Following the gaze of the herdsman “Old Sheepskin,” I instinctively looked up at the sky, where heavy clouds piled up from directly overhead all the way to the horizon. His last words echoed in my mind: that “dragon” was in the sky.

With that, “Old Sheepskin” said no more and silently went to a side area to slaughter a sheep. I stared at the sky, lost in thought for a good while, still harboring doubt about his words. Just then, the grassland began to bustle; everyone was helping prepare for the evening feast, so I couldn't press him further. I turned and rejoined the ranks of the sent-down youth.

There are many taboos in slaughtering livestock in the pastoral areas. For instance, after a kill, one must absolutely never utter words like “what a pity” or “it would have been better not to kill,” because saying such things supposedly leaves the animal's spirit behind to cause trouble. Furthermore, no ridden ox or horse, no livestock that has aided its master, and no mother animal that has produced much offspring or milk should ever be killed. Since the sent-down youth were outsiders, the herdsmen were reluctant to let them help with the slaughter. The tasks of skinning and cooking were also generally kept away from us.

Thus, after the cattle and horses were penned, those of us sent-down youth had nothing to do but wait for the meal. Night finally fell; the sky was like a vast canopy covering the wilderness. Bonfires were lit in front of the herdsmen's yurts on the prairie, and the herdsmen gradually brought out large platters of food steeped in Mongolian flavor—an entire roasted sheep banquet, accompanied by things like blood sausage and tripe, dishes we had never encountered. Smelling the unique sweet fragrance of dairy products drifting across the night air, we couldn't help but swallow our saliva repeatedly.

Fatty and I hadn’t eaten lunch, and seeing all this delicious food made our appetites surge. Just as Fatty was about to reach out and grab a piece of hand-cut meat, “Old Sheepskin” rapped his knuckles with his pipe stem. It turned out that the cadres who had traveled a long way had to speak a few words to everyone first.

The speech was nothing more than the usual stale rhetoric popular at assemblies during those times. The cadre, surnamed Ni, was about thirty, with a thin face behind thick prescription glasses, sporting the typical flat-topped hairstyle of an official. In truth, he wasn't a high-ranking leader but merely a clerk sent down by his superiors to write a report on exemplary deeds in the pastoral region. Unexpectedly, he received such high honors on the prairie. The herdsmen, having rarely seen any leaders, kept addressing him as "Chief," which truly left him feeling both flattered and overwhelmed. They insisted everyone change their address to "Old Ni."

Among the Mongolians, the west is the place of honor, and age dictates respect. Old Ni was seated in the most honored position on the west side. An elder herdsman held up a horn cup and first sang a few lines of a toast song. Ding Sitian, having lived on the prairie for over half a year, had learned a bit of Mongolian and translated for me: it sang about how wine is the crystallization of grains, and the wine offered by the Mongolians to guests represents welcome and reverence…

Fatty and I were utterly uninterested in the content of the toast song, our eyes fixed on the leg of mutton sizzling with oil, silently praying that the old man would finish singing quickly. Once Old Ni finished his few perfunctory words to fill the occasion, we could finally eat.

In accordance with local custom, Old Ni dipped his ring finger in the wine, flicking a few drops towards heaven, earth, and fire, then touched a bit of wine to his lips before beginning his speech. He first recited a few lines of the highest instructions, then praised the excellent situation in the pastoral areas, and finally, he did not forget to mention the sent-down youth here, saying that the educated youth had gained much tempering on the prairie, and while supporting agriculture and herding, grasping revolution, and promoting production, they must also strengthen political study, hold life criticism meetings regularly, and report their thoughts and engage in timely criticism and self-criticism...

Old Ni’s long-winded speech went on for about twenty minutes. Perhaps he got hungry himself by the end, as he finally waved his hand, signaling everyone to eat. Mongolians drink wine as if it were cold water, always using large bowls; those with low tolerance would surely be intimidated by the sight. At this point, the herdsmen all came forward to toast the Chief. Old Ni, unable to handle much alcohol, was finished after only half a round and was carried, insensible, into a yurt.

Among the sent-down youth, there were no heavy drinkers either, so we dared not follow the herdsmen in drinking bowl after bowl. We simply grabbed some food and started another smaller bonfire on the side to eat. The herdsmen knew the youngsters from the interior had shallow tolerance and no one pursued us for drinking contests. They were also content to be free from outside interference. Once drunk, herdsmen love to sing. Midway through the meal, someone's matouqin (horse-head fiddle) began to drone mournfully—the sound was plaintive and desolate, yet exceptionally vast and powerful, its tone vigorous, shaking the very heavens.

The eleven of us sent-down youth sat around our separate bonfire, experiencing the prairie life where the front of our chests felt warm from the fire, while the wind chilled our backs. We listened to the matouqin with deep absorption. I wanted to go over and see who was playing so beautifully, but Ding Sitian said, “No need to look, it must be Grandpa Old Sheepskin’s fiddle. Although he’s an outsider from the Northwest, he sings Qinqiang and Xintianyou beautifully. After living on the prairie for decades, he has captured the true spirit of the matouqin. I think Tengri must have given the most beautiful sounds of the Kholchin Left Banner grassland to Grandpa Old Sheepskin’s fiddle.” As she finished speaking, she stood up and danced a solo to the sound of the matouqin.

Ding Sitian had always been an artistic backbone; her singing and dancing were outstanding. She always hoped to join the cultural troupe of the army, but her aspirations were thwarted due to family connections overseas. She learned Mongolian dance quickly on the prairie, and when she danced, she seemed more Mongolian than the Mongolians themselves. Mongolian dance forms are graceful, with a slow tempo, often using body language to praise the vast beauty of the grassland and to portray the soaring of eagles and the galloping of wild horses.

We watched Ding Sitian’s dance, utterly captivated, completely forgetting where we were. When the music finally ceased, we were still immersed in the feeling and hadn't even thought to applaud. As the saying goes, “Nothing compares to having a cup in hand; how often in life can one see the moon hanging overhead?” Under the high, bright moon of the prairie, before the fiercely burning bonfire, everyone sang, danced, drank, and made merry. Such an occasion might only happen a few times in a lifetime. The sent-down youth were scattered across various banners and districts, and a gathering like this was rare, so everyone cherished it. One after another, they performed, either singing or dancing.

Finally, Ding Sitian pulled Fatty and me up from the ground and announced to the group, “Let’s welcome Ba Yi and Kaixuan from the Hinggan League to give us a show!” The other sent-down youth applauded, but Fatty and I exchanged a glance—this posed a bit of a problem. Where we were stationed, there was something like shamanic dancing, but nothing like the dances performed on the prairie. We hadn't learned any singing or dancing, so wasn't this going to make us look like fools?

However, I never retreat when challenged, especially not in front of Ding Sitian. After a moment’s thought, I had an idea. I winked at Fatty, who immediately understood. He held both hands down in a quieting gesture and addressed the crowd: “Everyone, please quiet down for a moment. Let Comrade Lenin say a few words to everyone.”

The sent-down youth instantly grasped the trick we were planning. In that era of cultural famine, the only available entertainment was endlessly repeating the eight model operas; ordinary people had no other cultural diversions. But no matter the time, young people always found their own way. One of the most popular forms of entertainment then was imitating the speeches of great leaders from the movies, creatively reinterpreting existing classics. The difficulty of imitation itself was quite high, something not everyone could master. Once someone managed a semblance of resemblance, projecting a leadership aura beyond ordinary people, and incorporating their own unique flair, that imitator would become an idol in everyone’s eyes.

I had secretly watched many internal circulation films back in the military region, and I considered which one to imitate. The films from Vietnam and North Korea, portraying comradeship and brotherhood, were unsuitable; they were too tragic and solemn, lacking the necessary dramatic tension and classic lines needed to deliver a spiritual impact on the audience through performance. Domestic films wouldn't work either; everyone was too familiar with them, making them lack performance challenge. After a brief deliberation, Fatty and I settled on our plan. We improvised on the spot: we picked up some sheep's wool and stuck it to our upper lips as fake beards, spat into our palms and slicked our hair back, fashioning ourselves into pronounced pompadours to make our foreheads appear more prominent.

The two of us stood face-to-face before the blazing firelight, and the sent-down youth watching nearby exclaimed, “They look so much alike! Isn't that Lenin and Stalin?” They understood the act Fatty and I were about to perform and then watched our every move with amused smiles.

Seeing the mood was wrong, I quickly turned to the sent-down youth and said, “Everyone needs to be more serious; no smiling or joking around. This performance is meant to showcase the solemn atmosphere just before the great storm of revolution arrives. Everyone needs to cooperate, or if we mess it up, it will be hard for us to save face.”

Then, Fatty and I froze, motionless, like sculptures in the October Square, capturing a historical instant of the great leaders. The key at this moment was to stop ourselves from laughing, otherwise, we wouldn't fool the audience. Ding Sitian took out her harmonica, and slow, heavy music began to play. With her actively accompanying us, the surroundings finally quieted down. The sent-down youth fell silent, moving away from the earlier frivolity of song and dance into the weight of a historical chapter. Time seemed to rewind to the eve of the storming of the Winter Palace.

I knew it was time. I slowly swept my gaze across the crowd, then fixed my eyes on Fatty, asking in a melancholy tone, “Comrade Joseph, are you prepared to launch the offensive against the Winter Palace?” As soon as this classic line left my mouth, I myself felt transformed into Comrade Lenin from the film. The audience below seemed to become the workers in the movie looking up at Lenin.

Fatty puffed out his belly and adopted the demeanor of a dual leader—benevolent yet authoritative, humble yet dictatorial—and replied to me, “Revered Vladimir Ilyich, the gates of the Winter Palace will be opened by the fearless working class tomorrow morning. For this, we will not hesitate to pay the price in blood.”

I clenched my fist and declared with righteous indignation, “Exploitation, oppression, rule, enslavement, assassination, violence, hunger, and poverty have joined forces to devour us… For thousands of years, the blood of the working class has formed a sea. Has our blood not yet flowed enough?”

This part required a fast pace and precise articulation, firing every word out like a cannonball, rousing the audience’s shared sentiment of outrage. Young people living under the backdrop of a great era shared a common worldview and values. The sent-down youth connected this to their own fates and were indeed moved; everyone was affected. It was time to push the atmosphere to its climax: “If this final victory still requires bloodshed, then let the blood of the Tsar flood the Winter Palace…” I seized the moment to raise my right hand in a stopping gesture, paused briefly, and then brought my fist down, saying powerfully, “Because death does not belong to the working class!”

Fatty, standing beside me, was waiting for this final line. He immediately raised his fist and took the lead in shouting, “Right, death does not belong to the working class!” The sent-down youth around followed Fatty in shouting that death does not belong to the working class. Then everyone began to clap enthusiastically and unanimously demanded that Comrade Lenin not leave, asking for an encore.

A flawless performance, the gauging of timing and intensity impeccable, coupled with an extremely cooperative audience. I had imitated Lenin’s speeches more than once, and perhaps I would play this game again in the future, but deep down, I knew that I would never again reach this level of atmosphere or emotion. The evening banquet on the Kholchin Left Banner grassland under the night sky was unforgettable for a lifetime.

When I tore off my fake beard and returned to my seat, Ding Sitian said to me with astonishment, “Ba Yi, you were amazing! I never knew you had such talent. I truly believed you were Comrade Lenin just now; your performance was too convincing.” Hearing her say this, I naturally became carried away, but I still needed to maintain my usual modest composure. Reserve was popular in that era, so I waved my hand, saying somewhat self-consciously, “It’s nothing. What is this? Majestic peaks on a river, hidden in mist and cloud, seldom seen by ordinary eyes, occasionally revealing their splendor.”

Fatty was envious of the praise I received from the sent-down youth. He quickly said to Ding Sitian, “I was busy playing the foil to Old Hu just now and didn't get a chance to show off my own style. Why don't I perform a segment from Li Yuhe by myself, so you can all see my splendor, too…” Urged on by Fatty, the sent-down youth began a second round of performances.

Half of this night passed this way. In such a setting, even those with little tolerance for alcohol would drink a few bowls to some extent. Wine intoxication can be self-induced; eventually, I became muddled and had no idea when the party dispersed or who carried me into the yurt.

A long night wind swept past, and I slept soundly, lost to the world. When I woke, my head was splitting, and I was sniffling a runny nose—it seemed my cold hadn't fully cleared up. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked around and realized that Fatty, myself, and that “Chief” Old Ni had all been arranged in the same yurt. We hadn't even managed to take off our clothes or shoes. Fatty was snoring, one leg resting on Old Ni’s stomach, while Old Ni kept muttering nonsense. Neither of them was awake. There was no one else in the yurt; I figured the rest of the herdsmen and sent-down youth must have left early that morning.

I had lost all sense of time and didn't know what time it was. My head throbbed painfully, and I wanted to drift back to sleep, but before I could close my eyes, I sensed that the sounds outside the yurt were wrong. A rumbling, like muffled thunder across the land, surged towards our sleeping yurt like a tide from the east. Just as I was wondering what was happening outside, Ding Sitian burst in from outside, urgently calling out to me, “Hurry and run outside, the cattle have stampeded!”