Old Shepherd Lang had spent his life raising cattle and sheep on the vast grasslands and was well acquainted with dealing with fierce beasts like wolves and lynx that might attack from behind his horses. He was already troubled, looking for a chance to deal with the creature, when it practically offered itself up. He immediately let out a sharp whistle. Just as the great centipede lunged for the horse's flank, that old army horse bucked forward with a sudden dip, bracing its front legs on the ground, and violently kicked its hind legs back at the centipede pouncing from behind. That kick alone carried a force of no less than several hundred jin, sending the black-striped centipede tumbling several times through the air before landing far off and rolling away in a heap.

Having suffered such a blow, the centipede dared not act rashly again and swiftly retreated into the tall grass, fleeing into the distance. Seeing Old Shepherd Lang secure victory with this surprise maneuver, I cheered and climbed down from the tree branch. Together with Ding Sitian, we pulled up the fat man, who was still reeling from the fall. After brushing off the bark fragments and weeds clinging to us, we suddenly remembered that two horses had bolted deeper into the woods. We hadn't found the cattle, and now, with the sorrel horse poisoned to death by the centipede, only the old army horse remained out of the original four—our losses were mounting. Old Shepherd Lang blew several calls to summon the horses, waited for a long time, but received no response; he had no idea where the other two had gone.

Old Shepherd Lang felt a bone-deep terror for the area they called the "Hundred-Eye Cave." But sometimes a person has no choice. The responsibility for the loss of cattle and horses was even heavier. Given how tense the political situation had been these past two years, with so many "hats" ready to be thrown, being branded with a few more could spell the end of him. Old Shepherd Lang was old after all; that brief, intense struggle had already sent his heart racing, his chest heaving like a broken bellows. Coupled with the immense psychological burden, his vision began to darken in waves.

Ding Sitian saw that Old Shepherd Lang was too weak to stand and was about to collapse, so she rushed to help him sit beneath a tree, rubbing his chest to ease his breathing. But Old Shepherd Lang kept coughing and gasping, unable to catch his breath; he coughed so hard he nearly choked. We quickly administered first aid—pressing his chest and striking his back—until he finally managed to cough up a piece of phlegm and began breathing again. However, he remained sluggish and unresponsive, failing to wake up no matter how much we called to him.

Ding Sitian had lived on the grasslands and had always been cared for by Old Shepherd Lang’s family; she regarded him almost as her own grandfather. Seeing him unconscious now, how could she not worry? With tears streaming down her face, she asked me what we should do. In the village where I had been sent to work, there was a barefoot doctor nicknamed "The Pill Mixer," and I sometimes assisted him in treating mules and horses. Among the three of us—Fatty, Ding Sitian, and myself—I was the only one with any medical knowledge. But facing the unconscious Old Shepherd Lang, I felt completely helpless. Even rushing him back to the herdsmen's area would take nearly a full day's walk, and the medical post was another day beyond that. By then, it would be too late, no matter who we found.

Unexpectedly, it was Fatty who offered a crucial reminder. Fatty said, "Is the old man perhaps just hungry? We’ve been rushing since dawn chasing the herd, and now the sun is already halfway set. We haven't had a bite to eat. Forget an old man like him; even my physique is starting to give out. I’m dizzy from hunger."

Fatty’s suggestion struck a chord, and Ding Sitian and I realized we were burning with hunger too. We hadn't eaten all day; during the day, we were too preoccupied with finding the cattle and were too anxious to think about food. Old Shepherd Lang must have succumbed to exhaustion compounded by the lack of sustenance, causing him to faint from hunger.

When we set out, Old Shepherd Lang had worried we might not recover all the cattle in one or two days, so he had brought some dry rations and even packed a kettle to boil water on the horse. To care for the old army horse, he had only hung the empty kettle and some light, miscellaneous items on it; the rest of the grain and supplies were carried by the other three horses. Unfortunately, we were left with only this old horse, with nothing edible on it.

Fatty said there was no other way: "Let's butcher the horse and eat it. Otherwise, none of us will make it out of this forest." Ding Sitian quickly stopped him. "Livestock that has served the army and earned merit on the grasslands cannot be slaughtered. They are friends to humanity. We’d rather starve than eat horse meat. If Old Shepherd Lang wakes up and finds out someone butchered his horse, he’ll fight us to the death."

Darkness falls early in the wild. After four in the afternoon, the sun sank, and the sky began to dim. The night mist in the woods thickened, and the light rapidly faded until it was almost night. Objects occasionally flitted overhead—birds or perhaps bats—letting out piercing cries. The sounds made every hair on the back of our necks stand on end.

We were all slightly disoriented. Fatty and Ding Sitian looked to me, hoping I could come up with a plan. After a brief hesitation, I told them, "Even if the old horse knows the way, the fog in this forest is dense. If we wander around aimlessly, first, we are exhausted, both man and horse, having rested none all day, and pushing on is dangerous. Second, if we run into centipedes or venomous snakes hiding in the deep grass, or encounter wolves or lynx, we won't fare well. Chairman Mao taught us that we should minimize pointless and unnecessary sacrifice. Therefore, what we must do now is build a campfire right here. First, to guard against insect and beast attacks, and second, to boil whatever we can find to eat so that both people and the horse can regain their strength before we move on at dawn tomorrow."

Fatty conceded, "That plan is good, but incomplete. Look at this forest—there’s nothing but roots, bark, and mud. Forget food; there isn't even a drop of clean water. What are we supposed to boil? But we can’t move on without eating. This situation reminds me of a short poem revolutionary predecessors wrote: As dusk descends, the belly roars like a drum, only a few grains of white rice remain in the pouch, boiled with wild greens. Even when the comrades under General Chen Yi were enduring such hardship, they at least had a few grains of rice in their bags to boil with wild vegetables..."

Fatty’s mention of rice and wild vegetables made my own stomach rumble fiercely. "Fatty, what are you implying? In our current predicament, you dare mention boiling wild vegetable gruel? The hungrier we are, the less we should talk about food, or it will only intensify the hunger. In those days, the revolutionary predecessors endured three months without grain and still maintained high morale. Why can’t we overcome this?"

Just then, Ding Sitian suddenly tugged my sleeve: "Ba Yi, listen—is that the sound of running water in the forest?" I thought to myself, how could there be a river in this mountain ravine? Maybe it was just the sound of our rumbling stomachs making Ding Sitian mishear? But I quieted down and listened carefully. Indeed, not far off, there was the gentle tinkling sound of a stream flowing. Where there is the sound of water, there is moving water. Our throats were painfully dry, and if it was a stream, there might be fish. Moreover, following the water would prevent us from getting lost in this dense, foggy forest.

We didn't waste a second. The old army horse’s saddlebag contained a kerosene lamp—before the Liberation, this lamp was called a yangyou lamp, and yangyou was simply kerosene. In the pastoral areas, there was no pine resin, so kerosene lamps were the common source of light at night. I took the lamp and led the way. Fatty placed Old Shepherd Lang onto the horse’s back, carrying him, while he steadied the old man from the side. Ding Sitian led the horse. The group moved cautiously toward the location of the flowing water.

We pushed through the brush to make a path, and before long, we indeed found a pool of water. Because it was dark and shrouded in mist, visibility was less than ten meters, so we couldn't gauge the size of the pool. However, the sound of the water suggested a significant flow from a distance, indicating the pool was likely not small. Standing on a flat stone by the edge and shining the lamp, I saw churning water. Beneath the surface, many large, fat black fish, attracted by the light, swam closer.

The people of the Balunzuo pastoral area regard fish as divine beings and never eat or catch them. The fish in the lakes and ponds across this grassland lived freely and were never afraid of people, unlike the fish in the interior regions that flee to the lake bottom at the sight of humans. But we couldn't worry about that now. Here, besides fish and horses, there was nothing else to eat. In this desolate grassland, fish were divine beings, and horses were friends. To choose between eating a god or eating a friend? For educated youths like us who had been Red Guards, this was a non-question. We would unhesitatingly choose the former.

Fatty and I rolled up our sleeves, ready to start catching fish. Ding Sitian settled Old Shepherd Lang, tethered the old army horse, gathered some small stones to build a makeshift hearth, and promptly collected a large bundle of dry branches and leaves available in the woods. She nimbly started a fire, rigged a tripod of branches over the pot to heat water, first bringing a little water to a boil to rinse the pot clean, and then cooking some hot water for us all to drink.

For unmarried male educated youth like Fatty and me, cooking was always the most challenging ordeal. Seeing Ding Sitian manage the work so methodically, and watching her busy silhouette, an inexplicable melancholy welled up inside us. However, this feeling was quickly dispelled by hunger. Fatty and I conferred. Since the fish here weren't afraid of people, it saved us a lot of trouble; we didn't have to stir up murky water as we did in the Greater Khingan Mountains. We simply found two sturdy branches, sharpened them using Old Shepherd Lang’s "Kangxi Precious Sword," and fashioned them into fish spears.

Having the spears, we couldn't just stab randomly in the water. We first had to hang the kerosene lamp low over the surface to lure the fat black fish close. Then we had to patiently observe signs like currents, bubbles, and ripples to figure out the fish's swimming patterns. Due to the poor light, we couldn't fully track the movement of the fish underwater. Despite our imperfect preparation, we managed to spear seven or eight of the black fish from this pool. The larger ones finally realized the danger and swam into the deep water without looking back.

I thought the fish we caught were large enough for several people, but when hungry, eyes grow large, and it always seemed like too little. So, I handed the fish to Ding Sitian for cleaning and gutting, while Fatty and I returned to the pool. Using the same method, we speared a few more black fish that had just swum in from afar. Only then did we feel we had enough for the four of us. In reality, the amount of fish we caught would have been enough for four more people, let alone just four of us.

Ding Sitian told us that if black fish were just roasted over the fire, they would dry out and be inedible. So, she slit open their bellies, removed the entrails, scaled them, and cut them into sections to place in the hot pot. It looked like she was preparing a pot of fish soup. As the intensely hot steam billowed out, the fragrance filled the air. Despite having no seasoning whatsoever, who cared at that moment whether it was salty or bland? We swallowed hard, suppressing the pangs of hunger, and stared fixedly at the fish in the pot, our eyes nearly popping out into the bubbling liquid.

Fatty was drooling with craving. He hastily wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said to Ding Sitian and me, "I heard those guys in the Beidahuang Corps drank soup for all three meals. They even wrote a poem for it. Before we eat, let me recite it for you—Ah! Soup, Soup, Soup, revolutionary soup! I miss it if I skip one meal; I crave it if I skip two; I panic if I skip three..."

Ding Sitian and I both laughed at Fatty's poem. Ding Sitian asked, "Fatty, where did you dig up that poem? That’s ancient history. Beidahuang used to be desolate, full of rabbits and wolves, growing only wild grass, not grain. Later, as more people came to the Corps, they turned Beidahuang into Beidacang (Great Northern Granary). I hear things are much better now; they don't have to drink soup all day. I have a classmate there who is a squad leader. By the way, what did you two eat over in Xing’an League?"

Fatty replied that they had too many delicacies there; they'd eaten everything from "dragon meat in the sky to donkey meat on the ground," yet nothing seemed that special. "It’s not as good as this pot of fish soup we have. This soup is truly fresh; just smelling it is a pleasure."

Ding Sitian wondered aloud, "Dragon meat can be eaten too? Is what Old Shepherd Lang said true? Is there really a dragon in this world?" I explained, "‘Dragon meat in the sky, donkey meat on the ground’—this so-called dragon meat is actually the hazel grouse from the mountains, which is also known as the Feilong (Flying Dragon). Because its flavor is so exquisite, it’s considered a supreme delicacy, hence the beautiful name ‘dragon meat.’ In reality, it’s not much different from an ordinary pheasant. Next time I go back, I’ll bring you a couple so you can taste what dragon meat is like. But Fatty is actually right; I also feel this pot of fish soup is incredibly rich. We haven't added any seasoning, so why does it taste so good? Maybe it’s just because I’m starving, but I feel like I’ve never smelled a more tempting fish soup in my life."

As we were talking, the fish soup was almost ready, tantalizing our appetites. Suddenly, we heard a cough from behind us. Old Shepherd Lang was slowly waking up. He sniffed the air, his nose twitching towards the pot of soup: "Ah, that smells wonderful... What is this you’re cooking? Why is it so fragrant?"

When we turned around and saw he was awake, we all sighed in relief. It seemed he had indeed fainted from extreme hunger, and the smell of the fish soup had woken him up. I thought to myself that I couldn't tell Old Shepherd Lang it was fish soup. Although this old man was also a poor, lower-middle peasant, his ingrained superstition was severe; he hadn't completely shed his feudal mindset. If I told him it was fish soup, he certainly wouldn't let us drink it. It would be better to let him drink his fill first, and then tell him the truth, at which point he couldn't argue.

With that thought, I snatched the horse ladle from Fatty’s hand before he could take a bite, generously filling it with soup and handing it to Old Shepherd Lang. "We educated youths responded to the call to go down to the countryside precisely to learn from the poor and lower-middle peasants. We should listen to their opinions and accept their education. You try it first, sir, and give us your critique on how this soup is brewed."

Old Shepherd Lang, perhaps desperately hungry or simply overcome by the soup's aroma, didn't pause to ask any more questions when the ladle was brought to his lips. He took two large gulps. Smacking his lips, clearly wanting more, he walked unsteadily to the pot and began drinking spoonful after spoonful. He didn't even seem to mind the heat, consuming nearly half the pot in one go, and even scooping out and eating a good amount of the fish meat within.

Fatty became alarmed. This large pot was enough for eight people, and this old man had downed nearly half of it himself! How could this withered old man have such an astonishing appetite? Ding Sitian and I were stunned too, watching him eat as if he were possessed, unable to stop. If he kept eating like that, wouldn't he burst? We quickly restrained Old Shepherd Lang: "Do you know whose meat is in this pot? Eating so much without asking first—this is meat from the black fish in the forest pool!"

Old Shepherd Lang had already eaten too much, his eyes rolling back with fullness. When he heard it was fish meat, he was startled: "What? Black fish meat? Sinful! Gods eat that too? Eating it brings retribution... bring retribution..." Yet, even as he spoke, he seemed unable to control his hand and reached again with the ladle for more fish meat.

I saw Old Shepherd Lang’s eyes wide and bloodshot, making him unrecognizable from his usual self. No single person could drink that much fish soup and still act like a hungry ghost. My heart gave a jolt, and an ominous premonition swept over me: this fish soup should not be drunk!