Swallow said Fatty and I were giving each other the cold shoulder like dung beetles—a foul standoff. It had only been a couple of days since we behaved, and now we were itching to cause trouble again by heading out to the grasslands of Horqin Left Wing Banner. However, our minds were made up; once we received the letter, we couldn't sit still. Better to strike while the iron was hot, as there was one last small lumber train heading out of the mountains the very next morning, downriver from the Chagan River at the logging camp. We had to catch that train to get out.

Since this was a trip for fun, not serious business, we didn't have the nerve to ask the Party Secretary for leave in person. We entrusted the matter to Swallow, bribing her with a promise to bring back lots of delicious food she’d never tasted from the grasslands. Fatty and I had nothing to pack; we were the very definition of proletarian bachelors, possessing absolutely nothing. We just pulled on our dog-skin hats, slung on a tattered military satchel, and slipped out of the village. We trekked through the mountains all night, finally reaching the tiny railway station dedicated to timber transport just as dawn broke.

The villagers had helped us load the lumber the night before. By the time we arrived, the train was already chugging, puffing white steam. Taking advantage of the old station attendant’s inattention, Fatty and I scrambled onto the last freight car, quietly lying prone atop the stacked and bound logs, waiting silently for departure.

By regulation, this small train was only allowed to transport timber to the main station outside the mountains; no one was permitted to sneak a ride. If the station attendant had spotted us before departure, no matter what grand explanations we offered, we would have been thrown off. Worse, we might have been accused of taking advantage of public property and forced to endure a criticism session. Thus, the endeavor was genuinely risky. Fatty and I had to remain hidden like a pair of spies, terrified of being discovered.

Despite our caution, we gave ourselves away. I had started getting a runny nose a couple of days earlier while trapping weasels in the mountains. The barefoot doctor in the village, nicknamed "Bànpianzi" (Mix-up), was a rather 'simple' local quack who treated both people and livestock. He prescribed some herbal medicine that did nothing to help. It was precisely at this moment, unable to hold it in any longer, that I let out a sneeze. I quickly covered my mouth with my hand, but the old station attendant still heard it.

Hearing the commotion, the old man saw people sneaking onto the train—unthinkable! He immediately puffed up, eyes blazing, and scurried over, intending to yank Fatty and me off the small train. But just then, with a sudden jolt, the train rumbled into motion. The engine gradually accelerated, shifting from slow to fast. The trees lining the tracks began to recede. Seeing that the station attendant could no longer catch us, Fatty and I instantly stopped caring about being discovered. With cheeky grins, we simultaneously ripped off our dog-skin hats and waved them gracefully at the old man in farewell, shouting in unison: "Farewell, Stierlitz!"

The little train we were riding could not possibly compare in speed to a mainline railway. Moreover, it shook and bucked violently. On board, we felt utterly ungrounded, with wind whipping past our ears, leaving us dizzy and disoriented. We had no energy left to admire the primeval forest scenery outside, where ancient trees towered overhead. We pulled our greatcoats tighter and hunched down in a sheltered spot behind the woodpile. Even so, this was far better than hiking out of the mountains; that journey was simply too long.

We took many winding detours along the way, which we shall not detail here. Suffice it to say that after more than a day, Fatty and I finally set foot on the grasslands of Horqin Left Wing Banner. If you look at the map of China shaped like a rooster, this vast grassland lies right at the rooster’s nape, a section of the Hulunbuir Grasslands, under the jurisdiction of the Hingan League, bordering the Hinggan League. The territory is immense, encompassing forest, pasture, and agricultural reclamation zones.

Horqin Left Wing Banner is segmented by several dry riverbeds left over from ancient river courses, making travel difficult and the area sparsely populated. First, we reached a youth settlement in the outer agricultural reclamation zone and managed to find out the location of the pasture where Ding Sitian had settled. Then, we hitched a ride on a passing Lele cart to enter the grassland. The Lele cart is a unique mode of transportation on the prairie; its large wheels, made of birch, elm, and other miscellaneous woods, have a diameter of over a meter. The herdsman driving the cart would yell "Lele, lele..." to urge the livestock forward.

This was our first time on the great Mongolian grasslands, and being there in person, we realized how different it was from our imagination. What passed for grassland was sparsely rooted in sand dunes, unevenly distributed. The grass grew in distinct tufts, and since it was autumn, almost every clump was knee-high. Though these grasses looked sparse and tall up close, looking out toward the horizon, the boundless prairie transformed into a yellowish-green ocean, stretching endlessly.

We listened to the melancholy songs of the Mongolian herdsmen as our bodies swayed with the carriage’s jolts while seated on the shafts. The autumn prairie was bitingly cold; floating clouds and wild grass, cold wind hitting our faces, flocks of wild geese crying mournfully as they flew overhead. According to local herdsmen, snow had begun to dust the grasslands a few days prior, though it hadn't accumulated. They guessed winter would arrive early this year, and just like in the mountains, preparations for the lean winter months needed to start immediately.

Fatty, having never been to the Northeast before, found it incredible that snow was falling so early in both the mountains and the grasslands. He muttered, wondering why the climate was so abnormal. "If winter comes early," he reasoned, "spring can’t be far off, right?" I told him, "The ancients said snow flies in the tenth month in Hudi (barbarian lands). Hudi refers to the territories beyond the frontier, and I think we’ve certainly entered a Hudi..."

While chatting idly on the Lele cart about the vast, distant scenery, our conversation drifted toward our comrade Ding Sitian, whom we were about to reunite with. Her image—pigtails tied up, wearing a military cap, dancing the loyalty dance on the train and teaching revolutionary songs to the passengers—had once struck Fatty and me as otherworldly. We thought she was too beautiful, too talented. At that time, perhaps we harbored nascent feelings of a crush, but given the social climate, we never voiced it directly, or maybe we hadn't even considered that angle. Only much later, as the years passed, did we realize such sentiments might have existed.

Now, with the reunion imminent, I felt my heart beginning to race. Could we elevate our revolutionary comradeship a step further? If so, I would stay on the grasslands and not return to the Greater Khingan Range. I immediately proposed to Fatty that he help me ask Ding Sitian what position I occupied in her heart.

Fatty immediately shook his head. "Come on, Old Hu, can we not be so impure? I was just about to ask you to help me ask her about my standing in her heart. Why are you asking me to go first for you?"

I thought to myself, So you have that greedy thought too, you rascal. I said to Fatty, "How have I treated you usually? Search your conscience. Comrade Lenin said forgetting the past means betrayal, didn't he?"

Fatty adopted his characteristic smug expression and replied, "You’ve certainly been good to me usually, treating me just like a real brother. That’s why I think... when the crucial moment comes, you’ll definitely think of me first. Isn’t that right? Isn’t it?" We argued for a long time, reaching a stalemate. Finally, we compromised: we decided to ask Ding Sitian on each other's behalf to see whose luck was better.

Just as we settled this matter, the Lele cart stopped before two yurts on the grassland. We saw Ding Sitian, dressed in a Mongolian robe with a kerchief tied around her head, milking a sheep. Upon seeing her, I almost didn’t recognize her; the change in attire was too drastic. If one didn't look closely, one might have mistaken her for a Mongolian girl. Ding Sitian was equally surprised by our sudden visit. She paused for a moment, then rushed over, embracing us, choked with emotion and unable to speak. Comrades reunited after a long separation always have endless things to say, but the myriad memories in their hearts leave them unsure where to begin.

This pasture was located in the northernmost region of Barag Left Banner, housing only three or four herdsmen families, including the sent-down youth. The entire area had no more than fifteen or sixteen people. Ding Sitian was settled with a herdsman named "Old Sheepskin" and his family. Besides the three of them, she had no one to talk to normally. Suddenly seeing her comrades from the great cultural exchange of the past, she burst into tears of joy.

I comforted Ding Sitian for a moment, briefly explaining how Fatty and I hadn't made it into the army and had ended up as sent-down youth in the Hinggan League. Ding Sitian sighed softly, seemingly deeply regretting it for us, but then she immediately rallied, saying, "We’re doing quite well now. Look how magnificent the scenery on our grassland is—the blue sky is our blanket, the earth is our bed, and sand-mixed rice tastes delicious! Life on the grasslands builds character. You must stay and play for a few days. Tomorrow I’ll take you horseback riding."

Grassland herdsmen place immense value on their horses and would never let outsiders ride their mounts. If a horse was ridden by an outsider or went missing, it was considered a terrible omen for the herdsman. Furthermore, horses were scarce here. I assumed we had no chance of riding and dismissed the thought, yet Ding Sitian told us that the local herdsman, "Old Sheepskin," wasn't Mongolian. He had fled from outside the Great Wall before Liberation and had lived on the grasslands for half his life. After Liberation, he simply became a herdsman and didn’t place much stock in the local taboos. If you got along with him, he wouldn't mind you riding his horses.

I knew that behind Ding Sitian’s optimistic attitude lay a deeper resignation to fate. How could sand-mixed rice taste delicious? Still, I knew better than to voice any dispiriting words. So, I asked her to introduce us to the herdsman "Old Sheepskin" and his family. Having lived on the grasslands for half his life, "Old Sheepskin" still had a strong northwestern accent. He said we arrived at the perfect time: they were slaughtering a cow and a sheep that very evening to feast guests from afar. Herdsmen and youth from nearby would be arriving at dusk.

When Fatty and I heard this news, we couldn’t stop grinning. The herdsmen on the prairie were truly hospitable! We had only heard stories before, but now we were truly impressed. They were slaughtering a cow right as we arrived, and a sheep too! How embarrassing; we shouldn't accept such treatment, especially since we arrived empty-handed. We should have brought some local specialties as gifts. However, having long heard the fame of hand-held mutton, we decided to drop all pretenses today. What time do you usually eat around here?

Ding Sitian laughed from the side, "Don’t treat yourselves like outsiders. We are slaughtering a sheep today because this pasture suffered several natural disasters this year. But thanks to the herdsmen’s selfless protection of collective property, no losses were sustained. The League declared us a model for 'Learning from Dazhai in Agriculture.' Because the Inner Mongolian grasslands are near the border, they are under military administration. Therefore, the higher authorities—the Revolutionary Committee—sent an official here to take photographs and report on the model heroes’ deeds. The sheep is being slaughtered to entertain him. You just happened to arrive at the right time; otherwise, I couldn't have treated you to fresh mutton."

Only then did I understand the situation. I had been happy for nothing—it turned out this grand feast was for someone else. And calling the pasture a model for learning from Dazhai? How could a pastoral area compare to Dazhai? Still, since they were creating a model, we had no right to question it. Whether I was there or not was irrelevant; we should be content just to freeload a mutton dinner.

Before it got dark, the nearby herdsmen families and youth trickled in. Including us and Old Sheepskin’s family, there were only about twenty people in total. Sent-down youth made up half the group. Though we didn't know the other youth, once they mentioned being sent-down youth, everyone became "sworn siblings," similar to adopting sworn brothers in the old society. Our shared fate eliminated any distance between us, and we mingled easily in no time. As dusk approached, the prairie sunset clouds painted the horizon, the most beautiful time of day. Some of the youth borrowed a camera from the official, and everyone gathered for a group photo, happily awaiting the evening feast.

Ding Sitian and I helped "Old Sheepskin" catch the sheep designated for slaughter from the pen. I felt the day was wonderfully spent. Seeing the sunset's deep red cast over the undulating western mountains, I felt a desire to travel further. I told "Old Sheepskin" that tomorrow I wanted to borrow a few horses so Sitian could take us deep into the grasslands for a ride.

Upon hearing this, "Old Sheepskin's" face changed drastically. He warned me that we couldn't go that way. The end of the grassland borders the Mongolian Loess Plateau, the area connected to the Great Mongolian Desert. Deep in the grasslands was a place called the "Cave of a Hundred Eyes." He admitted that during the "Destroy the Four Olds" campaign, people were afraid to speak certain things, but because we were friends of Sitian, he dared tell us plainly: The "Cave of a Hundred Eyes" held a pitch-black demon dragon. Any herdsman or livestock that approached that area was swallowed by the Dragon King and never returned. If it weren't for the threat of the lean winter this year, the herdsmen wouldn't dare graze their livestock in the meadows so close to the "Cave of a Hundred Eyes." Who would dare venture further into the grassland? If we disturbed the demon dragon, even the Eternal Heaven couldn't save us.

Seeing how earnestly "Old Sheepskin" spoke, I couldn't help but find it amusing. This was utter nonsense. A dragon on the grasslands? And a demon dragon that swallowed people and livestock? Such tales might fool children, but did he think Hu Bayi would believe it?

Seeing my disbelief, "Old Sheepskin" recounted an incident from decades ago. He was herding sheep for a Mongolian noble called "Bayan" (Wealthy Man) on the grasslands and had heard the terrifying legends of the northern desert dragon. As a result, the grassland near the "Cave of a Hundred Eyes" had become an unspoken taboo zone for local herdsmen. If livestock were lost there, no one dared search; whether person or horse, once they entered, they never came back. Once, a group of people came from the mountainous regions of the Northeast, carrying an old, large chest that looked like a coffin, carrying unknown contents. This group seized "Old Sheepskin's" brother, held a gun to his head, and forced him to lead the way to the "Cave of a Hundred Eyes." "Old Sheepskin" secretly followed, hoping to rescue his brother, but he didn't dare go closer to the cave. He watched helplessly as his own brother, led by that group, entered and was never seen again.

"Old Sheepskin" swore solemnly that he had seen the black demon dragon with his own eyes that time, so terrified he nearly wet himself. He dared not approach again. From then on, he had nightmares every night and hated himself for his cowardice—watching his own brother walk the path to the Yellow Springs without having the courage to save him.

I saw his sincere testimony and that his demeanor was not feigned, so I naturally sympathized with his brother's fate. But I simply couldn't believe in dragons in this world. Shaking my head, I told "Old Sheepskin," "The creature you saw... perhaps you misidentified it? I suspect it might have been a giant black python? Some pythons are as thick as a water bucket and could easily be mistaken for a dragon."

"Old Sheepskin's" gaze upon me suddenly turned grave. He pointed to the sky: "Young man, do you think this old fellow, at my age, has been living in vain, unable to tell the difference between a snake and a dragon? What great python can fly? I clearly saw that divine... that divine being was a dragon in the sky, in the heavens."