My Childhood Herding Cattle

I bought China in a Village for two reasons: first, it was written by Xiong Peiyun, and second, because it writes about rural China. I believe few urban people are interested in this subject. My interest mostly comes from my own noble rural bloodline. Yes, this identity is very noble. I wish I could stand alone in the lush green rice paddies, tilting my head to listen to the rumbling agricultural heavy metal blasting from an eight-star, eight-diamond phone. What pretentious pride—I have my own land, and I had a childhood herding cattle across the mountains and fields.

After so much time has passed, I only remember one incident of herding cattle. Our hometown area is hilly, and farming mostly requires animal labor, so cattle hold a high status in rural areas. Though not revered as gods like in India, at least they’re not treated the same as pigs and dogs—you can tell just by comparing prices. Because cattle are expensive, rural families usually pool money to buy one and take turns feeding it. On the appointed day, you have to go to someone else’s cowshed to bring the cow to your own. You feed it grass and water on time, and of course give it daily exercise. Since ancient times, herding cattle has been children’s work. In poetry, there are misty rains and apricot blossoms, shepherd boys with short flutes. But in modern Southwest rural China, forget misty rains and apricot blossoms—even people who can play the flute are nowhere to be found. In the 1990s, adults were busy earning work points to offset the government’s high agricultural taxes and levies. Who had time to teach children to mess with this thing that couldn’t fill their bellies? The two teachers at our mountain village elementary school didn’t know how either—they only taught Chinese and math.

One day after school—whether it was math or Chinese all afternoon—I came home and Grandma told me to go to the mountaintop across the way to herd cattle. She said I could only come back after the cow was full. So a few kids and I took the cow up the mountain. Somehow, they wanted to take the cow back home early. Damn, I had just brought the cow up and now they wanted to take it back. How was I supposed to explain if the cow wasn’t full? I had no choice but to stay alone on the mountaintop feeding the cow. I didn’t have a watch, and time seemed to be playing tricks on me. Night fell from the west like a blanket. Judging by the light, the cow should be full, so I started leading it down the eastern side of the mountain toward home. The sun was setting, and the eastern side of the mountain had no peak light. The further down I went, the darker it became. The rustling sounds on the ground grew clearer, making my hair stand on end. I quickened my pace, wanting to get home and escape this vague fear. Then the cow started messing with me. It got stubborn and refused to move. I was anxious—it was almost completely dark, and being alone was scary. I pulled with all my strength, but back then I wasn’t as tall as the cow, and no matter how hard I tried, it pulled me backward. I gave up struggling and stopped pulling. Holding the rope, I stood halfway up the mountain and desperately called for Grandma to come help. I shouted for a long time with no answer—probably they hadn’t come home yet and were on another mountain, so they couldn’t hear me. But night had come, and I couldn’t overcome that desperate helplessness and fear of the dark. I was afraid of being eaten by ghosts, and only by shouting loudly could I feel my own existence. With each shout, I grew more terrified and cried harder. In desperate situations, time stretches endlessly. After a long while, my grandma finally heard my calls and answered from far away. Only then did I feel I had found my direction.

This childhood incident left such a deep impression that I can never forget it. Later, thinking back, I believe what terrified me most at the time was my own crying. The more miserably I cried, the more frightened I felt. If I hadn’t cried, maybe the situation wouldn’t have been so bad.