Chapter Ten: The Shepherd Boy

The distance from the school to the compound was not short—over three miles—but for Long Bisheng, it was nothing; his stamina had always been exceptional.

On his way to and from school, Long Bisheng would pass through a pasture. This stretch of grassland was always dotted with herders tending cattle and sheep—mostly sheep. Across the vast plain, flocks of sheep grazed quietly while shepherds lounged nearby, idly swinging their whips—a scene so picturesque that any painter or poet might be inspired to create a masterpiece or compose a timeless verse.

Long Bisheng, of course, felt no such poetic stirrings; he had only just entered primary school and barely knew a handful of characters, let alone write poetry. But that did not stop him from lingering at the edge of the pasture on his way home, gazing blankly at the beautiful landscape.

Sometimes, his fascination with the scenery made him forget the time, and only after dusk had fallen would he wake from his reverie and dash home. At such times, his father would scold him sternly, and his mother would grumble as she reheated his dinner.

In some ways, Long Bisheng’s childhood was a happy one. Though his teachers, classmates, and even the children in the compound saw him as a tall but slow-witted boy, he had a warm family—a home that, though not wealthy, was filled with enough happiness.

His parents, Long Yuyun and Yin Xiuping, were never too concerned about his occasional late returns after school. Children, after all, were naturally playful, even if their son’s height was already rather beyond that of an ordinary child. Besides, where could he possibly go? In Xinjiang, even kidnappers wouldn’t come, and the route from home to school was lined with military posts, so there was little danger to fear.

Most importantly, Long Yuyun had followed Long Bisheng a few times and discovered he only lingered by the pasture, so he let him be; in this, Long Yuyun understood his son well. After all, witnessing such vast landscapes was good for body and mind.

Soon, the boy who always stood by the roadside with a football underfoot caught the attention of the herders. These naturally hearty people began to greet Long Bisheng, and he responded politely, quickly winning their favor. They would often slip him snacks, which he at first refused but later accepted without fuss.

As time passed, Long Bisheng began to greet them with cheerful smiles. Strangely, he had few friends among his peers—he used to get along with Fan Pengfei, but Fan had moved away—yet he quickly became familiar with these herders, all much older than he. Though he lacked their experience and knowledge, he enjoyed listening to their bold conversations, and each time they teased one another with crude jokes—most of which Long Bisheng barely understood—he would grin widely.

Of all the herders, the one Long Bisheng knew best was a young man only six or seven years his senior. This Uyghur youth, named Azat (meaning “liberation”), was a regular shepherd on the pasture, and perhaps because of their similar ages, the two became close companions.

"Azat, why don’t you go to school?" Long Bisheng asked one day.

Azat shrugged, unconcerned. "I did—I finished primary school. Don’t want to go to middle school. Just looking at those books gives me a headache... I’d rather help my family herd sheep and contribute a bit. But Bisheng, you Han people are different from us. We can live our whole lives herding sheep without schooling, but you can’t. I heard even soldiers need to be educated now."

Long Bisheng replied with a simple, awkward laugh. He didn’t fully understand Azat’s words. For him, his parents wanted him to study, so he did; his grades weren’t great, but he tried his best.

A lifetime... It felt so far away.

As they talked, one of Azat’s sheep wandered off. Long Bisheng shouted, and Azat suddenly kicked a stone, sending it flying to land precisely in front of the stray sheep. Startled, the sheep turned and ran back.

"Wow, Azat, you’re so accurate!" Long Bisheng stared as if he’d seen an alien.

"You Han people have a saying, right? Practice makes perfect... Yes, practice makes perfect." Azat was proud to have used the correct idiom. "All shepherds have this skill, though most throw stones by hand. I prefer to kick them."

"If only I could kick so accurately." Long Bisheng noticed the stones at Azat’s feet and, eager to imitate him, gave one a kick.

Azat barely had time to shout before the stone flew straight into the middle of the flock, hitting a sheep squarely on the head. The sheep let out a scream fit for the slaughterhouse, and the startled flock scattered.

Azat sprang up, his agile figure darting across the pasture, rounding up the scattered sheep one by one. Long Bisheng noticed that, as he ran, Azat kicked several stones to drive back the sheep that had wandered far.

Even so, it took Azat nearly half an hour to gather the flock together again. Long Bisheng tried to help, but the sheep ignored him.

After all the running, Azat was a little out of breath. Seeing the flock restored, he sighed in relief and returned to Long Bisheng, smiling wryly. "Bisheng, you nearly got me in trouble—losing a sheep would have been a big loss!"

"I’m sorry, Azat," Long Bisheng said, thoroughly embarrassed.

"It’s all right," Azat said magnanimously, waving it off. "Do you know how long I’ve practiced kicking stones like that?" He spread his hand with pride. "Five years! I used to miss all the time, but I got better bit by bit. That thing you always carry—is it a football?"

"Yes," Long Bisheng nodded.

"Let me try a kick," Azat said eagerly. Long Bisheng handed him the ball.

Azat placed the football on the ground, tilted his head to aim at a sheep that had wandered to the edge of the flock, and then kicked the ball with all his might.

ps: I’m back. This New Year, every time I played cards, I lost—so miserable! I’ll stay home and focus on writing...

Guess who Azat is? If you guess right, you’ll get a special reward; even if you don’t, you’ll get something. Tomorrow is the big reward day!