(1)
The protection station had a staff canteen, but no cook to run it — all three daily meals were left to the station employees to manage themselves.
The Tibetan diet was simple: tsampa as the staple, supplemented by beef and mutton, with very little in the way of vegetables.
For the first two days, Wen Xia had found it all refreshingly novel, cheerfully joking with Zhaxi that she was going to write a cookbook called One Thousand and One Ways to Eat Highland Barley Flour. By the third day, Miss Wen’s delicate stomach had started to give up the fight.
The locals were accustomed to eating their tsampa with butter tea, dried cheese curd, and sugar — all high-calorie fare — along with large cuts of bone-in beef and mutton, which made it very easy to leave food sitting undigested. Wen Xia had always had a sensitive digestive system, and she quickly fell into a vicious cycle of eating and vomiting, leaving her wilted and limp, the tips of her ears and the corners of her eyes drooping in matching misery.
At lunch one day, the mere smell of butter tea was enough to make Wen Xia faintly nauseous. She grabbed her little wooden stool and found herself a spot far from the canteen, tucked out of the wind, where she sat and contemplated the meaning of life.
The great Tibetan Mastiff lay quietly at her feet, occasionally butting his enormous head against her trouser leg.
Wen Xia, freeloading off the station as she was, felt too embarrassed to trouble anyone into cooking something special for her. She rummaged through her personal luggage and turned up a small bread roll that was nearly past its expiration date. Better than nothing, she told herself — Veterinarian Wen resigned herself to the situation, peeled back the wrapper, and was just about to take a bite when she suddenly felt the scorching weight of someone’s gaze.
She turned around and found a small boy, five or six years old, standing three paces away. His cheeks carried the deep reddish-purple flush common among people of the plateau, and he was bundled up in a dirt-yellow cotton padded jacket, round as a little dumpling. This “Little Dumpling” had a pair of pitch-black eyes fixed unblinkingly on the small bread roll in Wen Xia’s hands, his expression best described as “mouth-watering.”
Wen Xia smiled and waved him over. “Come here — I’ll give you the bread.”
The little boy shuffled over inch by inch along the wall, not saying a word, eyes glued pitifully to the bread roll in her hand.
Not wanting him to choke by eating too fast, Wen Xia tore the bread into strips and fed them to him piece by piece, asking gently, “What’s your name? Do you have family here at the station?”
The little boy kept his head down and ate with single-minded determination.
By the time the bread roll was gone, Wen Xia still hadn’t managed to learn the boy’s name. She laughed to herself and ruffled his hair, muttering, “Takes the food and won’t even introduce himself — you little rascal…”
Before she could finish the sentence, the little boy suddenly lifted his head, looked past Wen Xia’s shoulder, and called out in a clear, bright voice: “Aba!”
Wen Xia nearly jumped out of her skin and almost toppled off her stool. She spun around in a panic — and found herself looking at two long, straight legs.
Her gaze traveled upward along those legs: single-edged eyelids, brows with a slight break at the tail, eyes cold and sharp as a blade.
It was Li Zechuan.
Li Zechuan stepped past Wen Xia and scooped the little boy up in his arms. “What kind of man steals snacks from a little girl?” he said. “Aren’t you embarrassed?”
Standing to one side and listening, Wen Xia felt utterly helpless. Your family’s system for telling big from small is truly remarkable, she thought. A five or six-year-old child is a full-grown man, but a twenty-five-or-six-year-old adult is a little girl?
Wait — that wasn’t the point. The point was: why had this child just called Li Zechuan Aba?
She had chased after this man for so long, and he’d already gone and had a son — one who would come and beg for her bread on top of it!
Li Zechuan carried the little boy and headed in the direction of the dormitory. Wen Xia picked up her little stool and trailed along behind, dragging her feet.
Li Zechuan suddenly stopped and turned around. Wen Xia walked straight into the metal button on his chest; it sent a sharp, stinging pain through her nose.
Wen Xia clutched her nose in aggrieved outrage. “After everything I’ve done for you! I used up my last rations feeding your son, and now you ambush me?! Give me back my bread roll! And you owe me a nose!”
Li Zechuan’s expression was laced with amusement. “It was just a bread roll,” he said. “One of these days I’ll have the boy’s mother make some traditional Tibetan pastries for you — consider that your apology.”
Wen Xia pressed her lips together. “Is he really yours? Who’s his mother? When did you two meet?”
Before Li Zechuan could respond, “Little Dumpling” beat him to it. He wrapped both arms around Li Zechuan’s neck and declared, “He really is my Aba! I’m not lying! You can go ask my teachers and classmates — everyone knows. I have an incredibly handsome Aba!”
If everyone knew, then it must be true.
A cold, hollow feeling spread through Wen Xia’s chest. Not only had he found someone else — he had a child with her.
She had traveled a thousand miles to reach him, only to find she was still one step too late.
Li Zechuan watched the emotions cross Wen Xia’s face. He pinched “Little Dumpling’s” cheek and said, as if deliberately: “Tell the older sister your name and how old you are.”
“Little Dumpling” held out one chubby little hand, fingers spread wide. “My name is Nima Jiangcai! It means the rays of light shining under the sun. I’m five years old!”
Wen Xia had not yet recovered. She still stood there with her head bowed, a picture of profound sorrow.
Li Zechuan let out a quiet sigh, shifted little Nima in his arms, and walked away.
Toward evening, Nuobu came out with a bucket of water to wash the car, and Wen Xia, having just finished cleaning out the small sheep pen, grabbed a cloth and went to help.
Nuobu was a temporary hire at the protection station, normally responsible for vehicle maintenance and pressed into service as a driver whenever they were short-handed.
Wen Xia maneuvered the conversation in every direction she could think of, trying to steer it toward Li Zechuan, wanting to learn more about him from Nuobu.
Two years of going their separate ways, separated by immeasurable distance and the long passage of time — she wanted to know what he had lived through, and she wanted to find her way back into his life.
Nuobu was a talker by nature, perfectly capable of entertaining himself in conversation for hours on end; with someone there to respond, he was even more unstoppable. He opened the floodgates without needing much encouragement at all.
Nuobu told Wen Xia that Li Zechuan had come to Kekexili two years ago, as a volunteer, back when the old station chief was still alive and Ma Siming was only the deputy.
When Li Zechuan had first arrived at Kekexili, he was lean and angular, with a proud, disdainful look about him. He spent all day with a large camera with a telephoto lens slung around his neck, walking around taking photograph after photograph, never smiling unless he was speaking — otherworldly and aloof in a way that made it very hard for people to warm to him.
Nobody knew why he had come here. Nobody liked him either. The hot-tempered Lian Kai had nearly come to blows with him. Only the old station chief held steadfast to the belief that he was a good man, a good young person.
The old station chief asked Li Zechuan if he would like a Tibetan name. That handsome young man had visibly startled, then slowly nodded, and — remarkably — a faint trace of shyness appeared on his face.
The old station chief smiled and said: Sang Ji, then.
It was much later that Li Zechuan learned that in Tibetan, Sang Ji meant kind.
Thinking of the camera, Wen Xia furrowed her brow and turned to Nuobu. “He came to Kekexili as a volunteer — so why did he end up joining the forestry police? And what happened to his camera? I haven’t seen him take a single photograph since I’ve been here.”
Nuobu visibly swallowed, and said quietly, “Sang Ji’s business isn’t something I’d dare to just go around talking about. You’d better ask him.”
Wen Xia sighed, poked Nuobu on the forehead in exasperation. “You coward! You useless little crumpet!”
Nuobu rubbed his forehead without a trace of resentment, cheerfully dipping his cloth back into the water to wipe down the car window. Halfway through, he seemed to remember something. He bumped Wen Xia’s shoulder and said: “Do you know why Sang Ji came to Kekexili in the first place? I’ve asked him so many times and he won’t say. You two knew each other before — you must know!”
This time it was Wen Xia who went silent.
Why had Li Zechuan come to Kekexili?
Because, as his mother lay dying, she had looked up at him with a smile and said:
Don’t be foolish. How could I ever love you.
Every misery of my life began with you. Without you, I would not have become what I am.
I curse you — may you be as wretched and broken as I am…
Those words, each one a drop of blood, had never stopped ringing in his ears — even now, years later.
Wait.
Li Zechuan had come to Kekexili two years ago. How could he have a five-year-old son? Was he operating as a remote parent?
Wen Xia spun around and seized Nuobu by the collar. “That child — Nima Jiangcai — what exactly is his relationship with Li Zechuan? Father and son? Biological?”
Nuobu startled so hard he began to stammer. “N-Nima is the old station chief’s grandson. The old station chief’s son was a soldier — he made the ultimate sacrifice before Nima was even born. Nima’s mother gave birth to him and then remarried and left. The old station chief raised the child on his own. Then — then the old station chief was gone, and the child was placed with relatives. Nima loves Sang Ji more than anyone. When school lets out for a holiday, Sang Ji brings him to the station to stay a few days. Some kids at school used to bully Nima — called him an unwanted child with no father. When Sang Ji found out, he put on his uniform and went straight to the school. He stood up in front of all those kids and told them: Nima has a father. He is Nima’s father.”
What Nuobu didn’t know — because he hadn’t been there — was that Li Zechuan had simply stood on the classroom stage and given a military salute. That single image of him, handsome and sharp-edged, had sent a wave of excitement through the entire school. Female teachers had been sending letters to the protection station ever since — one a week, without fail, rain or shine.
Wen Xia stamped her foot in frustration and flung the cloth back into the bucket.
So that was what was going on. She’d been played by that insufferable brat again!
Nuobu jumped back from the splashing water and stuttered, “W-w-what’s wrong?”
Wen Xia, bristling with righteous fury: “I’m going to find your Sang Ji and make him answer for this! I’ll make sure he understands exactly what he’s done!”
(2)
Nuobu had no time to stop her. He could only watch as Wen Xia stormed toward the corrugated iron building where the forestry police handled their daily work, murder in her stride.
Before Wen Xia could even raise her foot to kick the door open, it swung open from the inside. Li Zechuan strode out in full uniform, directing three forestry officers to their respective vehicles. Wen Xia planted herself in his path and demanded to know what was happening.
Li Zechuan glanced at her. “A herder has reported finding bloodstains and antelope carcasses near Kekexili Lake — suspected poaching activity. We’re heading out tonight.”
Every playful impulse left Wen Xia at once. “I’ll get my medical kit,” she said.
Li Zechuan gave a single nod. “Move fast.”
Zhaxi stayed behind at the station. Nuobu drove the Beijing Jeep, carrying Lian Kai and the reporting herder who was serving as their guide. Wen Xia sat in the backseat of the Humvee, clutching her medical kit with the Tibetan Mastiff beside her; Ke Lie took the front passenger seat, and Li Zechuan drove.
No sooner had Wen Xia settled in than Li Zechuan tossed something toward her over his shoulder. She reached out in a hurry and caught it — only when she pulled it into her lap did she realize it was a pair of high-cut mountaineering boots.
Without turning around, Li Zechuan said, “Those short combat boots you’re wearing aren’t cold-climate issue — poor waterproofing, poor insulation. Wear these.”
Had Lian Kai been the one in the front passenger seat, he would surely have added with a smirk: Those boots are top quality, by the way. Da Chuan specifically told the procurement officer to go to the best military supply shop in the city — paid out of his own pocket. Priceless, the sentiment.
But it was Ke Lie who had witnessed the exchange, and this man — naturally a man of few words — didn’t spare so much as a sideways glance, his gaze fixed on the world outside the car window, lost entirely in his own thoughts.
The vehicle drove on in the direction of the setting sun. Daylight faded by degrees. Now and then, silhouettes of nimble wild animals appeared at the far edge of the headlights, trailing long clouds of dust as they ran. Wen Xia pressed herself against the car window, captivated. “Are those Tibetan antelopes?”
Ke Lie turned to look and said, “Wild donkeys. They’re clever animals — they can dig holes with their hooves to find water, and the antelopes sometimes follow behind them to drink what’s left. They’re mischievous, too — fearless, fond of racing cars. Once, out on a patrol, Da Chuan got into it with a herd of wild donkeys. A whole group of them chased the vehicle for over ten kilometers across the wilderness. The old station chief was so furious his blood pressure spiked. He yelled at Da Chuan to go find himself a spot in the desert to self-immolate and not bother coming back.”
It was rare for Ke Lie to speak at such length. The severity that usually settled between his brows softened, and he looked genuinely relaxed.
Li Zechuan said, “No matter how intelligent, animals are still animals. A fear of light is instinct, and poachers know how to use it — they always move at night. Gunshots are too loud and easy to notice, so they invented quieter methods instead: a metal bar welded across the front bumper, fitted with all manner of sharp projections. Tibetan antelopes, wild donkeys — whatever it is, the moment the headlights blind them, they freeze. The poachers just floor the accelerator and drive straight through. The animals are impaled alive — torn into a bloody mass of flesh. An entire herd of antelopes, not one escaping.”
Wen Xia’s chest tightened. “I should have brought more medicine,” she murmured.
Li Zechuan caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. “It wouldn’t have helped. Poachers don’t leave their prey any chance of being saved. Every strike they make is intended to kill — no amount of medicine can wrestle a life back from death.”
The cold feeling in Wen Xia’s chest deepened. When she looked out the window again, her gaze carried a new and heavy weight.
Li Zechuan continued, “Besides the gunmen responsible for the killing, there are also men in the crew whose only job is to skin. Two minutes is all it takes to strip a complete hide from an antelope’s body. The hide is torn away while the animal is still alive. The flayed creature runs on for a long distance, slick with blood, shaking in agony. Vultures circle overhead, waiting for the moment to dive — while the animal is still breathing, they tear it apart alive.”
Wen Xia’s mind was filled with visions of carnage. The color drained from her face with startling speed. She leaned over the half-lowered window and retched, her throat burning raw.
“Da Chuan,” Ke Lie said, frowning, “that’s enough.”
“They particularly favor pregnant ewes,” Li Zechuan went on. “Apparently the wool of a pregnant ewe produces the finest cashmere.” He steered with one hand on the wheel and used the other to angle the rearview mirror until it was aimed directly at Wen Xia’s face. He watched her through the glass. “An inexperienced skinner doesn’t know the right technique — one slash across the belly, and a fully formed lamb drops out still warm, trailing its umbilical cord. The worst cases are the attacks on lambing grounds. The mothers are skinned; the newborns, left without shelter, can only press themselves against the raw red flesh of their mothers for warmth. The vultures wait just a short distance away — the moment the poachers turn their backs, the birds descend and tear the lambs apart while they’re still alive. Tens of thousands of animals — wiped out within a single day. Blood flowing like rivers, and still—”
“You won’t scare me away.” Wen Xia wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. She, too, was looking at the rearview mirror now — her gaze piercing through the glass and straight into Li Zechuan’s eyes.
“No matter how terrible this place is,” she said, “I won’t leave. Wherever you stay, I’ll stay. You are what I believe in. Li Zechuan — I will outlast you in this lifetime. Until one of us stops breathing.”
Even Ke Lie’s eyes flickered with a brief, moved light. Li Zechuan remained as impassive as ever, offering only a faint smile — unhurried, offhand.
The sun had sunk below the horizon. The sky at the edge of the world erupted in a light the color of blood, and the wind swept the dust and smoke of the desolate wilderness toward them from afar — immense, and achingly sorrowful.
A flock of bar-headed geese flew past in formation. Wen Xia’s gaze chased after them until they disappeared. No matter how stubborn her expression, there was something wounded shining through her eyes.
Time passed. The sky turned entirely black. Then Li Zechuan slammed on the brakes — the tires shrieked against the ground. Wen Xia heard Ke Lie make a quiet sound of surprise and murmur, “What is that?”
The headlights cast a harsh, pale-yellow cone of light through the windshield. Within it, Wen Xia could make out a massive dark shape crouched in the road ahead.
Enormous. Long-haired. A pair of crescent-shaped curved horns sweeping from the top of its head. Its nostrils flared and contracted rhythmically, breathing out great plumes of white vapor.
A fully grown wild yak.
The Tibetan Mastiff in the back seat sensed the danger; he lowered his head and emitted a deep, threatening growl in his throat.
Li Zechuan made a silencing gesture and said quietly, “A wild yak raises its tail as a warning before it charges — it’s not showing any intent to attack right now. We should avoid provoking it. That animal is extraordinarily powerful. Once enraged, it will charge until it exhausts itself or dies. The Humvee isn’t armored — it can’t win a contest with that thing.”
Wen Xia held the Tibetan Mastiff close and nodded repeatedly.
Ke Lie picked up the vehicle radio and spoke to the crew in the Beijing Jeep: “Wild yak territory tends to draw wolves. Keep your eyes open.”
Lian Kai’s reply came back: “Understood.”
The seconds ticked by. The situation at Kekexili Lake remained unknown, and the wild yak stood in front of the Humvee like a boulder, completely immovable.
Nuobu’s patience broke first. He muttered over the radio, “What does it even want?”
Li Zechuan keyed the channel and snapped, “Not a sound!”
Nuobu let out a whimper and obediently folded himself into the corner.
Li Zechuan stared at the yak’s great dark shadow for a long moment, then said suddenly: “Hand me the medical kit.”
Wen Xia’s heart lurched. “I’m the veterinarian,” she said at once. “I’ll go.”
Li Zechuan reached across and pulled the kit directly from her, his hand brushing across her cheek in the motion — ice-cold to the touch, faintly rough. Wen Xia’s heart shifted, and Li Zechuan looked at her and said: “Standing up, you’d still be shorter than that yak. Stay in the car like a good girl.”
Wen Xia pressed her lips together. Li Zechuan gave Ke Lie’s shoulder a brief pat, opened the door, and jumped out.
Ke Lie slid into the driver’s seat. In the shifting light and shadow, Wen Xia watched Li Zechuan’s retreating figure with her heart lodged somewhere in her throat.
The moonlight was cool and white. In every direction stretched an endless, featureless wilderness. Li Zechuan had tucked the cuffs of his camouflage trousers into his high-cut boots; each footfall rang against the ground with a clear, solid sound.
The enormous wild yak snorted in wariness, its broad, round front hooves pawing the earth uneasily.
Li Zechuan spread his arms to shoulder height, the medical kit in his right hand. He turned a slow circle where he stood, showing the animal he posed no threat, then began walking toward the massive creature with an unhurried, almost leisurely air.
As Li Zechuan drew closer, the wild yak remained uneasy but did not take on any obvious aggressive stance.
Wen Xia held her breath by half, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the yak’s every movement until they ached — she dared not look away for even a second.
Li Zechuan reached the wild yak and casually pulled a handful of nameless scrub grass from the ground. He skirted carefully around those crescent horns, then tentatively laid his tactical-gloved hand against the animal’s flank. That creature, so famed for its strength, proved unexpectedly docile and let out a soft snort.
“Easy now. Don’t be afraid.” Li Zechuan held the scrub grass up to the animal’s muzzle. “Did you get hurt somewhere? Or did someone give you trouble?”
A strange feeling swept through him without warning — as if the wind itself had shifted. Li Zechuan lunged sideways in the same instant. The acrid sweetness of blood and the sharp crack of a gunshot tore open the ancient night of Kekexili simultaneously, and the wild yak’s immense body crashed to the ground.
Li Zechuan drew the Type 92 pistol holstered at his waist, dropped to a prone firing position, and returned fire. Bullets whistled into the dark. On the wind came the sound of shattering glass.
Nuobu reacted with lightning speed — the Beijing Jeep tore off in the direction the shot had come from.
Li Zechuan vaulted into the Humvee’s front passenger seat in two strides. The muzzle of his pistol still trailed the ghost of gunpowder smoke. He pointed sharply ahead and commanded: “Ten o’clock! Go!”
The sort of high-speed chase you see in films was impossible here — Kekexili had no roads, only lakes, glaciers, fields of ice and sand, and a great deal of marshland; one wrong move and you were swallowed whole.
Dust and grit erupted into the air. Wen Xia had never heard a firearm discharge at such close range before. She went pale, set her jaw, and sealed her fear away behind her teeth.
High beams blazing, accelerator flat to the floor, Ke Lie’s formidable driving skills finally had their true test: the Humvee skimmed the surface of the rocky wilderness like a creature hugging the earth — like a monster crawling low. The shooter lacked Ke Lie’s skill; before long, Li Zechuan’s eyes picked out the silhouette of a battered gold-colored truck.
The Humvee and the Beijing Jeep bore down from left and right, clamping onto it like jaws that had no intention of letting go — as though they meant to bite a chunk off the “Little Gold Bull.”
The Type 92 Black Star pistol was a beautiful weapon, but its effective range was only fifty meters — in a chase like this, it was next to useless. Li Zechuan hauled a Type 56 assault rifle from beneath the passenger seat, snapped in the magazine, and chambered a round in one fluid motion — practiced, wild, entirely at ease.
Ke Lie spared a glance. “How many rounds do we have left?”
Li Zechuan had an empty cartridge casing clenched between his teeth. Beneath his single-edged eyelids seethed a cold and killing intent. “Twenty.”
Ke Lie let out a very quiet sigh.
The Type 56’s magazine held thirty rounds. What they had now wouldn’t even fill one. Shortage of supplies had always been the greatest obstacle facing frontline workers like them.
“Twenty is enough,” Li Zechuan said. “If I can’t catch these bastards, I’ll shoot myself and offer it up as a sacrifice.” Then he reached over, grabbed the radio, and said to the other vehicle: “I’ll handle the tires — Lao Lei, cut them off at the side. Keep your nerve. If you clip them, that’s on me.”
The “Little Gold Bull’s” outline grew sharper. The driver had some brains — he was tracing wild, sweeping S-curves across the open wilderness. With the Humvee and the Beijing Jeep pressing in from either side, he was forced onto a straight line.
Ke Lie adjusted his speed and smoothed the Humvee’s trajectory. Li Zechuan dropped the window and thrust most of his upper body out into the open. The wind hit him like a slap, carrying waves of grit and sand that struck his face like a palm — his cheeks flared with sharp pain. Out of long habit he licked his cracked lips, held the assault rifle steady in his outstretched hands, and locked onto his target.
Ke Lie watched his movements and adjusted speed and angle in precise response. Li Zechuan pressed the rifle to his shoulder, narrowed his eyes, and squeezed off a sustained burst. Tracer rounds streaked through the dark. The “Little Gold Bull” blew a tire instantly. The smell of gunpowder dispersed rapidly through the still of the long night.
The crippled “Little Gold Bull” lost control and veered sharply to one side. The Beijing Jeep accelerated to full speed, drove in from the side, and rammed it savagely — shoving it square into a low earthen mound about a meter high.
A tremendous crash. Dust exploded in all directions. Lian Kai and Nuobu were thrown violently forward inside the cab — without their seatbelts, they would have gone straight through the windshield. The herder acting as their guide had long since gone white with fright, curled up in the back seat, shaking without pause.
The Humvee blocked the front of the “Little Gold Bull,” leaving long streaks of tire marks carved into the earth. Before the vehicle had even fully stopped, Li Zechuan kicked open his door and jumped out. His upright silhouette cut through the swirling dust like an avenging spirit returned from the mouth of death.
The Tibetan Mastiff was so agitated he was clawing at the door. Wen Xia opened it and let him out, then stepped down from the vehicle herself.
The wind howled. From somewhere far away came the bone-chilling sound of wolves.
Yuanbao reared half-upright and snarled with frenzied intensity. Li Zechuan raised his pistol one-handed, barrel aimed at the sky, and delivered a tremendous kick to the half-caved-in door of the “Little Gold Bull.” “Hands behind your head,” he commanded. “Out!”
A brief silence — then a stuttering voice from inside the cab: “The d-door is blocked… we c-can’t get out…”
Li Zechuan tilted his chin toward Nuobu. The Beijing Jeep reversed a short distance.
The door swung open. Two Khampa men in military overcoats climbed out one after the other, hands clasped behind their heads, crouching in a row against the earthen mound. Yuanbao leaped barking into the cab and dragged a double-barreled shotgun out from beneath the seat. He gave his enormous head a powerful toss — the shotgun landed squarely at Li Zechuan’s feet.
Li Zechuan hooked the sling of the shotgun with his heel and kicked it back behind him. Ke Lie, standing at his rear, caught it from the air and in the blink of an eye reduced it to a pile of clattering components on the ground.
Li Zechuan’s gaze was cold and cutting, running over the two Khampa men like a blade. “Who fired that shot?” he said, his voice low. “Step forward of your own accord. If you turn yourself in voluntarily, you’ll be dealt with more leniently.”
The two men seemed to have agreed on this in advance — neither moved, neither spoke.
Li Zechuan’s brow creased. His peripheral vision caught Wen Xia standing to one side. He made a gesture to Lian Kai. Lian Kai took the assault rifle from Li Zechuan’s hands and leveled the barrel at the two Khampa men. “You have one minute to decide,” he said, his voice hard. “Confess willingly, or wait for me to drag it out of you. Don’t think your silence leaves me without options.”
While Lian Kai questioned them, Nuobu and Ke Lie automatically fanned out to take up perimeter positions — the unspoken understanding of partners who had worked together for years.
Li Zechuan turned away, pulling off his gloves, and pressed one hand into a fist and raised it to his lips, clearing his throat a few times — softly.
He had a mild case of bronchitis, made worse by smoke and dust; spending his days in the ever-present sand and grit of Kekexili, he had developed a persistent cough — and a smoking habit on top of it.
Li Zechuan unwrapped a mint candy and tucked it under his tongue, then walked to Wen Xia’s side. He took hold of her shoulders and turned her so that her back was to the two Khampa men. “I want to smoke,” he said. “Walk with me and find somewhere out of the wind.”
Wen Xia’s face and thoughts had both gone blank. She let the pressure of his hands guide her through a half-turn — and then, from behind her, came a muffled grunt of pain. She started to turn back. Li Zechuan raised his hand and covered her eyes. “Don’t look,” he said quietly.
Wen Xia bit her lip and followed Li Zechuan toward the sheltered side.
Kekexili was covered in low, irregular earthen mounds — not tall, not short. Li Zechuan chose one that seemed suitable and settled in against it like a cat finding its hollow. He struck a match one-handed; a flash of gold-red light blazed for a moment and died, and fine white threads of smoke drifted away like gauze.
He had deliberately chosen the downwind side, making certain the smoke wouldn’t drift toward Wen Xia on the night breeze.
He exhaled toward the ground — a smoke ring, not quite circular. As he raised his head, the light around him seemed to dim without warning. First the cigarette was plucked from between his fingers, and then warmth pressed against his lips — someone had kissed him.
A light, tentative tongue parted his teeth and slipped inside. Li Zechuan breathed in that faint, familiar fragrance again — soft, sweet — tangled together with the bite of tobacco and the cool edge of mint. The combination lingered on the palate, intoxicating.
Wen Xia heard her own heartbeat — thud, thud, thud — like a restless rabbit she’d hidden away in her chest, two long ears upright, bouncing ceaselessly.
Li Zechuan’s lips were thin. Looking at them, you’d think they’d be sharp-edged, like an ancient blade that had just been honed — but when he kissed, they were unexpectedly soft. He seemed to have been caught entirely off guard, for he made no move to pull away. He only blinked, his lashes drawing together slightly, casting a lattice of fine shadows.
Wen Xia rubbed the tip of her nose gently against Li Zechuan’s cold cheek and said quietly, “A book I read once said that nicotine can calm the heartbeat and suppress fear. So I came to borrow a little from you — the man who can’t quit smoking. Don’t be stingy. Share.”
Li Zechuan had eyes with an unusually deep and intense color. All the starlight in the sky poured into them, pooling into a sea that rose and fell.
He was disoriented for a heartbeat — then collected himself at once. He turned his head quickly to pull away from Wen Xia’s persistence and changed the subject with a random question: “Were you frightened? When the shot rang out, when you smelled the blood, when we came face-to-face with the poachers — were you afraid?”
Wen Xia nodded. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “A little,” she said softly. “Just a very small amount. Give me a little more time — I’ll get my footing. I won’t be a burden to you. I promise.”
The urge to cough rose again in his throat. Li Zechuan suppressed it and said, “You don’t have to be like us. You don’t need to change anything for me. This place was never somewhere you were meant to come.”
Wen Xia was still for a moment, then looked up at him. “What do you mean by that?”
Li Zechuan pressed the cigarette end into the sand and ground it out. He leaned back against the earthen mound with his arm behind his head, unhurried. “Exactly what the words say. Don’t waste your time on me. Don’t try to move me with sentiment — it won’t work.”
Wen Xia pressed her lips together. “You’re still holding onto what happened two years ago, aren’t you? I’ve already let it go — so why do you need to—”
“I’m not holding onto anything.” Li Zechuan cut her off, his voice nearly harsh. “From the day I left that city, I forgot everyone and everything connected to it. Including you. You should never have come here to disturb me, and you certainly shouldn’t have made me remember any of it.”
“So this is my fault?” Wen Xia stared at him in disbelief. “I searched for you — I endured hardship, I came here without hesitating, without a single thought for the cost or the danger — and in your eyes that is nothing but a mistake?”
“Yes.” Li Zechuan answered without a moment’s hesitation. “So please — go back the same way you came. I’ve worked hard to build a peaceful life. Your presence only throws everything back into chaos.”
Wen Xia drew a slow breath and steadied herself. She looked at him with a stubborn, unyielding expression. “I know you’re deliberately trying to provoke me,” she said. “It won’t work. I’m not giving up. We have a great deal of time ahead of us, and I am going to pull you out from under the shadow of the past. And you will come to care for me — I believe that.”
“Your self-confidence must have come in bulk,” Li Zechuan said, his tone carrying a faint edge of mockery as he glanced at her. “Buy-one-get-one promotion.”
He stood up and brushed the dust from his trousers. “Do whatever you like,” he said. “Just stay out of my way.”
As he moved past her, Wen Xia pressed her shoulder against his and blocked his path. She looked at him — her eyes shifting with a restless, rising light, like a small animal on the verge of losing its temper.
Just as Li Zechuan was certain she was about to slap him, Wen Xia suddenly lowered her head. A small metal spray bottle dropped into his hands.
Li Zechuan caught it automatically. Wen Xia said, “I remember you have mild bronchitis. This inhaler works well — I had someone bring it back from overseas. When you need to cough, don’t hold it in. And quit smoking if you can. When it’s windy and dusty outside, wear your mask. Take care of yourself. Don’t let your body fall apart.”
With that, Wen Xia walked back toward where the vehicles were parked, moving ahead of Li Zechuan — and as she walked, tears slid silently down her face. They hung from her cheeks, and the wind caught them, and they ran cold.
It really is cold, she thought. Cold all the way through.
How can a person be so infuriating? How can a person be so ungrateful?
Wen Xia pressed her hand over her eyes. Between her fingers, everything was wet and icy. My courage is nearly spent, she thought. Can’t you give me just a little hope to keep going? Even the smallest fantasy. Just a little.
(4)
By the time Li Zechuan returned to the vehicles, the interrogation was finished.
The “Little Gold Bull,” battered as it was, still had a full tank and could be driven. Ke Lie had used handcuffs and rope to bind the two Khampa men into a chain and secured them to the back seat of the Jeep.
Li Zechuan didn’t see Wen Xia. What he did see was the “Little Gold Bull’s” hood propped open, with Lian Kai half-buried inside it, fussing with something or other.
Li Zechuan propped one hand on the roof of the truck and gave the tire a kick. “Get anything useful out of them?” he asked.
Lian Kai cleared the fuel line and checked the brakes, then said at a leisurely pace, “They say that was a male wild yak. He came down from the mountain and made off with several domesticated female yaks from a village below — lured them away for mating. The village families are poor — they depend on that cattle for beef and cowhide to get through the winter. Losing that many cows at once had them furious and desperate, so they sent out two able-bodied men to deal with the beast causing them grief.”
Li Zechuan tapped his jaw with his knuckle. “Logically, it holds together.”
Lian Kai raised his eyes and glanced sideways at him. “Neither of them had developed trigger calluses, and there was no clear deformation in the hand bones of either man — neither of them is someone who handles a gun regularly. They’re not marksmen.”
Li Zechuan said nothing, only gave a single nod.
Lian Kai set down his repair work and stared at Li Zechuan’s profile for a long moment. He said, hesitantly: “Da Chuan — I’ve been thinking. That shot — was it meant for the wild yak? Or was it meant for you?”
A clean kill, efficient and precise — marksmanship like that was not something an ordinary herder possessed. If Li Zechuan’s instincts hadn’t been honed by years of living on the knife’s edge. If he hadn’t moved in time…
Li Zechuan cut off Lian Kai’s line of thought. “The wind’s been blowing strange lately. First, some reckless fool tries to enter the restricted zone with a fake map. Then two herders show up who turn out to be crack shots. Strange things don’t happen without reason. Let’s bring them back to the station for now and see if we can get anything more out of them under proper questioning.”
Lian Kai let out a low whistle and snapped the hood firmly shut.
Pressing on toward Kekexili Lake with two prisoners in tow wasn’t a wise move — fuel and supplies would both become serious problems. Ke Lie had an exceptional sense of direction; even during the full-throttle pursuit, he had kept an accurate mental map of the terrain and their position. He suggested they deal with the wild yak’s carcass first, then return to the station to regroup and resupply — setting out again for Kekexili Lake at first light tomorrow.
Li Zechuan agreed.
They had come with two vehicles and now had a third: the gold-colored pickup truck. Lian Kai was reassigned as its driver. Wen Xia kept her head down and followed Lian Kai to the passenger seat of the pickup — making it plainly obvious she was avoiding Li Zechuan.
Lian Kai leaned over his steering wheel and shot Li Zechuan a helpless smile.
Li Zechuan pretended not to notice anything. He narrowed his eyes and gave a sharp whistle — a sound as desolate and piercing as the wilderness itself, drawn out into a long echo by the wind. It rang through the night without ceasing, tangled together with the distant, recurring howl of wolves.
The Jeep carrying the two Khampa men took the lead; the Humvee brought up the rear; the “Little Gold Bull,” moving with somewhat impaired mobility, was sandwiched in between.
The atmosphere inside the pickup was a little subdued. Lian Kai steered with one hand and raked his other hand through his hair. “Hey,” he said. “Did you two have another fight?”
Wen Xia looked at him. Another? That word…
Lian Kai thought about it. “Da Chuan’s got a lot of good qualities — and a lot of difficult ones. He came to the station as a volunteer, recommended by the most respected overland club in the country. The first time anyone here laid eyes on him, there was a collective… moment. Sharp, handsome, good build — a kind of raw energy about him. Capable with his hands, too: brass knuckles, punch daggers, knife, assault rifle — whatever you handed him, he could work with it. And always that enormous telephoto camera around his neck. Magnificent, in every sense. But spend time with him and you quickly find the personality is a real challenge. Skilled, yes — but too solitary. Terrible to work alongside. Once we were talking, and I asked him why he came here. He said the outside world was too noisy, and he preferred places with fewer people — this was uninhabited land, so it suited him perfectly. I wanted to slap him across the face and tell him to wake up. Kekexili is not his stage for playing the brooding artist.”
Wen Xia couldn’t hold back a laugh — her eyes curved into crescents, shining with a glimmer of warmth and unshed tears.
Lian Kai went on. “What made me change my opinion of him was Yuanbao. You know Yuanbao — that dog at Da Chuan’s feet. Impressive-looking, isn’t he? Like a little lion. What you might not know is that dog is blind in one eye.”
Wen Xia blinked in surprise.
“One time Da Chuan went out to take photographs and came back with a little ball of fur tucked inside his jacket — that was Yuanbao, not yet a month old. Probably abandoned by someone.” Lian Kai drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he spoke, dredging up the memory. “Tibetan dogs are mostly fierce — they come out of the womb biting. Yuanbao was small and scrawny, with his bad eye, and the rest of us thought there was no place for a dog like that at a station like this. We told him to find a good home and give the dog away. The stubborn idiot wouldn’t hear it. Said the dog had come to him, so they were meant for each other — he’d keep it for a while. He got hold of goat’s milk and a bottle and raised that dog drop by drop, trimmed its coat, gave it baths, took it in for vaccinations — more careful and patient with it than anyone expected. That’s when I thought: This kid isn’t so bad. Cold on the outside, warm underneath.“
Wen Xia pictured Li Zechuan fumbling his way through bottle-feeding a tiny puppy, and a gentle smile spread across her lips. “He really is a very good person,” she said softly.
Lian Kai gave a short laugh. “The old station chief adored him — looked at him the way he would a son. At first I couldn’t understand it. I thought the old man had misjudged him. But then, one time out on a patrol in the mountains, a volunteer didn’t listen to instructions and went wandering off on his own — straight into a wolf pack. Da Chuan went to draw the wolves away so the others could escape. The volunteer panicked and ran without him — too afraid to say a word when he got back to camp. By the time we realized the count was off and tracked Da Chuan down, he was more dead than alive. But his eyes were still bright. When we asked what had happened — how he’d gotten back from the wolves in one piece — he told it to us clearly and in order, start to finish. And not a single word against that volunteer — no blame, no resentment. I was shaken, and I was impressed. This was a young man with not only iron in him but real generosity, real integrity. The old station chief hadn’t misjudged him at all.”
Wen Xia quietly tightened her grip on the hem of her jacket.
“When word got back to the station, the old station chief was beside himself — berated Da Chuan for not valuing his own life. He told me privately, more than once, to look after him. He said Li Zechuan might look cold and closed-off, but inside he burned hotter than any fire. He’d rather suffer himself than see others suffer. Give him an ounce of kindness and he’d return ten — that was the kind of boy he was.”
Wen Xia suddenly felt her eyes stinging. She sniffled, her voice thick when she spoke: “That’s someone who grew up so used to being abandoned that he never learned how to take care of himself. He never learned. Not once.”
The smile on Lian Kai’s face grew sad. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the Humvee’s great dark silhouette and continued, “Then the old station chief met with misfortune — shot through the chest by poachers. He was lucky to survive, but he was grievously wounded. Da Chuan carried the old man’s body across more than a hundred kilometers of open wilderness and collapsed on the side of the national highway — in temperatures forty degrees below zero. I still don’t know how he made it through. The day of the old station chief’s burial, he knelt before me for an entire night. Didn’t shed a single tear. Just knelt there, straight as a rod. I told him it wasn’t his fault — the blame lay with those vicious animals who did it. He didn’t speak. He turned and smashed every one of his cameras and lenses. From that day on he took every burden onto his own shoulders: the old station chief’s death, the safety of this land — he counted all of it as his own responsibility. Xiao Xia — in the two years Da Chuan has been here at Kekexili, it hasn’t been easy for him. He’s wound himself too tight. I’m afraid that one day he’s going to break.”
In that moment Wen Xia understood what Kekexili meant to Li Zechuan. This land had ground him down and it had saved him. It had let him shatter and find his way back to living. He and this extraordinary stretch of earth were sovereign over each other, each crowned king in the other’s world.
Tears fell onto the back of her hand, scattering into small blooms of water. Wen Xia said, her voice catching: “I know it hasn’t been easy for him. But what about me? When he disappeared without a word in our final year of university, I did everything I could to find out where he’d gone. When I learned he was in Kekexili, I followed without a second thought — hardship and all. But he pushes me away again and again, and says those cruel things — does he think I’m not capable of being hurt?”
Lian Kai hadn’t anticipated that his words would make Wen Xia cry. At a loss, he pounded the steering wheel several times in helpless agitation; the crippled little pickup lurched through an unsteady S-curve. “Don’t cry,” he said. “I’m not telling you all this to upset you — I just want to ask: can you hold on a little longer? Don’t give up on him yet. He’s got himself tangled up in his own head right now and can’t find his way out. Can you wait for him? Give him some time. Don’t let him stay isolated. Don’t let him spend his whole life alone.”
Wen Xia raised both hands and covered her face. Tears fell freely, one after another. She was angry at herself for being so weak — and heartbroken over Li Zechuan with a depth that had no bottom.
That man. He had endured the world’s shortcomings from childhood onward. He grew up in ice and snow, walking through untouched white plains, and forged himself a cold and remote nature out of it — and yet he was, underneath it all, extraordinarily kind.
He never knew how remarkable he was. He never once considered his own life worth protecting. He walked a road without sunlight, and everything — joy, sorrow, pain — he buried inside. He had made loneliness his natural state.
Lian Kai awkwardly produced a paper tissue and held it out to Wen Xia. “Hey,” he said, “you really have to stop — if Da Chuan sees you like this, I won’t have a single explanation that will save me!”
Wen Xia took the tissue and scrubbed at her face without care, her voice thick with tears. “Don’t worry about that. I’m not about to give up that easily. Li Zechuan doesn’t believe in love anymore — so I’ll be the one who makes him believe in it again.”
Her lashes trembled. A tear fell. Wen Xia raised her hand calmly and wiped it away, and from her eyes blazed a light that was soft and fierce at once — like the full, golden brilliance of noontime sun.
Lian Kai smiled, his hands steady on the wheel. He thought: The heavens have not been entirely unkind to that great fool after all — they sent him a good girl.
A good person meeting with good fortune — that really is a beautiful thing.