On the way to Galingen

Author: Le Yi Rong / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: This is a collection of short stories and novellas, comprising 18 works. It primarily presents a desolate landscape of the Western Regions, narrating the hardships of survival among ethnic minorities from a grassroots perspective and with a compassionate tone. As an ethnic minority author, Le Yi Rong's unique experiences of wandering have imbued the works with a desolate Western Region atmosphere, and his simple yet heartfelt portrayal of the struggles of these ethnic groups has shaped the book's distinctive grassroots perspective and compassionate spirit.
Stick your head out the car window, feeling the cool breeze of the pre-rain air gently brush against your face. After a bumpy two-hour mountain road journey, the bus finally stopped, and I followed the local villagers this time into the central area of Shagou, the Jepai community in Western Huiyuan. Just now, next to the former site of the Shagou township government, I took a special look at the large mosque where the Jepai Muslims held their sacred ceremonies. It seemed to evoke numerous images of this place. Niu Wazi was the last one to get off the bus. He asked me in the Xiji South Branch dialect, "Oh, how is Shagou?" I casually replied in the Xiji North Branch dialect, "It's doing well." Niu Wazi was a friend I met at a stable in Xinjiang's Ili. He often talked about his hometown, Shagou, with pride. In fact, Shagou, a Muslim Jepai settlement in the heart of Western Huiyuan, is described in Zhang Chengzhi's The Soul History as a place of suffering, mystery, and an almost unreachable valley.
Niu Wazi pointed to a mountain behind the Gungbu, which looked somewhat "unique" in its roundness, and said, "You see, that's the Gungbu Ridge." Then he pointed to another mountain facing the Gungbu Ridge, "That's the Yinwa Mountain. Look closely, you'll see that all the surrounding mountains embrace Shagou." He made a gesture as if hugging, "You won't believe it, but this is a place that produces officials and talented people." Niu Wazi had a proud expression on his face.
I heard an old man in Xiji County say that Shagou had produced leaders of the Muslim Jepai sect. He mentioned that back then, the Muslim cavalry brothers Ma Siyi were known as the "wolf sons of the five northern provinces of Northwest China." Even Mao Zedong personally met with them. Niu Wazi pointed to a large brick compound on the left, saying, "That's the Shagou family (the leader's family)—the one I often mention." When he spoke of it, he had a sacred and solemn dignity. I stared intently. The walls were high, but I couldn't see anything.
In Xinjiang, Niu Wazi often mentioned Shagou and Zhang Chengzhi's The Soul History. Whenever he talked about these topics, he became extremely proud. I thought to myself, if I ever had the chance, I had to visit Shagou. I felt that many people outside had exaggerated Shagou, calling it the "Murder Gully." But today, I had actually entered Shagou, and I couldn't quite put into words what I was feeling.
I remember meeting Niu Wazi in Xinjiang. Once, when we were at the Urumqi bus station preparing to take a bus to Shihezi, it was as if there was no sun, and scattered raindrops fell from the sky. Both Niu Wazi and I were carrying backpacks, and both in terms of speech and appearance, we looked like outsiders. I was speaking a mix of rural and urban Mandarin with a hint of the old Uyghur dialect at the end of my sentences. In reality, I was a genuine Dongxiang person. Unluckily, a drunk Uyghur brawler staggered over, swaying and squinting his eyes. I quickly used a "thousand-pound drop" technique to lift Niu Wazi out of the way. The man took the opportunity to throw the empty bottle he was holding in his armpit onto the ground, shattering it. Seeing my bold demeanor, he stuck a finger in his mouth, blew a few whistles, and then looked around uneasily. When he heard the footsteps of the people approaching rapidly, he walked over to us, demanding compensation for the wine.
In truth, there wasn't even a drop of wine in the bottle! Then, from the adjacent corridors and shops, a group of people who had been lying in wait rushed out, led by a tall, thin man with a large beard. The bearded man led his companions, like thugs in a TV drama,， then used a palm strike to knock the Uyghur brawler down, aiming at us. My heart began to race wildly in secret, as if my hands couldn't even hold it. Someone on their side drew a dagger with a chilling glint. I knew these people— they weren't just intimidating you; they would make it a living hell for you. Although I had learned a little of wrestling and self-defense in the Devil Mountain, I still felt a fear of being utterly alone chasing me.
At this moment, the stronghold I had built in my heart was gradually crumbling. I glanced back at Niu Wazi, ragged and emaciated, his messy appearance making him seem weak. That weakness reminded me of an ant. The cuffs of his rolled-up pants still had the mud from yesterday's construction work. At that moment, he was wearing the padded cloth shoes his mother had made and carried all the way from Shagou to Xinjiang. I couldn't see any trace of blood in Niu Wazi's eyes. I worried that I couldn't protect him and kept berating myself with grief. I also felt angry, thinking it was Niu Wazi's obviously rural attire that had caused this trouble.
A knife filled with killing intent was advancing, its tip flashing with a burning pain, swirling around my left eyeball. I immediately thought of the scene in the movie The Mystery of the Great Buddha where an eye was gouged out. My heart felt as if it were being swung around in the air by a thread as thin as a hair, and it seemed that a slight mistake could snap the thread. Time froze in an instant. I thought, I would rather have my eye gouged out than let Niu Wazi, a weaker person than me, be harmed. Could I endure such a heavy sacrifice? I couldn't. I should step back and let the two of us share the burden of this incident.
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