The Moon Falling on White Sand Lake

Ma Sanzao

CITIC Press Group

October 2023

35.00 (CNY)

This book， set against the backdrop of the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps’ efforts to cultivate and defend the border areas， explores the life of the first generation of Corps members through the perspective of a young boy， Li Longteng. It vividly portrays the experiences of his grandfather， Li Hutou， who guarded the harsh desert environment， developed agriculture in the Gobi Desert， and fostered mutual assistance with ethnic minorities. The book chronicles a life dedicated to the borderlands， from the early days of opening up wasteland to achieving prosperity， showcasing the vibrant stories of those who protected， built， and flourished in the border areas. It is a tribute to the Corps members who loved their country and selflessly contributed to its development.

Ma Sanzao

Born in 1971， Ma Sanzao works at the Shenyang Youth Palace. He attended the 30th Advanced Workshop (Children’s Literature) at the Lu Xun Literature Institute. Ma has won several prestigious awards， including the Chen Bochui International Children’s Literature Award and the Special Prize in the National Children’s Literature Short Story Competition (Zhouzhuang Cup).

I

Dawn broke， and the Ulungur River began to shimmer with a silvery light.

The current was swift yet steady， flowing quietly as if afraid of disturbing anyone. Only when it encountered a submerged poplar or willow did it seem to meet an old friend， embracing it with a gentle， pleasant murmur.

In June， as the water level rose， the river widened， embracing the wilted plants on the riverbank. The water was cold， carrying a piercing chill that instantly revitalized the withered vegetation. Reeds and wild grasses swayed in the water， turning a tempting green. In a few days， the trees sprouted fresh leaves， and the birds’ songs became more joyful and frequent， especially in the early morning light.

The boy Bahar was awakened by the birdsong.

He opened his sleepy eyes and saw the little lamb lying by the bed， watching him. The lamb’s eyes were round， like gemstones from the riverbank， with a faint sky-blue hue. Two months ago， many lambs were born， but only this one was pure white. Bahar loved the color white. He braided the lamb’s hair and tied it with his sister’s red leather ribbon， making the lamb look like a beautiful Kazakh girl.

He got out of bed， and the lamb followed him out of the yurt. The sheep were all penned in the corral， but this one was special， always following Bahar around. Bahar loved it， took care of it， and kept it in the yurt， becoming its “mother.”

Bahar walked briskly to the riverbank， but the lamb couldn’t keep up and bleated loudly， causing the birds to fall silent. The sheep in the corral all turned to look. Bahar picked up the lamb and rubbed his cheek against its neck as if washing his face. The lamb squinted， enjoying the affection.

II

The Ulungur River nourished the vegetation and washed over the stubborn stones in the Gobi Desert.

There was a type of stone， highly sought after by jade traders， called Gobi jade. It was golden and translucent， with colors varying in depth and unpredictability. Because this jade had golden threads， people in the south named it golden silk jade.

During the flood season， waves would sometimes bring gems to your feet. Bahar had found a few pieces of jade in the waves， each the size of a fingernail. He hoped to find a larger piece and sell it for a good price， so that he could visit Beijing again. He bent over， scanning the stones of all sizes--black， gray， white--but found none that he wanted.

The lamb was also searching， looking for freshly sprouted clover， its favorite food. As it ate， it forgot about Bahar and wandered farther away. Bahar called out， “Beijing，” and the lamb looked up， bleated in response， and ran back a few steps before resuming its grazing. Bahar had named the lamb “Beijing.” He had just come back from Beijing to Beitun at that time. His grandmother said she had only seen Beijing in paintings in her seventy-plus years. Bahar corrected her， saying she had seen the Tiananmen of Beijing， not Beijing itself. Beijing was much larger， with bridges on roads， trains running underground， tall buildings everywhere， and long queues of people.

Bahar had stayed in Beijing for five days on a trip organized by the Young Pioneers， called “Northern Xinjiang Youth Visiting the Capital.” When he first arrived， he mistook the “Beijing” signs for “Beitun，” and after returning home， he mistook “Beitun” for “Beijing.” At that time， the lamb was born， so he named it “Beijing.”

III

In the morning breeze came the sound of a flute， starting with a series of tremolos like a bird flapping its wings， followed by a long， melodious note that transported the listener into a vast world.

Bahar straightened up and looked towards the sound， seeing a boy in white clothes and black pants standing on the opposite bank.

The boy was tall and slender， playing the flute with great absorption. The lamb stopped grazing and pricked up its ears， also looking towards the opposite bank.

Bahar broke off a willow branch， and gently rubbed it until the bark loosened and separated from the branch. He took out his knife， made a circular cut， and peeled off the bark， forming a hollow tube. He pinched one end of the bark， scraped it thin with the knife， and bit it. When he blew， it sounded like a car horn.

He blew a few notes， and the flute on the opposite bank fell silent.

Bahar smiled， the corners of his mouth lifting; a bamboo flute was no match for a willow flute. He blew a few more powerful notes into the sky， producing a deep， resonant sound like a horn.

The lamb bleated， either in approval or protest.

The boy on the opposite bank turned to leave， but Bahar called out， “Play! Let’s see who’s better!”

“Kid， are you Li Longteng?” came a sudden shout from behind Bahar.

The boy stopped.

“I know you. You’re the guest from Beijing，” the man said， arriving at the riverbank. “Come over. Have a cup of milk tea at our yurt!”