Chapter Forty-One: Preaching on the Grasslands (Part One)

The sky was vast, the plains boundless; the wind swept through the grass, making it bend low—ah! The cloud fox was gone.

When Yunhua finally managed to catch that speck of white amidst the sea of green, Liaochen decided he could no longer indulge this behavior. Wolves roamed these grasslands in abundance. If the cloud fox kept running off, it would surely end up as the wolves’ dinner. After a thorough scolding, Liaochen produced a cloth sack, and despite the fox’s wails and pleas, resolutely stuffed it inside, leaving only its head exposed for breathing.

In autumn, the steppe was void of cattle and sheep; only endless fields of gold met the eye. Liaochen had traversed the plains for ten days, guided by his compass, encountering wolves and yellow antelopes, and often hearing the thunderous gallop of cavalry. Fortunately, his monk’s attire marked him as a religious man; the people of Southern Mongolia could recognize him, and at least would not easily rob a monk. Yet Liaochen believed it was less out of reverence for the divine, and more because monks were not worth looting.

Later generations, speaking fondly of harmonious ethnic integration, would never guess how much innocent blood flowed beneath that veneer. The grasslands held not only Mongols, but also many Han Chinese—more precisely, Han slaves seized by Mongols. Like cattle and horses, they toiled ceaselessly, endured endless whipping, and died without respite, becoming another lonely soul wandering the steppes, gazing toward their distant homeland.

Hong Yuan had lived on the grasslands for five years. Once a youthful boy, now his face was weathered with dust and frost. Every time he stood atop a high point, he could not help but gaze southwards, searching for where his home lay.

Mid-Autumn was only days away. Dust-covered and weary, Liaochen and Yunhua stood atop a small knoll, gazing from afar at a cluster of yurts. This was a sizable tribe.

“Master, how are we going to rescue him? There are at least a thousand Tatars there,” Yunhua said, kicking at the ground.

“We’ll try diplomacy first,” Liaochen decided after some thought. “Let’s see if we can negotiate Hong Yuan’s freedom.”

Mongols were not like Han; their faith was often sincere, but their first devotion was to shamanism, then Tibetan Buddhism, neither of which concerned the Han. After a thousand years, Confucianism not only stripped the Han of ambition in warfare, but even their religious culture halted at the Great Wall—a sorrowful thing indeed.

“Blessings from the Celestial Venerable,” Liaochen greeted the mistress of a yurt, bowing respectfully.

“Ah, ah!” The woman had clearly never seen a Taoist before and was surprised that a Han man and a young girl appeared at her doorstep. She muttered a few words in Mongolian, which Liaochen and Yunhua did not understand, then suddenly began shouting loudly outside, causing them nearly to flee. Just as they were about to leave, she entered the yurt and brought out a bowl of milk tea. “Khatai sain bainuu.” Liaochen realized he had misunderstood her, and, feeling a bit awkward, carefully accepted the tea and drank it in one gulp. He then took out a small, polished brass talisman. The sunlight caught the talisman’s intricate engravings, making the incantations glow faintly red—a beautiful sight. The woman paused, clearly captivated by the talisman, and quickly took it up to examine it in the sunlight. After several moments, she realized she had not yet invited her guests inside and blushed slightly, hastily welcoming Liaochen and Yunhua into the yurt. She brought out butter, clotted cream, and milk wine, evidently treating them as honored guests.

Though neither could understand the other’s words, kindness often needed no language. Liaochen sat in the yurt, holding Yunhua’s hand, and began to observe his surroundings. It was clear this family was well-off; Liaochen noticed many items rare among Mongol tribes, such as silk, which sat proudly on a shelf, showing off its wealth to all who entered.

As Liaochen was surveying the yurt, hurried footsteps sounded outside. A burly Mongol man entered, dressed in a leather robe and boots, his bronze face marked by a scar that ran into his hairline, a heavy curved saber at his waist—a fearsome sight. He paused to see two Han guests seated in his home, then spoke a few words to his wife. Smiling, he said, “Han? Taoist?”—in fluent Han Chinese. Clearly he had traveled inland and could recognize the Taoist attire.

“Blessings from the Celestial Venerable,” Liaochen greeted him with a Taoist bow, and the man quickly returned the gesture. “Taoist, where are you from? Never before has a Taoist visited these grasslands!” The man was delighted to have such a distinguished guest, eagerly chatting about the scenery of the inland. It was clear he had visited many places in Han territory and envied life within the borders. Liaochen described some places he had visited, and the man listened with longing. After half an hour, the man slapped his forehead and introduced himself, “My name is Bayar, and this is my wife, Tana.”

Liaochen smiled and replied, “My Taoist name is Liaochen, and this is my apprentice. Oh, and we have a fox called Cloud Fox.” He pointed to Yunhua and the large cloth sack she carried. Since Liaochen had stuffed the fox in the bag, it seemed to sulk, ignoring everyone—including Yunhua—and had even tucked its head inside, playing dead, only emerging at mealtime. Liaochen found the fox’s childish tantrum amusing, but he dared not let it roam free; a domesticated fox encountering predators on the steppe would stand no chance.

Bayar warmly welcomed Liaochen’s group, bringing out precious spirits he had acquired from the Central Plains and personally slaughtering a sheep to prepare a feast. As Bayar’s reputation spread, more and more people crowded into the yurt, some attempting to converse in Han Chinese, others listening as their companions translated. There were many Han on the steppe, but a Han priest was a novelty. Liaochen suddenly felt as though he were being watched by an enthusiastic crowd.

Dinner at Bayar’s was sumptuous and lively, attended by so many guests that Tana had to slaughter another sheep to feed them all. As night fell, a blazing bonfire was lit outside the yurt. The scent of roast lamb filled the air, and the fox in the sack, unable to resist the aroma, began wriggling furiously. Yunhua had no choice but to open the bag, and a snow-white fox, tail majestically waving, emerged proudly before the crowd. For a moment, the lively gathering fell silent; everyone’s gaze fixed on the fox, who, drawn by the scent of food, had lost all composure.