A Lone Wisp of Smoke Rising
Treading Snow
1
Vast and desolate grasslands. Undulating hills stretching unbroken in the distance, the dark red wheel of the setting sun hanging over the end of the Sangda River. The meandering surface of the water suffused with a golden shimmer, contrasting with the magnificent rosy evening clouds on the horizon.
Amidst the rosy evening clouds, a wisp of singing drifting about, accompanied by a matouqin,1 chanting a remote, disconsolate melody:
The halcyon green grasslands are the white sheep’s home. The fountainhead of the Sangda River, where the powerful eagle spreads its wings. The distant chimney smoke, the place where horses gallop toward. The rosy clouds of dawn high in the sky, that’s my hometown…
“Old Wei, don’t always sing that; today is a happy day, sing something else,” Suhe Balu said to the to old man sitting cross-legged playing the zither behind him. He ordered the troops to make fires and barbeque meat. Today really was a great day; they should sing a song of celebration! He looked satisfyingly at the loot loaded onto the horses, plundered from the Han settlement, at the same time admiring the Han girl huddled up by herself, crying. Meat, wine, women. Such a life, what more could one ask for?
“Alright, Ferocious Tiger of the Grasslands, as you wish.” Old Wei adjusted his matouqin and opened his mouth to sing. No sound came out, however. He stared blankly into the distance.
Following Old Wei’s line of sight, Suhe Balu saw a person on horseback galloping toward them at full speed. Red horse, red man, bloodcolored clothing rising in the wind, racing directly out of the midst of the setting sun like an arrow. “Who is that?” The person’s clothing suggested a Han person rather than his own people.
The multitude of bandits stopped what they were doing, watching the rider approach closer and closer.
“That’s…” Old Wei, as if lost in thought, squinted into the distance, the lines at the corners of his eyes forming deep fish tails. He mumbled, “A Han constable.”
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