—a distance that had taken five thousand years to make.

Deep within the wolf's eyes lay another world.

A world as distant and quiet as moonlight at the far edge of the winter plain.

A world haunted by dreams.

Hidden violence.

Purity.

Desolation.

And meanings without end.

Tonight, the moon was waning.

Beneath that broken moon, a wolf cub was born in a den beneath an unnamed cliff on the southern slope of the Tianshan.

No one could have imagined that the brief life of so small and unnoticed a cub would one day set in motion a chain of unforeseen events. The sheep would grow fatter yet lose their instinct. The shepherds, once fierce, would grow idle. Wool would glut the market. Wars over brain chips and copied minds would bring nearly twenty peoples to the edge of extinction. Ninety percent of all plants would refuse to grow. Children's hair would fall out in patches. Men who made fortunes selling air would die for reasons no one could explain.

To stay alive was never easy. Like every wolf cub before it, this one endured hardship. It survived.

At last it left its mother and entered the pasturelands alone, looking for a territory of its own.

It carried little: one wolf's head with twenty-four sharp teeth, four tireless legs, and a stomach hollow with hunger.

The baggage was simple. Every piece of it was useful.

It chose a den beneath the cliffs of Shenggou. Luzhida lay fifteen kilometers from the entrance, Yazhilike twelve. Through summer and autumn the flocks of the pasturelands would be its steady food. If ever it wished for another taste, it needed only to choose another den. Its four legs would carry it anywhere.

When everything had been arranged, the wolf lingered at the mouth of the cave that evening and looked out.

The cave opened like a crescent moon. Five hundred meters away stood a dense pine forest. To the left stretched an open plain, ending at a small grove of white birch. Three hundred meters below, a cliff dropped to a river between dark forests. The river had burst free of the ice, carrying broken shards as it rushed toward the watershed. There it split into two currents, wheeled briefly, and disappeared beyond the plain. To the right rose pale mountains where almost nothing grew. A dry riverbed ran for two kilometers below the cave, strewn with jagged stones. Not one had ever been worn smooth.

He had wanted to tend sheep ever since he was a boy. Now he finally did.

Every morning the flock hurried across the stony ground below the sheepfold and bent low to cross the ditch. Beyond it waited the first mouthful of grass. The patch of pasture was small, just enough for a quick bite on the way out and another on the way back. Beyond the ridge a broad pasture opened before them. The flock needed only to graze steadily. Before sunset every sheep would be round with grass. Looking over the rich pasture, the shepherd thought: three hundred sheep, five months on the mountain, and if the wolf left them alone before the winter snow sealed the passes, every one of them would go down the mountain fat.

He knew the wolf was hungry too. Somewhere it watched the flock, waiting for the sun to lull him into sleep before taking a sheep. Yet he loved drifting into sleep with the scent of earth and pasture, breathing the air of snow peaks and pine woods. At first it filled him with contentment. After a time, the contentment became emptiness. Life in the mountains was too quiet. Too lonely. Nothing could stir his blood.

The sun was as gentle as the flock. The sound of the mountain spring rose and fell with the sound of the pines. He wanted to speak to the sheep, but they never stopped eating. Even a cough seemed too costly if it meant losing a mouthful of grass. Only the donkey, unable to bear the silence, sometimes let out a ragged cry that echoed a few times through the valley. Then everything was still again.

"Let the wolf come," he often thought.

He leaned on the shepherd's staff and watched the flock. For two months the staff had done little more than tap sheep on the rump. He longed to meet the wolf and test himself against it. The staff was strong, cut from hardy wood. But how hard were the wolf's bones? How sharp were its teeth? And what of his own courage?

In truth, he respected the wolf. This land had belonged to the wolf long before people drove sheep here. With nothing but its teeth, the wolf kept people and livestock alike in constant unease. It always struck when the shepherd believed himself safest.

Perhaps the wolf should be the true master of the pasturelands. It would kill only when it needed to eat, never for revenge, amusement, or slaughter.

He had seen cattle, sheep, and pigs die. Their deaths all followed the same order. The wolf was different. It never begged. Never surrendered. Never accepted its fate. Its life was hunting. If it lost, it died in the struggle. That alone made it the equal of man.

He looked again at the staff in his hands. It was not enough. Next time he went down the mountain, he would buy a knife and bind it firmly to the staff. Already he could hear the blade breaking through the wolf's hide and driving deep into its body.

After the long winter, sheep returned to the valley. Then people.

牧人们都知道，那时的天山，从库尔楚往上，穿十九公里戈壁，过天山垭口，沿着灌木丛生的河道走三十公里，再翻过七座寸草不生的山梁，就能见到一片肥沃草场。从雅志里克、到深沟、到鲁之达，方圆二百二十公里，有二百二十个牧羊人，放二万二千只羊，所有这些，都归一只狼管。在度日如年的日子里，它如幽灵般随时闪现在牧区的任何角落，又如幽灵般消失，几乎所有人、畜全被它搞得惶恐不安，疲于奔命，无数精明强悍的牧人，经过无数次失手，总算将它诱入陷阱。

直到许多年后，每当牧人们谈及那天捕狼后的情景，还在感叹不已，他们十分肯定地说：就在当天，几乎所有的羊，一下子膘肥八两，连驴叫都精神多了。整片牧区风和日丽，羊欢驴叫，牧人们如释重负般个个喜形于色，奔走相告，围在陷阱边，棒打石砸。老队长发话：别让他死了，送动物园，让人看看狼。即砍了些松木杆，钉只笼子，斗胆装狼进笼——塞进笼里，钉了笼口，仔细打量起来，这才真让他们惊诧不解了；这只狼其实比一条普通的饿狗瘦弱多了，牙也普通，毛不过是杂毛，只是那双狼眼，冷漠阴郁得让他们浑身不自在。好在他们很快就把它忘了，应该庆幸才是，牧人们从此可以高枕无忧，羊群也能放心吃草了。

只有一个牧人例外，那天晚上，其他牧人们都安心睡了，他却三番五次从牧羊屋里走了出来，长久地徘徊在狼笼边。数年间让他惊魂不定刻骨铭心的场景一一浮现，这一切，都结束了，那么快，快得让他不可思议。尽管，狼是被关着，每颗钉子，每条铁丝，都实实在在，不可能破笼而出，这更让他惴惴不安，他觉得事情不会如此简单了结。

牧人第一次在他时时涌动着的潜意识里感到一股模糊的，那种一旦从险境中摆脱出来，由茫然困惑又急切渴望重新追求险境的可怕欲念。不幸的是，那时的牧区，一切都太简单、太平淡了，实在找不到什么能使他年轻生命冲动的东西。在决定他命运的那天晚上，甚至连一弯残月都没出来，唯有那对狼眼，谜一般，勾人魂魄。仅仅这一瞥，铸成了他的终生大错。那对狼眼，太深了，没边没际的，他终究太年轻，就那么魂不守舍般——滑了进去——用他稚嫩的、充满活力的好奇心去找啊——去找没有，——去揣摸人兽之间花了足足五千年才完成的距离，在狼眼深处——他完全出神入迷了：那是一片只能在漫长的冬夜时原野尽头的月光才有的那种悠远宁静飘忽着幻想，潜藏着杀机、纯净、怆凉，而又意味深长的世界。

今晚的月，缺了点角。

就在这轮残月下，一只小狼在天山南麓一座不知名崖壁下的狼穴出世。

这只不起眼狼仔的出现和消失，以后竟引出一连串始料不及的事件：羊群尽管更加肥壮却失去了直觉，剽悍的牧人越来越懒，羊毛市场过剩，由出售大脑芯片、思维复制品导致的宗教战使得近二十个民族濒临灭绝，百分之九十的植物拒绝生长，大批儿童的头发在成片脱落，出售空气的暴发户总是死因不明。

活得很不容易。又经受了一番所有狼仔都承受过的严酷磨炼，倒也活了下来。

这时，它已离开母狼，作为一只独立的狼出现在那片牧区并试图开辟它的领地了。它带了如下几件行李：一只狼头，内装利牙二十四颗；四条极有韧性的腿；另加一只饿得发慌的肚子。行李简便，但是件件管用。

它在那片叫深沟的崖壁下为自己安排了巢穴。从洞口到鲁之达十五公里，到雅志里克十二公里，整个夏秋二季，这片牧区的羊群是它的稳定口粮。至于心情好了，想换换口味另选洞穴，可随时再作打算，反正四条腿自有使不完的气力。

一切打点完毕，那天晚上，它饶有兴趣留意了下洞外景色。

从月形洞口望去，五百米外是片浓密松林；往左，一片开阔原野，延伸到那蓬小桦树林边；再往下，三百米处是悬崖，与对岸古木参落的黑森林夹出一弯河道，湍急的河水已经跃出冰层，带着冰碴旋转着快速向分水岭喧腾过去，劈为二股，各自急转几下，消失在原野尽头；右侧是片白色山峦，几乎不长寸草；一条干涸小河床顺洞口直倾二公里，河床一片乱石，没有一块圆滑，全都龇牙咧嘴裸露着。

他从小就想放羊，现在真的放羊了。

每天清晨，羊群下过围栏前的石滩，就急抢着弓身越过水沟。水沟往上，就有了第一口草。草滩不大，刚好满足了羊群出圈时先捞一口，收圈时再补一口的感觉。翻上山梁，极开阔的一片草地就坦荡开了。羊群不必窜过陡崖下的急坡，不需忙着越过松林，只要把眼前这片草稳稳吃下去，不稍日落，身子都会圆起来。牧人看着那片肥壮的草地想，这三百只羊，细着羊身上了山，吃上五个月草，在大雪封山前，只要不被狼吃，都能圆了身子下山。

他知道，狼肯定也是饿的，每天都在窥着他的羊群，只等太阳把他晒出梦来，就能下口吃羊了，可他又喜欢在泥土，草地的芳香里入梦，感受雪山松林的气息，这使他极惬意。但一直惬意，他又不自在了，山区的生活太孤单寂寞，简直没有什么东西能使他打起精神来，天气好的时候，太阳和羊群一样温和，山泉声与松涛有节奏的呼吸声一样温和，实在没意思。他多想跟羊说说话、聊会天，可羊总是自顾自不停的吃，就连偶尔咳嗽一下都舍不得似的，老是在担心草被别的羊多吃了去。最多坡上那头毛驴耐不住寂寞猛来一阵时续时断干嚎，在空旷的山谷回响三五声，一切又恢复宁静，也没意思。来只狼吧！他常这么想。

牧人靠在山坡上，手抓牧羊棍，看着他的羊。两个月来，这根棍子除了敲敲羊屁股，还没有实实在在干过件大事。他真想见见那只狼，用这根棍，跟它打斗一番。棍够结实，栒子木做的，就是摸不清狼皮下的骨头有多硬，牙有多利，再说，就算自己的肌肉还可以，可胆量呢？

打心里说，他倒是敬重狼。这块领地，原本就该是它的，人又是从哪里跑了来，弄些羊在这里啃啃草皮，就以为是人的领地了。狼仅靠嘴里几颗牙，就敢和那么多人畜周旋，搞得人、畜心神不安，狼总能在牧人自以为最安全的时候得手，牧人别想过一天自在日子。最好还是让狼来当牧主，狼一定会安排好每隔一个时期杀一只羊，不会像现在这样，不管狼腹是否需要，只是为了杀戮、报复、取乐，成批把羊咬死。他甚至还有些敬佩狼。3

人怎么都不可能像杀牛、杀羊那样从容不迫杀掉一只狼。他看到的那些牛啊、羊啊、猪啊、死的方式都差不了多少，只是屠宰前扭动、哀叫的声响有点不同，挣扎由强至弱、烫毛去皮、切成数块吊挂起来让人分而食之，总的感觉是顺理成章、命该如此的。狼的命运，人就很难把握了，狼不通人性，不做牺牲，不肯就范，从不见它大呼小叫，就是狼爪、速度、牙齿。在狼漂泊的生涯里，只有捕杀、吞噬。输到底，也是在较量中被打死，本早就捞够了，不像甘当牺牲的畜生那样一个劲巴结人，怎么巴结，也得死，死得窝囊。狼就凭它飘浮不定的身影，总是让人惶恐不安，相反有了与人对等的身份，小看不得。

他把牧羊棍抓在手里，看了又看，对这支棍，他还是不放心，他计划下回出山时，一定买把刀。这么想着，似乎已经看见那把刀被结结实实捆在牧羊棍上， 同时听见了刀锋刺破狼皮，直透狼肚的声响。

严冬过后，这山谷里终于有了羊，有了人。

Early summer, yet snow still came to the valley.

No one had expected so heavy a snowfall to feel so mild. It must have begun sometime after midnight. There would be no taking the flock out today. Leaning against the doorway of his stone hut, the shepherd watched the lazy, wandering flakes drift down. The jagged cliff before him had softened into one broad mass. Even the restless river below the valley had fallen strangely still.

Cold or not, there had to be fire. A kettle rested above the hearth. Brick tea grew rich and fragrant in the bowl. A corn cake baked slowly beneath the embers. Somewhere in his military flask half a bottle of liquor remained. He uncapped it but did not drink. He let the scent fill the stone hut first. His stomach woke. His tongue woke. Even his fingertips woke. The corn cake was not ready yet. There was still time to watch the snow.

The sharp ridges still showed their outline, though their edges had disappeared. Mist below the watershed gathered itself, drifted along the valley floor, climbed upward, failed, divided, and finally dissolved among the pines. Against the snow the flock had turned the color of earth, as though it had surrendered itself to whatever might come. The whole pasturelands seemed dazed, as if the drifting snow had quietly intoxicated them.

The shepherd wondered which was stronger, hardness or softness. Water wore stone smooth. Wind shaved mountains away. Moonlight softened the harsh light of day. Now the snow covered the earth until even filth hid itself in shame. If only the human heart could be smoothed as well.

With snow outside, the fire felt even closer. The shepherd watched the flames as though half asleep. Perhaps these small, unexpected gifts were all a shepherd should ask of life. Then the thought returned. If only there were no wolf in the mountains. Yet he could never stop thinking about the wolf. And if the wolf were gone, people, the donkey, and the flock would have little left but boredom.

By noon a pale halo circled the sun. A bird called once, then again. The pasturelands brightened. The sound of the mountain spring brushed softly against the patches of snow. The shepherd stepped outside to look at the flock. It surged toward the sheepfold gate, then settled only after he returned to the stone hut.

Before he noticed, heavy flakes filled the air again. The silence was so deep he thought he could hear every snowflake striking the ground. He tried to see its shape. Before he could, he fell asleep.

A thin cloud split the moon in two. It stood above the black ridge, pressing the cold into the night. At some unknown moment the moon slipped from the mountaintop. Even the mountain, hard as it was, could not hold it. The mountain fell dark.

It was his turn to keep watch again. The shepherd leaned against the sheepfold. Beside him lay a sheet of iron. He tapped it with the shepherd's staff. The old shepherd had told him, 'Keep tapping, and the wolf will stay away.' But he dared not strike too hard. The sharp ringing cut through the still valley. It might frighten the wolf away. It might just as easily call it closer. Still he kept tapping. The sound gave him courage. Whether the wolf feared it, he did not know.

He worried that if the wolf came to kill the flock, it would kill the shepherd first. He buried his neck deep inside his sheepskin coat until only his eyes remained outside. Then he noticed his legs. His neck mattered more. If the wolf seized his throat, the staff would be useless. For a moment he felt safer. Then he remembered that sheepskin was only sheepskin. It could never stop the wolf's teeth.

He tightened his grip on the staff and imagined the fight again and again. What if the staff flew from his hands? What if it broke? He searched for an answer and found none.

He still tapped the iron. Very lightly. Never loudly enough. He wished only the wolf could hear it, not himself. Then he wished only the flock could hear it, so they would know he was guarding them. More than anything, he wished the sound would frighten the wolf without angering it. His hands held the staff with all their strength. The blows themselves were light.

The stars drifted slowly along the mountain ridges, as though they wished to gather the sleeping mountains into their arms. His eyes grew heavy. He longed to see something clear, but the mountains were only darkness, and the sky could not be fully seen. It was what could not be seen that frightened him. Alone in the mountains, fear made him look up. Fear taught him how small people were. Perhaps that was why people hid inside houses and looked at the sky through a window. A smaller sky was easier to live beneath. The flock never looked at the sky. They spent their lives eating grass until they were fat enough to die. Only then were they allowed one last glance upward.

He shook off the thought and struck the iron again. The flock jostled from time to time inside the sheepfold, fighting over a better place to lie, yet the ringing kept them calm. More and more stars crowded above the saddle of the mountain, then gathered over the hill where he had once lost three sheep. The mountain wind rose. The hill seemed unable to bear them. The stars slid into the dark brush below, flickering with the wind.

Could it be wolves?

The nights of the pasturelands were as long as the mountains, and seemed never to end.

初夏，山谷里还是来了场雪。

没有想到，这么大的雪竟也不算太冷。这雪该是从半夜才开始下的，今天是不能出牧了。牧人靠在小石屋的门栏边，透过懒散游移、心不在焉散落着的雪团，看到门前那座龇牙锋利的峭壁成了柔和浑厚的一团，峡谷下面那条从不安分的河床，这时也静得出奇。

尽管并不太冷，火还是要有的，火塘上烧壶水，这样，碗里的砖茶就又浓又香了。那么大的雪，一个人，还能安然躲在大山上这间小石屋里，头发一点没湿，鞋子是干的，身子舒舒服服靠在火塘口。再吃点东西助兴吧！一块玉米饼煨在炭火里。军用水壶里该剩小半壶酒的，取了下来，不忙喝，只是把酒壶打开，让酒香先在小石屋里飘起来再说，这样，胃、舌头、手指都兴奋起来，不忙，玉米面饼还没香呢，就又看一阵雪。

峡谷上面最陡峭的几座石壁还有些轮廓，只是原先的锋利处不见了。分水岭下面的浓雾被雪压的早不耐烦了，聚合起来，沿着谷底游移了一阵，从吃水线开始往上挪，不能成功。分头行动，成山字状挪，却始终没能越过峭壁上的松林，没多久，便被雪化解得没了踪影。圈里的羊，经大雪一衬，成了土灰色，一副听天由命的神态。整个牧区，迷糊得失了正色，没了精神，像被柔软飘零着的雪花灌醉了似的。牧人在想，到底硬的厉害还是软的厉害呢？水能把石头啃圆，风能把山削平，月光把白日里刺眼的光磨的柔美平和，这难得一场大雪，连大地都惭愧，好多脏东西只能躲起来，人真有一颗心– – –抚平了。

有了雪，火更亲切了。牧人凝视着火，似乎在睡眠，对一个牧人来说，能满足的，只应该是偶然给他的这些。他又想，要是山里没有狼就更好些。可他心里老是在琢磨那只狼。再说，真要没了狼，人、毛驴、羊也太无聊了。

正午时，太阳映出一圈虚晕。随着远处一、二声鸟鸣，牧区明快活泼起来，山泉与沟边的团团雪地相互抚摸，发出柔和的丝丝声。牧人走出小屋，去查看羊群，羊群轰然而起，在羊栏门口推挤开了，直到牧人进了小屋，才安静下来。

不知何时，满眼又是团团沉重的雪花，静得能听见它们落地时的撞击声。他想看清雪花的形状，可是他睡着了。

一丝细云，将月亮劈作两片，直愣在漆黑的土岗上，逼着寒气。月什么时候跌在山头上，那么硬的山，竟没能顶住，直落下去。山黑了。

今晚，又挨着他守夜，牧人靠在羊栏边。身边放了块铁皮，用牧羊棍在上面敲着，老牧人说过，不停地敲，狼就不敢来了，可他不敢敲得太响，铁皮尖利的声响在沉稳寂静的山谷太刺耳，说不定倒把狼给惊动过来了，但他还是在敲着，有些声音在， 他感到胆是大了些，可狼真怕铁皮声吗？牧人不太放心。

他还担心，狼要是为了杀掉全部的羊，肯定先把牧人吃掉，这么想着，他就尽可能把脖子往羊皮袄里收，只露二眼。可腿又露在外面了。腿与脖子比，还是脖子要紧，再说，狼扑在脖子上，牧羊棍是派不上用场的。这么处理好了安全问题，他稍稍安心了会儿。可没过多会又想，羊皮袄只不过是张羊皮，怎么也抵不过狼牙，这脖子还是不安全。

牧人只得把牧羊棍抓得更紧，并想象了几个打斗动作，可又在担心棍子打掉了怎么办？打断了怎么办？他想了很久，没想出办法。

牧人还在敲铁皮，敲得很轻，不敢敲得太响，总感到还是太响，最好敲得只让狼听到，自己听不到；他又想敲得只让羊知道他确实在吓唬狼，保护羊；他真想敲的声音是刚好把狼吓唬住，狼又不至于发脾气来吃他的羊。于是，牧人手抓牧羊棍的气力用的很大，敲在铁皮上的力气并不大。

黑天的群星顺着绵亘起伏的山峦在缓缓流动，似乎想把整片熟睡的山峦揽在怀里。牧人眼睛疲倦，神志模糊。他希望看到些明确的东西提提神，可山只是黑，天看不透看不清，牧人只习惯看明白的东西，看不清的地方使他害怕。一个人落在大山里，因为害怕才不得不看天，因为害怕，才发觉人太小了。难怪人为了自大，总想往屋子里躲，躲在屋子里从窗口往外看天，天小些了，人才会安心，和和气气的羊更是从不看天， 一生只啃地皮，再说人也不准羊去看什么天，只要乖乖长肥就行，肥够了，被人杀翻在地，看一眼天便去死。

牧人感到想得也太多了，还不如实实在在把铁皮敲些声音出来。圈里的羊，不时为争抢一块舒服些的地盘哄乱推挤一阵，反正铁皮在响着，它们很安心，天上的星星又多又密，在往山坳那边拥挤，又慢慢堆积在他曾丢失过三只绵羊的土岗上。这时，起风了， 土岗有点承受不住，成片的群星便滑落在土岗下漆黑的灌木林里，顺着山风在闪烁跳跃着的。不会是狼群吧！

这牧区的夜，长的和没有尽头的山峦一样。

The sun was plain to see.

The shepherd sat on the pasture watching the flock. The flock was quiet. The sun shone white and warm. Far away, the snow mountains glowed with a colder white. The mountain wind moved gently through the valley, turning the leaves of the shrubs below and lifting the wool along the sheep's backs.

The sheep were growing round. They knew it would soon be time to return to the sheepfold, so they buried their mouths deep in the pasture and grazed with greater urgency. Only here did they seem so content, so at ease, so eager to please the shepherd. Now and then one flicked its little tail as if to show how fat it had become.

The strongest sheep searched for better grass. The finest grass seldom grew on broad, well-watered ground. It sprang from cracks in cliffs, beneath steep rock faces, in places no one expected. Grass beside the stream, spoiled by easy water, was tender but fragile. Grass that had endured wind and rain was deep green, almost blue. Even the old yellow grass pressed beneath new growth still held its strength. Part returned to the earth. Part rose again with the mountain wind beneath the blue sky and the stars, carrying an ancient freshness.

Several rams ate without pause. If another sheep stepped half a pace forward, they hurried a little farther still. Their mouths sank deeper into the grass. They ate faster.

Then a black cloud rolled over the mountain pass. Before anyone understood what had happened, the sun was gone. Cold rain fell first. Then hail. Then heavy clumps of snow. The flock drew together at once until nothing could be seen.

When the flock was counted that evening, thirty-six sheep were missing. Twenty were found. Sixteen were still gone. The search went on. That night the shepherd did not sleep. All through the darkness he heard the crack of the wolf's teeth tearing hide and crushing bone.

The snow was still deep, though no longer as soft as the first fall. His canvas shoes pressed snow and water into one dull, steady sound. He listened as he walked. Was it ka-ka? Cha-cha? At last he decided it was cha-cha. After crossing the second ridge, he changed his mind again. No. It was yao... yao... The sound of his footsteps led him to the edge of the dark forest called Shenggou.

He hoped to find the missing sheep there. He feared the forest as well. The wolf loved that place. Not long before, he had barely spread the flock across the pasture when the wolf appeared among them. It walked as though it were the true master of the pasturelands and he the one who had stolen its sheep.

The wolf showed neither haste nor excitement. It brought down one sheep after another. What angered him even more was the flock. A sheep would simply fall onto its side, its legs lifted toward the sky, waiting for death. The others went on grazing as though nothing had happened.

Perhaps they believed that every sheep that died left a little more grass for those that remained. Or perhaps they trusted the shepherd's staff too much. Yet all he had done was shout and wave it through the air. The wolf paid no attention. It played until it had satisfied itself, then walked away at its own pace. The flock lowered its heads and returned to the pasture. Only the dead sheep remained, its eyes turned toward the sky. The sky was so blue. So wide. It had always been there. Yet the sheep had never looked. Now there was no need to look anymore.

The flock survived because of its unquestioning obedience. The wolf killed only five sheep, not the whole flock. Even the wolf would eventually tire of killing without reason.

Now there were no sheep. If the wolf came again, it would have only one thing left to eat.

People.

With that thought, the mountain wind that carried the scent of snow peaks, pine needles, and pasture seemed to take on the cold, wild smell of the wolf.

How deep the night was. How vast the world. How small the shepherd.

He disliked the moon. He disliked a full moon even more. Bright moonlight blurred the wolf's eyes. It gave shadows to trees, rocks, and withered grass. Whenever the mountain wind stirred them into whispers, his heart tightened. Was it the wolf again? Yet the moon still rose above the snowy pass, pressing its cold upon the land until the whole pasturelands became one endless wolf's eye.

The snow beneath the forest seemed deeper than before.

His footsteps sounded too loud in the silent valley. Better to rest. He planted the shepherd's staff in the snow and sat beside it. He told himself the flock was not waiting for anyone to save it. Even if he did save the sheep, they would one day be eaten anyway. To the sheep, there was little difference between the wolf's teeth and a butcher's knife. Yet people always believed the best sheep were those that accepted the knife without protest.

He wanted desperately to sleep, if only for a moment. Beside the sheepfold, with the flock around him, he would have dared. Alone in the mountains, never. He feared he had already fallen asleep while walking. Though he had drunk two bowls of hot corn porridge, the cold still reached him. A sleeping man was not like the wolf. Once asleep, his ears and nose were useless. The wolf could eat him without effort. When he woke, perhaps only his bones would remain. Perhaps not even those. He must not sleep.

He scooped up snow, chewed it, washed his face, and forced himself awake. He thought of the stone hut. The door was repaired. The window sealed. Corn porridge waited above the hearth. Inside his sheepskin sleeping sack he would be warm. Outside it stood stone walls. Beyond the walls, a door. Beyond the door, the flock. Here he possessed only a shepherd's staff.

The wolf surely had not slept through this bitter night. Somewhere it wandered, carrying everything it needed upon its own body. A man was different. A man needed a staff merely to steady his courage.

He kept looking back. He knew the wolf was following him. Why had it not attacked? Was it afraid of the staff? There was no knife tied to it. The wolf must have seen that. Would it let him live until dawn? He saw the wolf's green eyes. He heard saliva fall onto the snow.

Better to fight.

He cried out softly to gather his courage. Then louder. The valley answered with long, mournful echoes. His scalp tightened.

Suddenly he seized the staff and fought two wolves that existed only in his imagination. One faced him. He swung and missed. He swung again and fell into the snow. Another rushed downhill. He chased it, turned it back, struck across its body, and watched it tumble. Thin legs. A weak body.

When the imagined battle ended, he felt stronger. He threw off his padded coat. Then his cap. He drew one deep breath, gripped the shepherd's staff, and charged down the snowy slope toward Shenggou.

A dim mountain hollow lay beneath the night.

More than twenty sheepskins lay scattered across the snow. Crows and hawks fought noisily over the feast. Even the vultures, usually solemn and proud, had forgotten their dignity. A dark brown figure moved slowly among them, calm and steady, like a gentleman distributing grain after a famine, quietly content with what it had given.

The shepherd met the wolf's gaze. Both knew the struggle was over. The wolf had finished what it had come to do. Nothing remained for the shepherd but to gather the dead.

The wolf lowered its head until its muzzle nearly touched the snow, as though offering an apology. It left the feeding birds and walked quietly toward the shepherd. Suddenly it lunged, then stopped. The shepherd raised the shepherd's staff. They faced one another. Each took a few steps back.

He saw the wolf's eyes. Clear green, like two stars newly fallen from the sky into the frozen night. Simple. Bright. They flickered once. The thin lids were light as blades, cutting his awareness free from his body. Within them lay a distant way of living he had long longed for—to tear living creatures apart, to bite, and keep biting.

The shrill cry of two crows fighting over a sheep's heart brought him back. The smell of blood and the wolf almost made his legs give way. He felt himself becoming as obedient as the sheep. Shame forced him to act. He wanted to roar, yet knew it would sound no stronger than a donkey's cry. He swung the shepherd's staff through empty air. The wolf never moved. It sat quietly, watching the birds.

When the wolf left, he never saw it go. He refused to believe it had fled, yet wanted to believe exactly that.

In frustration he chased the crows and vultures from the carcasses. Their lazy indifference angered him even more than the wolf had. At last he stopped. It was all pointless. Better to gather what remained. Several sheep were still almost whole. Beneath each ear lay only the mark of teeth. Their thick necks rested quietly in the snow. Their eyes looked peacefully toward the clouds above.

A few torn clouds drifted across the night. Then the mountain wind came, and they were gone.

太阳明明白白。

牧人坐在草地上，看着他的羊群，羊群温和安静。太阳白得耀眼，很暖和。远处的雪山白得刺眼，又感到有些凉意。山风正在宁静的山谷中流动，不时将坡底灌木丛的枝叶，羊群身上的羊毛轻轻翻卷着。坡上羊群的身子快要圆了，它们知道，要收圈了，必须加紧，它们的嘴深深地埋在草皮里，以更熟练的动作，啃呀，啃呀!只有在这青草地上，它们才显得那么自在,那么满足,那么能讨牧人的欢心。不时甩动几下后腿间的小屁股，让牧人看看它的肥胖劲儿。强壮的羊，则喜欢另找草源，特殊口感的草，往往不是长在雨水充沛地势平坦的大坝上，意想不到的崖缝里，陡峭的石壁下，蓬出一簇，蜿蜒出一片，草径坚韧厚实，溪水边的草，由于过份养尊处优，宠的脆弱娇嫩，颜色不会是那种普普通通的草绿、嫩绿，而呈现出久经风雨，沉稳练达的翠绿、翠蓝，即使被新生命挤压，不得不在泥土边挣扎，颜色早已枯黄的层层老草，还是很有弹性，即使已为草泥，又有了一次更新的生命，一部份还给了泥土，另一部分则和着山风荡漾在蓝天、星空下，散发着让人回味无穷、古老清新的气息。

几头公羊吃的挺欢，甚至不想抬起头来嚼几下，宁可一辈子，就这么埋头不停的吃，对衬在嘴边的二只羊眼偶尔也会偏离青草以外，那必定是那只羊竟敢往前挪了一步，那它一定要赶紧多挪半步，早该跑了，不，决不！既然都还在吃，它们的嘴埋的更深了，速度更快了。

一团黑云，从山坳那头滚了过来，不待看清，太阳没了。水珠带着寒气，冰雹带着大朵大朵的雪团压下来。羊群好像还没被砸懵，它们以最快速度靠拢，挤压成一团，什么都看不清了。

收厩点羊，少了三十六只，找回二十只，还得找，当晚没睡好，狼牙撕破羊皮啃咬骨头的咔嚓声在耳边响了一夜。

雪还是厚，只是已不像初雪那么松软了。解放牌军球鞋与水的凝合物擦出单一无聊的声响。牧人在推敲，这声响究竟是“喀喀”声，还是“咔咔”声，最后他认定应该是：“嚓嚓”声，但他翻过二道山梁，又以为：“嚓嚓”声不妥，应当是：“曜曜”声。他确定为：“曜曜”声了。“曜曜”声将牧人带进那片叫深沟的黑黑的林子边。牧人希望在这里找到失散的羊，但他害怕这片林子，因为狼喜欢这片林子。前些时就在这林子边，刚把羊散开，狼就在羊群边溜达开了。他忘不掉狼在杀羊时那种泰然自若的神态，倒好像它是牧主，是牧人偷了它的羊似的。步在轻松，漫不经心的撂翻几只。牧人简直为羊那种听天由命的超然姿态恼怒不已，杀到面前，马上身子一歪；四脚朝天等死。其余的羊竟还能心安理得各吃各的草。也许羊以为，杀一只、少一只、多死上几只，草皮也许会多出来；要不就是太相信他的牧羊棍。可他当时除了在干叫，胡乱舞舞棍子，其实没什么真正作为。这种虚张声势，狼毫不在意，一直玩到他心满意足，才大模大样地走了。羊依然各吃各的草，好像什么都没有发生。倒下的羊，羊眼望天，它在与天告别。天那么蓝，那么宽，生前竟从未留意，抬头就有的，可惜呀！就那么忙吗？吃那么多草，这一切跟现在已经没有关系了。

羊群还是用它们的百依百顺，将生命置之度外的超然精神保护了自己。狼终究只杀了五只羊，而不是全部的羊。狼对这种随意杀戮，即使再百般无聊，也会懒散倦怠的。

现在没羊，狼就只能吃人了。这么一想，那股从雪山吹来的夹带着松叶，草地清香的山风就有了狼身上特有的恐怖腥味。

好深的夜啊！天地那么大，牧羊人的身子太小了。

他不喜欢月亮出来，更不喜欢圆的月亮出来，月光亮了，狼的眼就辩不清了；月光强了，树、石头、荒草都有了影子；山风一撩，悉悉索索在响，总让牧人担着心：会不会又是狼？但月亮还是从雪山垭口冒出了头，硬是压着寒气，整片牧区像是摸不着边的狼眼。

坡前那片林子的积雪更沉了。

牧人的脚步声落在雪地上，在宁静的山谷是太响了点，这会把山风、狼都惊动的，还不如休息会儿。他把牧羊棍插在雪里，顺势坐下。自我安慰地想：反正羊也不至于急着等人去救它们，就算救了回来，还不是为了和狼一样吃羊。对羊来说：被狼用牙咬死和被人用刀杀死感觉是一回事。尽管，人总以为喜欢屠刀的羊才是好羊。

他很想睡上一会儿。哪怕一小会儿，他应该睡一会的，可他还是没敢睡。羊圈边上，他敢睡，哪怕有几只羊在身边，他也敢睡。一个人，落在这大山里，他可不敢。可现在太瞌睡了，他很担心自己什么时候不小心睡着了，他记得刚才走路的时候好像睡着过，还喝了二碗滚烫的面糊糊，怎么现在还冷？人不像狼，睡着以后，耳朵、鼻子就不管用了，狼悄悄吃掉一个睡着的人很方便，狼肯定喜欢吃人，人是难得吃上的。这样，他醒过来，就只剩几根骨头了，他身上肉不多，说不定连骨头也被拖到狼穴去了。千万睡不得。

他在雪地上啃了几口雪，又洗了把脸，清醒些了。他想到了自己的小石屋，门修好了，窗堵上了，火塘上煨锅苞谷面糊糊，喝上一肚子糊糊，如果不守夜，在里面可以睡得很好。他有只羊皮口袋，把自己装在里面，又暖和又安全，羊皮袋外面有小石层，小石层有门，门外有羊。

可现在，他总共才有一支牧羊棍。

狼在这寒寂的长夜肯定没睡，一定也在游荡，但比牧人轻松。它不用担心鞋子湿了，衣服穿多穿少，反正全部家当都在身上，只需张张嘴，什么都有了，人就差劲多了，还得提根棍子壮胆。牧人总在不停的回头，他知道，狼离他不远，正跟着他。可狼怎么还不对他下手呢？是怕他手上那根棍吧！可羊棍上没有刀，狼眼应该看得见，它会让牧人活到天亮吧？他看见了那对狼眼，确实是绿的，嘴角边的口水落在雪地上空洞有声。

还不如跟它斗。

他感到有必要先吼几声，壮壮胆，试着轻叫了一声：“哇、呜— — —”牧人的身子并着黑夜一抖，万千只蚂蚁顺脊梁往后脑勺爬起来，大声：“哦，嘿”，轻了，使力：“嘿— —”山谷滚来一连串哭嚎，脑门收紧，头发头皮差点没在。

突然，他抓起牧羊棍，在雪地里与两只莫须有的狼空舞对打起来。一只狼与他对峙，没转出半圈，横棍一扫，没着，回棍又扫，栽在雪里，急补一棍，另只狼前腿一推，掉头往坡下溜，追上，回头反扑，半空拦腰一棍，翻落在地，果然麻杆腿，豆腐腰。

经这场模拟战斗，他感到勇敢多了，振作起来！棉衣，脱了，棉帽，脱了，猛吸口气，抖擞精神，抓起牧羊棍，从雪坡往深沟方向一路冲杀下去。

夜气朦胧的山坳

二十来张羊皮，稀稀落落，点缀在雪地。成群的乌鸦、山鹰在欢快忙乱争食，连平日体面自负的兀鹫，此时的吃相也狼狈可笑，一条黑褐色影子，在缓缓游弋，神情安祥，步态稳健，使人想到一位放粮救灾的绅士，流露出赐予的满足。

牧人的眼睛与它对视着。双方都清楚，胜负已成定局。狼已经干完了它想干的，一切都已结束。牧人能做什么呢？收收尸而已。

狼似在表示歉意，狼嘴几乎贴着雪地，离开了那群争食的飞禽，轻轻向牧人走来，突然黑褐色的影子急冲过来，猛然顿住。他提起牧羊棍，对歭着，各自倒退数步。

牧人注意到了那双透明的绿色狼眼，似乎刚从天上落下的二颗星，突然凝固的夜气里。简单，明亮，不时闪烁一下，游丝般的眼帘，轻如薄刀，刻骨般把他的感觉从肉体内分割出来，那是渴望已久遥远陌生的生存状态，将一只只活着的异类撕碎，用牙咬，一直咬下去。

两只乌鸦为争食一颗羊心发出古怪刺耳的尖叫，牧人回过点神，好不容易从迷惑中挣脱出来，狼身上那股骇人腥味使他有点站不稳，他快要和羊一样柔顺下来了。本能使他振作，生理上的恐惧使他惭愧，该干点什么了，想大吼一声，但他没叫，还算镇定，这一声当真叫了出来，决不会比驴叫有力到哪里，至多只能算一声哀鸣、呜咽罢了，倒给狼笑话。他举起牧羊棍，这一招多余，狼根本没动，只得呼呼作响，空甩几棍。狼静静看着，没当回事，相反席地而坐，心不在焉看着那批飞禽。

狼是什么时候离开的。牧人不知道，不会是逃走，但他更宁愿相信狼是逃走的。

牧人有些丧气，疯了似的去追打那些还在残骸上争食的乌鸦、兀鹫，它们在棍子面前懒洋洋毫不在乎的蠢样使他愤怒极了。直到累了，才感到这都是多余的事，太无聊了。收拾残局吧！能把残局收拾好，也是好样的，几只羊还算完整，耳根处各有口牙痕，脖子粗大，羊眼祥和，望着夜空的云。

三五朵碎云，一阵山风过来，散得无影无踪。

At last the shepherds had meat to eat. It was only carrion wrested back from the wolf, the vultures, and the crows, yet the neighboring shepherds all came. They brought wine. They feasted together. What remained would be salted and hung above the hearth to dry. Looking at the rows of mutton, they felt the months ahead would be a little easier.

The festival finally came. There was reason enough to slaughter a living sheep. One was dragged from the sheepfold. Its throat was cut. The blood drained away. Its hind legs kicked once or twice. A knee pressed firmly against its body, and the pain was over. Its head was severed. For the first time in its life, the sheep looked up at the sky. Then it closed its eyes in peace.

The sheep still inside the sheepfold stretched out their gentle heads. They looked at the pen. They looked at the severed head. Then each quietly checked that its own head was still there. Reassured, they lowered their eyes to the ground again.

The ground was scattered with fresh droppings, old droppings, and droppings ground to powder beneath countless hooves. A few sheep searched for the freshest ones, sniffed them, then lost interest. One sheep noticed a hard clump caught in the wool beneath another's tail. It twitched its own tail. At once the whole flock seemed to understand and began twitching their tails as well.

At last they were certain there was nothing left to do.

So they did nothing.

Then one sheep discovered a single blade of grass pushing through a crack between the stones of the sheepfold. At first only a few rushed toward it. In the next instant the whole flock surged together, heads colliding, shoulders pressing, each struggling as though life itself depended upon that tiny shoot. At last an old ewe won the chaos and swallowed it in a single bite.

The grass was gone.

The flock became peaceful again.

The valley was quietest at noon.

Light flooded everything. There was no shadow. No wind. Even the sound of water beyond the watershed had fallen silent.

At the bottom of the valley a donkey grazed peacefully, its tail swaying with quiet contentment. Suddenly its body stiffened. Its lips froze. Its eyes fixed ahead. It swayed as though drunk.

The wolf circled the donkey. The wolf's eyes were cold. The donkey's were gentle. They faced one another. Round and round they turned until the donkey grew dizzy, its legs gave way, and it knelt, ready to die.

The wolf, seeing such surrender, seemed almost to pity it. Instead of killing, it toyed with it. It moved behind the donkey, urging it to run so the chase could begin. The donkey wanted only a quick death. It merely lifted its tail. The wolf pawed at it playfully. The donkey spread its legs and trembled, yielding to every touch. At last, amused, the wolf chose to kill.

It wanted clean meat. Patiently it worked until the donkey emptied its bowels. Only then did it reach in, seize the entrails, and trot downhill with them between its teeth, leaving a long red ribbon across the green pasture.

The donkey's strength ebbed away. With one long sigh it collapsed. Only then did the wolf return.

It stood before the great fallen body in silence. Its muzzle touched the earth. Its forelegs bent. Its body lowered into a bow.

A farewell. A mourning. A word of thanks.

The ritual ended. It rose, walked once around the donkey, and only then began to eat.

The valley was quietest at noon.

A single breeze drifted lazily across the hillside, over the stony riverbed, through the feathers of the vultures feeding on the carcass, and into the birch grove beside the stream. The leaves trembled. Then came only the faintest sigh, carrying away three or four leaves.

Another magnificent storm swept across the pasturelands.

Before the sheepfold the mountains turned black, then white, then green. Whirling clouds, swollen with hail and fine ice, rolled along the valley floor before rising almost straight upward and crashing against the watershed. From far away came the unmistakable crack of trees breaking. The fresh patch of pasture before the stone hut flashed green, then faded into darkness. The whole pasturelands seemed stunned into silence.

Even the restless birch grove held its breath. The flock crowded against the fence, trembling without moving. Only when thunder rolled did the valley seem to breathe again. A few drops of rain tested the shrubs below the sheepfold. Then the watershed darkened once more.

At last the storm broke. Rain poured without restraint. Wind struck from every direction. A corner of the stone hut roof vanished. Then half the hut seemed gone. An iron pot spun from the rubble and disappeared. The gate of the sheepfold was blown away. The shepherd leaned into the wind, yet time and again it threw him back. For a long while he did nothing but struggle in front of the gate.

Streams great and small merged into roaring torrents, racing toward the cliffs. Waves and rain carved away the riverbanks. A great pine tree tumbled helplessly through the flood before vanishing into a crack beneath the cliff. Moments later only splinters drifted back. Boulders rolled beneath the torrent, their dull collisions swallowed by thunder. A vast stretch of grassland collapsed into deep fissures. Underground water roared beneath the earth. The whole pasturelands seemed no more than a drifting leaf.

Without warning, sunlight returned. One shaft touched the rocks. Another rested upon the highest branch of the lone birch. Then light spread across the ridge. Mountains, pasture, shrubs, and trees drew a deep breath together. Everything that could open, opened. Each revealed its finest color. The few torn clouds above the watershed fled westward while their shadows raced even faster across the mountains.

The air turned clear. A little mist still lingered in the valley, gathering itself as though it wished to rise once more. After one last effort, it surrendered, remaining only as a quiet presence in the mountain hollow.

Far away thunder still muttered like the scattered hoofbeats of the flock returning home.

The wolf wandered through the muddy pasture. Drops of water glittered in its coat beneath the sun.

The flock stretched out their timid heads. They had survived the storm. Little by little they returned to their familiar calm indifference. A few gazed blankly at the broken clouds glowing beneath the evening sun. The golden halo around them lay far beyond their reach. After a while their heads grew heavy again. They lowered them toward the ground, where sheep droppings lay everywhere.

牧人们终于有肉可吃了。尽管只是从狼嘴里，从兀鹫、乌鸦嘴里抢回来的死肉，邻近的牧人们都赶来了。还带了酒，饱餐一顿。剩下的牧人计划把它风干，撒些盐巴。望着吊在火塘上一串串羊肉，下几个月的肚子踏实多了。

总算挨着过节了。有了一次宰杀活羊的机会，拖出一头，割脖子放血，血流干，羊有点疼，后腿动了几下，膝盖一顶，就不疼了，顺势割了羊头，头身一分，羊眼终于生平第一回仰视天空，然后安详闭眼。

关在圈里的羊，个个伸着和和气气的羊头，羊头莫名其妙，一会看看羊圈，一会木然看着切割下来的羊头，一会又各看各的头，头在，放心了。就愣直了眼看地，地上有新鲜、不很新鲜的、已经踩成粉状的羊粪，几只羊在找新鲜羊粪，还嗅了嗅，没什么，又木然。有只羊倒是发现前面一头羊屁股毛尖上挂了块板结羊粪，这使它联想起自己的羊屁股，就抖了下，于是，全体羊群深有感触，也抖了阵羊屁股。最后，它们确信没事可干了，也就不干什么了。

忽然，不知哪只羊发现圈栏石缝间露出棵小草，开始是几只，马上全体羊群一起哄抢，一时间羊头顶撞，肩推胸挤，汹汹涌涌，争得你死我活，最终，被只老羊乱中取胜，一口吞下。草消失，羊群和气。

山谷里，中午最静。

到处明晃晃的，找不到一点阴影，没一丝风，懒懒的， 连分水岭那边的击水声也消失了。

谷底一头毛驴，在低头吃草，驴尾悠闲悠闲打着节拍，心满意足。忽然驴身一震，驴唇发呆，眼注着，酒醉似的摇晃。

一只狼，在围驴转圈。仔细打量，狼眼冷漠，驴眼温顺，对视片刻，驴魂飞胆裂，转着转着，驴头被转昏，驴眼被转花，腿就软了，跪地受死。狼见驴顺服，反起怜悯心，绕驴身后去抓驴屁眼，要驴逃跑，好追逐取乐。驴有志气，只想速死，偏不起身，只隆高尾巴给狼方便。狼玩性正浓，不准驴死，要与驴同乐，抬爪在驴沟股处抓痒玩。驴无奈，只得叉开驴腿伺候狼玩，又抖动驴皮颤颤瑟瑟给狼玩，又裂开驴嘴驴牙作快活舒服状，狼被逗得心舒意爽乐不可支，同意杀驴。

狼要驴肉干净，先在驴屁眼圈挠痒，挠着挠着，驴肚收紧，龇牙弓尾一震，一串驴粪滚落下地，驴肠利落。狼这才抬爪，顺驴屁眼悠悠然然往驴肠摸去，一爪带住，拖将出来，咬住驴肠，拐头贼似的往下坡跑，绿草地上，一溜红红彩带。

驴肚虚空，驴头气短，知大限已到，随一声长叹，颓然倒地，狼这才尽兴，踱至驴处。

面对这堆庞然牺牲大物，肃然起敬。

狼嘴贴地，前腿扒下，狼身倒弓，沉默良久。致敬、至哀、致谢。礼毕，起身。绕驴一周。方前去慢慢撕咬。

山谷里，中午最静。

一丝风，漫不经心的滑过坡边的草坪，往下，滑过谷底那片石滩，滑过在驴残骸上争食的兀鹫身上的羽毛，窜进小溪边的桦树林里，树叶颤抖起来，似乎要大骚动了，一声轻微叹息，卷起三五片树叶。

又是场痛快暴雨。羊栏前，山峦忽黑、忽白、忽绿。旋风裹着巨大的，夹带着细碎冰珠的云团，先在山谷底部涌动，突然呈九十度上升，一扭头，砸在分水岭上，清清楚楚听见成片树杆折断的咔嚓声。小屋前的草滩刚亮出一片嫩绿，即刻又模糊了，黑了，全黑了，迟迟不见雨下来，牧区象是被吓呆了，好久、好久，静得怕人。连从未停止过喧闹躁动的桦树林也哑了。圈里的羊，挤在栏边，战战兢兢，一动不动。直到传来几声雷响，才透了点气，透了点亮，有了雨，在羊栏边，峡谷下面，灌木丛上闪忽几下，似乎在试试能耐。分水岭又黑了，只是隐隐地感到河水在击打崖壁。

一阵细碎鼓噪，象是羊群出栏前焦急的蹄子声，凝固的空气颤抖起来，一连串重雷，总算压下来，砸下来了。先还哆嗦，再就懵了，糊涂了，这才有了雨。一个劲倒！倒！忽又化作没边没际的巴掌，没了方向般乱刮，那间石屋顶被掀去只角，再看一眼，只剩半间屋了，一只铁锅，从碎石堆里被掏了出来，原地转了几转，不见了，围栏门早吹跑了，牧人要去堵门，鼻孔什么时候被堵上了，一挖，挖出颗羊粪，身上全是粪，一会，又干净了，他挺直脖子，身子作四十五度倾斜，如羊斗情状往前顶，看看要到栏门口了，又被拽了回去。忙了许久，只是在栏门前打转。

无数粗的、细的、急的、缓的大沟小沟在吞并、汇集，翻滚着往分水岭那座陡崖劈过去，击起的浪花与下泻暴雨撞击出的漩涡竟削平了好几处河滩。激流里，一颗偌大松树，没了头似的乱冲乱撞，又顺着漩涡打了几转，一头扎进崖壁下的石缝里，再没出来，不一会，石缝倒流出的浪花里飘出些细碎木屑，崖壁在颤抖，眼看要散架，泥浆、杂草、腐叶被雨水冲刷着，挤压出的泡沫又被雨水砸碎，巨石在河床下顺着激流翻滚，沉闷的撞击声与雷雨声响成一片，近五公里宽的一片草原，轰然下塌，几条闪电般地缝，深不见底，只感到地下水在轰鸣。整个牧区似乎只是一片浮叶，什么都搅昏了。

几束阳光，什么时候落在乱石滩上，另一束落在那片松树唯一的桦树枝上，闪烁几下就铺开到了崖顶，牧区瞬间明快。山、草地、灌木林子，全抖擞起精神大口呼吸，能伸展的都露开了，各自显出它们最美的颜色。分水岭上空剩下的三五块碎云，在往西窜，投在山峦上的黑影比它跑得更快。空气干净利落，阳光全无遮拦。谷底还有少些雾气，却是分分明明，与分水岭涌来的小股雾气聚合，有了点势头，似乎还想闹腾一番，几经努力，终告失败，只在山坳里蠕动，虽未成大气候，但也算道风景。

远处，雷声还在响，象是牧归时羊群琐碎的蹄子声。

狼还在泥泞的草丛间散步，皮毛上的水珠在阳光下闪烁跳跃。

羊群伸直了它们畏缩着的羊头，总算熬过这场暴雨，恢复了它们和气漠然的神态。几只羊在木然凝视夕阳下的残云，残云周围有金黄色光圈，光圈离它们太远了，呆过一阵，羊头似乎累了，垂头，满地羊粪。

The shepherd grew more and more restless. Perhaps the grassland and the mountains had become too familiar. He moved from one pasturelands camp to another, then another still, yet nowhere satisfied him. The flock, in truth, was thriving.

On nights when rain and snow swept together across the mountains, or at dusk when the last light had left the grassland and the mountain wind from the glaciers began its lonely cry, he would leave the stone hut alone.

He never knew how he crossed cliffs that daylight would have made impossible. Sometimes he wondered whether his body had ever left the stone hut at all. Perhaps only the other half of his mind wandered through the night. Yet the cold stone beneath his feet always brought him back.

What did he think about? A shepherd, he believed, ought not to think too much. Better to spread dry pine needles across the stone bed. Better to mend the stone hut. Better to cut a real window and fit it with glass, so he could look at the stars and hear the sound of the pines through the night. Better to open a smoke vent above the hearth. Better to raise the sheepfold so the wolf could no longer leap inside. After bringing the flock home, he imagined baking a coarse corn cake and drinking a little liquor beside the fire.

And yet his heart stubbornly reached for something that could not be named.

His thoughts returned once more to a dream.

He had been reading beside the small oil lamp. The book had been read many times before. He held it only because it helped him sleep. His ears were listening to the breathing of the mountains beyond the valley.

Then he heard something unusual.

A wolf's head came slowly through the window.

He was not frightened. It was as though they had arranged this meeting long before either of them was born. What astonished him were the short whiskers beside the wolf's muzzle, hanging with unexpected gentleness. Its dark muzzle held quiet strength. Its bright eyes carried not menace but pity.

He could not move. Even now he believed they had shared a long conversation without words. Older than language. Older than humanity. Nothing seemed to pass between them except the lightest touch of thought, yet that silent message carved itself into his nerves, his muscles, his whole being.

He often felt he had been only one step away from complete awakening.

Many years later he still regretted turning up the oil lamp and trying to speak. Had he remained silent a little longer, perhaps he would have entered another state. Another world.

Life in the pasturelands went on, slow and unchanged. Sometimes he mixed salt into the corn cakes. Sometimes he spread it over the top. Perhaps, he thought, he should try eating them plain. The night before, he and another shepherd, both with too much energy for too little work, had competed to see who could hold a glowing piece of charcoal the longest. Neither spoke. They watched a thin thread of blue smoke rise from between their fingers. It smelled faintly of roasted mutton.

At daybreak he drove the flock out again. Beyond the mountains, beneath the snow peaks and along the streams, stood the cloud-wrapped ridge before Luzhida. Its blue-grey outline had haunted him for years. All he needed was an axe, a little salt, and his own legs. Yet he never found the courage. There would surely be more than one wolf beyond that ridge. Still, as long as the wolf beside him was not hungry enough to eat him, perhaps they could go on living together.

Climbing cliffs was the only thing beyond shepherding that truly belonged to him. A cliff was only a cliff. One crack in the rock after another. Fingers reaching. Toes stretching. Not enough. Then just enough. Another great boulder blocked the way. Flattening himself against the stone, he crawled across and finally felt the depth beneath him. Through the dark mountain mist he saw a bright ribbon of water at the bottom of the gorge, like a shepherd's staff cast across the earth.

The sound rising from below was not the sound of water striking stone. It rang like metal. Like a distant drum. Beautiful. Terrible. Elusive. Irresistible. He wanted to melt into it. It was the very thing he had searched for in his dreams.

He imagined leaping. The rising air would hold him for one brief moment before the fall. He heard his body striking the rocks. Not loudly. Not for long. Two echoes followed. One like a donkey's yawn. The other like the sigh of a sheep. Then nothing. Only the sound of the mountain spring remained. The rocks were cold.

Only then did he understand. Beyond the boulder there was no heaven waiting. The joy had been in standing for one instant above the abyss without falling into it.

He climbed on. The only prize he found was a handful of bird droppings, yet he was deeply satisfied. At last he reached the summit and felt strangely disappointed. The peak that had lived so long in his imagination was ordinary. Looking back, however, the pasture, the sheepfold, the stone hut, and the flock blurred by morning mist suddenly seemed dear to him.

Still, he decided that tomorrow he would lead the flock across that mountain. He never stopped believing that somewhere beyond the places he could see, greener pastures were waiting.

牧人却显得越来越焦躁，或许是眼前的那些草原，山峦太熟悉了，换一处，又换一处，再换一处，还是不能让他称心，其实羊群长得很好。

他会在一个雨雪交加的夜晚，或是草原上落日余晖彻底消尽，冰山的山风开始无情地在原野呼号的傍晚独自一人走出去。他是怎样走出去的，又怎样翻过了那些在他清醒时根本无法翻越的山崖陡峭，连他自己都弄不清楚。然后呆坐在陡峭边出神。或许，他的肉体根本就没有离开过石屋，只是意识中另一半在漫游，淌恍迷离在空气里。但脚底坚硬的石块还是让他清醒。他想过些什么呢？当然，对一个牧人来说，除了多花些心思认真处理好几件具体的事就不应该想的太多，比方说：在石板床上铺些干燥柔软的松叶，让他在寒寂的夜晚睡一个深沉舒服的好觉。他甚至还想，这间小屋无论如何也该打整一下了，即使再累，把屋子收拾整齐点是不会有坏处的。通气孔再加大一一应该是实实在在的一扇窗，最好再有片玻璃，可以眺望星空，听见夜晚松涛的叹息声，狼也不会随意来拜访他，火塘顶挖个通烟口，使小石屋不至于烟得呛人。羊圈再加高点，狼就不能轻易越过围栏了。牧归后，好好烤块苞谷面饼，再来几两烧酒，享受一番。可他总叫是顽固地渴求些不可捉摸的东西，又开始回想前不久做过的梦。当时他正在小油灯前看书，书已看过多次，只是为了睡眠才下意识地拿在手上，耳朵却在默默倾听峡谷上面传来的山野呼吸声。他感到一点异常声响。一只狼头，从窗口挤了进来。一点都没吃惊，好象他俩早就相约好了似的。唯一使他困惑的只是吻边几根短短的吓人的髭须竟友善地微微下垂，黑褐色的极有弹性丰满的狼吻同样友善，炯炯有神的眼睛也许是温润的，感觉到的却是刺人肺腑的怜恤。长时间地，他完全被它异样的方魔力迷惑的动弹不得。至今，他仍然相信，他们确实有过一次长久的无声交谈。一次非人性，最原始的讯号传递，似乎只是意念的一下抚摸，连感觉都没有，那讯号已经击穿他的头脑，刻划在他的神经末稍、肌肉的细胞上了，只差那么一点，他就大彻大悟了。直到多少年后，他还在后悔，如果当时他不急于把油灯捻亮，不急于开口，以至提前中止了这次终身难得的心灵互通的机会，他也许早已在另一种状态，另一种境界中生活了。

牧区一成不变的生活在不紧不慢延续着。苞谷面饼里掺盐，还是抹些盐巴在面饼上这两种吃法反复使用。直接用牙咬的吃法或也许该试试。昨晚，他跟另一个同样有太多剩余精力的牧人比手抓炭火。两人神色茫然，怔怔地看着手指间冒出一丝青烟，气味与烤羊肉相近。

天亮了，牧人吆着他的羊群，还有那些地方可去，山峦那过，在雪山下，顺着溪水，他早就想翻过鲁之达前面那座常年被云雾堆积的山岗，山岗四周深不可测模糊的蓝灰色总是让他心痒难熬，只需一把斧子，一包盐，再加上他的脚力，但始终拿不出勇气来，那里一定不止一头狼，谁知道呢！身边这头狼，狼肚子还不算太饿吧！只要没把牧人吃了，还能相处。

爬爬陡峭，看看山。这几乎是他牧羊外唯一能做，也唯一能摆脱烦恼的事，峭壁不过只是峭壁，什么也算不上，不过就是从这条岩缝往那条岩缝爬过去，手够不着，拉长了腿，脚尖去够，够啊，够不着，够– –着了，翻了过去，又一块巨大突起的鹅卵石横压在眼前，贴着身子匍匐过去，才真实感受到了那吓人的深渊，他透过迷蒙黯黑的山雾，略带墨绿色的梦一般的谷底见到一条清亮水带，象撂下去的一条牧羊鞭，同时感觉到一种声响，可水在冲击岩石时不应该是那种清晰的金属声、击鼓声的，这荡人心魄、捉摸不透、恐怖的迷人声响简直让他不能自己，融化进去– –正是他梦寐以求的啊！纵身一跃– –上升的气流会让他在下坠时多享受一会– –然后一跌，他听见自己的身体与岩石碰撞的声音，不算大，不很长，不多久，有了二下回声；先象是驴打呵欠，而后，又象是羊在叹息。再就没了。消失，过去了，山泉声依旧。岩石好凉。

他这才恍然大悟：即使翻过这块鹅卵石，也不会有什么，上面不会是天堂。只是在艰险的翻越时感觉一下快要落入地狱，却又没有掉进地狱的乐趣。他还是翻了过去，只是抓了把鸟粪，却满足得使他难以自持。然而，当他越过重重险境，终于登上峰顶，又大失所望了。他不能相信，这座曾使他迷恋神往的峰顶竟如此具体，平庸。可往下看，早已熟悉厌倦了的草滩，羊栏、石屋，朦胧在晨雾中的羊群，却显得那么亲切，它打算，一定在明天，带着他的羊群，翻过这座山头。他总是深信在那些看不见的地方，还有更美的草场。

Many years passed.

The shepherd had long since left the pasturelands. He traded in wool now, and the business prospered.

One day, pleased with his success, he went to the zoo to visit an old companion from the pasturelands. What unsettled him was that the wolf still refused the fate the other animals had accepted. It carried itself with the pride of a solitary creature. Seven feet of concrete offered little room, yet it paced the same ground again and again. Whenever its muzzle could reach the bars, it forced them apart. Some of the openings had already widened beneath its persistence. Even so, the shepherd felt relieved. The wolf was inside the cage. The shepherds and the flock were safe.

His house was far larger than the stone hut he had once lived in. It held every comfort he had once lacked. The television brought danger into the room without asking anything of his body. Somewhere along the years he had lost the longing to seek hardship in the wilderness. After the life of a shepherd, such comfort should have been enough.

But contentment never remained. The moment one desire was fulfilled, another empty piece of ground appeared beyond the fence, waiting to be enclosed. So it had always been in the pasturelands. Fence after fence. Desire always outran possession.

He persuaded his neighbours to fit iron doors and bars to every window. The walls were solid. No one had imprisoned him. He could leave whenever he wished. Yet the safer the house became, the less secure he felt. At last he decided the welds on the window bars were too weak, and every lock should be replaced.

When everything had been arranged, the room itself seemed to wither. Two newly planted houseplants drooped. Tender bamboo shoots died before they could unfold. A climbing vine struggled upward for two springs, reached almost to the windowsill, then stopped growing. The sealed room filled with the smell of slow decay.

'People decay while still alive,' he often thought.

Then the pasturelands returned to him: the broad grassland beneath the glacier wind, dew shining on young pasture, the flock grazing softly in warm sunlight, the sound of the pines beyond the dark forest, and the mountain wind carrying the scent of sheep droppings, pine needles, and wet earth.

He stood motionless for a long time before lowering his face to the leaves of a plant and breathing them in.

He often dreamed of crowds whose faces were as expressionless as sheep. They hurried and jostled, forever hungry. Then suddenly they bent together and grazed upon the earth like dancers moving in perfect rhythm. Their shrill voices swelled until they sounded like countless rusted saws cutting through a human heart.

He always woke trying to escape toward the light. Waiting in the darkness were two lonely, restless wolf's eyes.

Now that the wolf had long been locked behind iron bars, its fate no longer seemed to concern humanity. The shepherds settled into comfortable lives. Comfort became ordinary.

The old stories of the shepherds and the wolf survived only beside fireplaces and television screens, where later generations could imagine them as they pleased. A few scholars gathered scattered fragments of evidence. Their essays were elegant and admired. Writers imagined still more, until several celebrated works were born.

Thousands of years passed. Humanity remained busy—with civilization, with destruction, with endless pursuits. Little by little, the memory of the wolf faded.

Twelve thousand years later, every large creature on Earth had vanished except humankind and rats. A young scholar discovered a damaged data disc bearing a few faint traces of the wolf. He devoted decades to asking whether the wolf's disappearance had shaped the world's evolution, decline, and disasters.

Archaeologists and scholars of wolves offered fossils in support of his work. Yet when the manuscript was finished, he discovered that none of the evidence could truly be trusted. Across ten thousand years, no living person had ever seen a wolf with their own eyes. What a pitiful thing scholarship could become.

He burned the manuscript. It burned for six days and seven nights. Watching the fire without sleep, he arrived at the deepest awakening of his life.

Perhaps if humanity had never possessed language, never created literature, it might never have suffered such overwhelming catastrophe.

As the final page turned to ash, he noticed a single strand of wolf hair on the back of his hand. He brushed it away. More appeared. His feet tightened into the legs of a wolf. At last he became what he had spent a lifetime seeking.

He ran outside.

There were iron bars everywhere.

Only then did he remember, dimly, that his ancestors had long ago begun living inside cages of their own making.

The wolf crouched at the mouth of the cage.

It remembered the first night it chose a den in the pasturelands. The night was long. The mountains beyond the den were dark and barren. The moon refused to rise. At last a slender curve appeared, delicate as a bubble about to break upon the sky. Before it could gaze any longer, the iron bars cut the moon in two.

The mountain wind struggled up from the valley, climbed through the moonlight, circled before the den, and carried the cold breath of the wilderness—the longing for terror, the longing to pursue and tear apart a living creature. Beneath the wall lay a slab of dead meat left by the keeper, trembling in an evening breeze tainted with coal smoke and gasoline.

But the wolf remembered another scent.

It remembered the antelope it had driven into the corner of a cliff. Strong. Magnificent. Raised beside carefree mountain streams beneath blizzards. Even at the edge of death it showed no panic. It lowered its great horns slowly, thoughtfully. In that stillness its eyes held a strange, transcendent strength. For one brief instant the wolf wanted to retreat. Then a graceful arc of light slipped down the cliff face and merged with the antelope's curved body and lowered eyelids.

Beyond the cliff the mountains stretched into darkness. A crescent moon slowly rose above them.

Then a full moon burst from the mouth of its old den beneath Shenggou. It rolled along the dry riverbed, floated above the grassland threaded with streams, rose into the night, crossed the watershed, drifted for a while, and settled upon the mouth of the cage until the cage itself seemed vast with light.

The wolf gave one long howl.

No one noticed that the full moon trembled gently.

A tiny piece of it was gone.

He drank two bowls of corn gruel. The corn cake above the hearth had finished baking. He slipped it into his military shoulder bag. The weather was damp, but the flock still had to be taken out. As he opened the gate of the sheepfold, a swarm of enormous rats nearly knocked him to the ground.

The shepherd leaned against the head of his bed. It was the same way he had once leaned against the sheepfold on night watch.

With one hand he struck the sheet of iron to frighten the wolf. With the other he listened to the river striking the cliffs beyond the watershed. The mountain wind lifted the moon from the stony banks of Luzhida. Moonlight spilled into the pasture beside the stream, lingering among the uneven cracks of the rocks, making it difficult to see the wolf's eyes drifting slowly beyond the sheepfold.

He felt no urge to seize the shepherd's staff. Better to wait until the wolf crossed the ditch and the flock answered with the warning beat of their hooves.

His eyelids grew heavy. Sleeping mountains, falling constellations, wolves running beneath the pale moon—all flowed into his eyes.

He must not sleep.

He pulled the sheepskin coat tighter around himself. Worry less, he thought. Yet in his half-consciousness he felt the mountain wind slicing the moonlight into fragments beneath the wolves' howls. The shattered light drifted onto the river, where restless water broke it apart again until countless waning moons shimmered above the dark valley below the sheepfold.

Only then did he notice the moon above the city. It should have been full, yet it was not. It slipped around the building before his window, around the television antenna, around four power lines, and lingered behind the twenty-three iron bars outside his window. At last only a few broken pieces of moonlight reached his bed. The largest resembled the head of a wolf, its jaws spread wide, biting at the iron bars.

许多年过去了。

牧人早就不放羊了，做起了羊毛生意，干得不错。

得意之余来了兴致，专程到动物园去见见他在牧区时的故友，使他惊异不安的是，这只狼似乎并不愿意与其它动物一样接受已成定局的命运安排，依然保持了它特有的自尊– –孤独者的自尊。七尺的地面，能有多大作为？可它就那么执拗，竟然整天信心百倍在来来回回量地。再不就用嘴去撑铁笼小孔，凡能够着的孔，都使力去撑，显然，不少小孔是被撑大了些。他还是庆幸，狼在笼子里，山里的牧人、羊总算是安全了。

他买的那套屋子，远比牧区的小石屋大多了，里面包括了能使他方便舒适的一切器件，那架电视，不必使用身上的肌肉，就能感受到许多惊险故事。他早已记不清自己是在什么时候失去了那种在山野里领略痛苦的渴望了。有过牧人的艰辛，眼前的一切实在使他满意，可真能领会这种满足似乎还不太容易。或许，从他一开始有满足愿望的那一刻起，他就已经把自己推进了终生不能自救的无底深渊，正如他在牧区时的围栏，为了扩大已有的领地，围啊！围啊！每一次，满足的感觉甚至还没出来的，他的视线早已盯在另一片还没能围起来的空地上，又该打新主意了。再加上没完没了的功于心计的求生方式搞得他疲惫不堪，以至心慌意乱时，总希望找到一种最安全的躲避方式，久经思考，只得与四周的邻居商议，各自为自己屋子的门窗加了铁门、铁栏。望着四壁严实的墙面，那种难于言状的困惑应该跟墙没有太大关系了，谁也没把他关进去，随时都能开门出去，什么都比牧区的好，又舒服又牢固。他越是想用这些合理的安全来打消内心的恐惧，却始终无法解脱，这使他百思不得其解，反复琢磨才终于发现：窗上铁栏的好几处接口焊得还是不够牢固，门锁又该换了。

当他把这些总算安排妥当。房间里新栽的二盆龟贝叶又被路边喧嚣的人群气流冲击得奄奄一息了；竹叶盆景里刚冒了一枝幼芽，三五天后，便被压得喘不过气来，死了，另几棵完全有希望顶出的嫩芽，也噎死在泥土里，那棵长青藤，经过二个春秋的苦苦攀登，几乎已有窗台高了，终于再没能长进，只能等死。加之过于坚固的门窗更使房间充塞着一股无法排释的霉烂味。“人也在活活霉烂”，他总这么想。又回想起牧区纯粹单一的生活，那片被冰川的山风吹得翻卷，欢快广阔的草原，鲜嫩绿茵上的晶莹露水，温暖的阳光下，羊群吃草时轻微的沙沙声与从很远的黑森林传来的抑扬顿挫的松涛声交织在一起，山谷底部吹来了夹带着羊粪、松叶、泥土清香，冷飕飕的让他心醉神迷的山风。

呆了半晌，拿鼻子对着几片龟贝叶嗅了起来。

他总是梦见一群人，表情漠然如羊，拥挤着，忙碌着，好像永远吃不饱，忽而又一反常态，竟以舞蹈状啃起了草皮，声音尖利而有规律，不断扩大，像无数把生锈的锯子在切割心脏。

急着往亮外躲，黑天里，二颗孤寂不安的狼眼。

既然这头狼早已送进了笼子，它今后的命运自然跟人没有关系了，牧人们放心过舒服日子，都舒服了。

有关早期牧人与狼的故事，他们的儿孙们尽可作任意想象，靠在沙发上，火炉边，再来点酒，在电视画面里看着玩，但随着狼的绝迹，几个学者就认真起来，尽管只是些零星考证，但文字不错，很有学术价值。搞文学的自然联想丰富，出过好几篇名著。

以后的数千年里，人们都很忙，文明与毁灭，人们有多少事要干，对那头狼的记忆也就慢慢淡忘。

直到一万二千年后，这块地球的生物除人以外仅剩老鼠了，有位年青学者，偶然在一页残缺的碟片中发现了有关那头狼的点星痕迹，这引起了他的注意，他希望找出这头狼在消失以后近万年来地球的变迁，演化甚至灾难的因果关系。为此，他忙了几十年，并有几位考古学家、狼学博士自愿提供了不少狼化石佐证，文稿结束时才发现，他倾注毕生精力收集的所谓原始资料意无一真实，因为在近万年的漫长岁月里，还没有任何一个人真见过狼，可怜的学问。为了不再自欺欺人，他断然将文稿付之一炬，但文稿太多，竟烧了六天七夜，在不眠的日夜里，他这才感到有生以来第一次大觉悟：人类如果没有语言、文学，或许还不至于有如此灭顶之灾。最后一页手稿燃尽，他在手背上看见一小摄狼毛，拂之不去，越拢越多，脚掌开始收缩，成了狼腿，终于成就了他。即刻串出门外。门外的铁栏数不清。

他这才恍惚记得：他的祖先们，早就生活在自制的铁栏里。

狼匍匐在笼口。

它记起了在牧区时第一次安排巢穴的夜晚，夜那么黑，那么长。洞口外山峦枯槁，迟迟不见月亮出来。迟迟看到的，只是一弯细丝。得认真思想，才知道是月，有如苍穹上一只即将破碎的极美的气泡，残缺的一弯，什么时候轻轻一钩，洞挂上了天，铁笼挡了它的视线。山风在谷底挣扎，顶着月光，爬了上来，在洞口石滩前绕了几圈，撞在洞口上，带来了旷野深处最让它心醉的冷寂气息，对恐怖的渴望，去追逐撕碎一头活物。墙根处一块死肉，在煤烟汽油味的晚风中颤抖，是饲兽员特意为它增添的。他始终忘不了那头被它逼进崖壁死角的羚羊，那么强壮，在暴风雪，无忧无虑的溪水边孕育，生命终生前，不慌不忙。只将那对硕大的头角慢慢倾斜，像在思索，静止时，它看见羚羊的眼神发出从未有过的超然威力，就在它被这意外的景象惊迷的目赅神摇，逼得它想改变主意，想退却的瞬间，崖壁上划出一道下垂的柔美弧线，与羚羊弓型的身段，弓型的眼帘柔和在一起。

崖壁下，群山蜿蜒，夜色中，一弯月亮，慢慢托出，渐渐扩大。

这时，一轮满月，清清楚楚，其大无比，从它在深沟崖壁下的狼穴洞口蹦了出来，沿着洞穴前的干涸河床，忽而滚动，忽而跳跃，又在布满溪流的草原上飘浮，突然腾起，划过长夜，顿在分水岭上空，游移了一阵，落在笼口上，笼口撑得好大好亮。

一声长嗥，没人注意到，那轮满月轻轻一震，缺了点角。

喝了二碗面糊糊，火塘上的苞谷面饼也熟了，放进军用挎包里。天气阴湿，还是得出牧，打开羊栏门，一群硕大的老鼠几乎把他撞翻在地。

牧人靠在床头，他记得在牧区守夜时也是这么靠在羊栏边。一面敲铁皮吓唬狼，一面聆听峡谷下面分水那边传来的河水拍打崖壁的击水声，撞击出的山风把鲁之达那片石滩里的月亮吹了上来，下泻的月光落在溪水边的草丛里，又总是在凹凸不平的石缝间徘徊，这使他很难看清在羊栏边缓缓游移的狼眼。懒得提上木棍去赶狼，不如等狼翻过水沟，羊群发出警觉的蹄子声以后再说。

眼皮沉重，熟睡的山峦，滑落的星群，苍白月光下奔跑的狼群，一并合入眼球。下敢睡。羊皮袄再裹紧点，少操点心吧！他只是神志恍惚地感到，那月光在狼的呼叫声中被山风切割成了碎片，又慢慢撒落在河面上，与狼眼一起，被焦躁不安的水波搅和成由无数残月汇成的光涟，在羊栏下黯黑的河谷上空，不能确定。

直到这时，他才看见一轮月亮，应该是圆的，又不够圆，绕过房前那幢大楼，绕过天线支架，绕过四条电线，又被二十三根窗前铁栏挡了好一阵子，总算剩下支离破碎的几片落在床头，最大一片呈狼头状，狼嘴龇裂，在噬咬铁栏。