The Great Bird

Hao Zi is a child who grew up by Poyang Lake， and Poyang Lake， where the water meets the sky year after year， nurtured him and many beautiful creatures. Among them， Hao Zi’s favorite is the white crane， which he waits for the return of every winter. However， as the environmental damage intensifies year by year， the survival of winter migratory birds is becoming more and more difficult. Poyang Lake provides food for tens of thousands of winter migratory birds around the world， becoming one of the largest wintering places for migratory birds. In order to protect the last “White Crane Paradse，” the young Zhou Qiang stood up， and she led Hao Zi， Jiang Tao， Xiao Yongzhe， and other volunteers to plant lotus roots and protect birds， change the concept of local farmers， and jointly build a home for migratory birds.

The Great Bird

Peng Xuejun

21st Century Publishing Group

November 2023

30.00 (CNY)

Peng Xuejun

Peng Xuejun is the vice chairman of the Jiangxi Writers Association. He is one of the most influential writers in contemporary Chinese children’s literature. He has published nearly 100 novels， short and medium story collections， essay collections， and picture books. His works have won many awards， such as the 11th “Five One Project” Book Award of the Propaganda Department of the CPC Central Committee， the Book Award of the China Publishing Government Award， and the Book Award of the China Outstanding Publication Award. The works have been translated into English， French， Japanese， Korean， Mongolian， Portuguese， Arabic， etc.， and have achieved copyright export in multiple countries.

Actually， Haozi’s father didn’t know that in winter， it really is hard to find food in the great lake.

The great lake is Poyang Lake， but the villagers simply call it the great lake because it is indeed vast.

In spring， when the flood season comes， the lake’s water swells， and the lake surface is almost as large as half of Nanchang City. The waters of the five rivers—Ganjiang， Fuhe， Xinjiang， Raohe， and Xiushui—all flow into the lake， then push and shove their way to Stone Bell Mountain at the mouth of the lake and finally pour into the Yangtze River.

Stone Bell Mountain isn’t tall， and its shape resembles an overturned bell. And because there is a deep pool at the base of the mountain， and many large and small gaps between the rocks， the wind and waves cause the water to strike the rocks， creating a sound like a great bell. Hence， it’s called Stone Bell Mountain. Standing on the mountain， one can see the world’s most wonderful line—the line where the clear lake water meets the turbid river water. The lake water， likely disdaining the river’s muddiness， maintains a clear boundary， while the river water， finding the lake’s clarity too insignificant compared to its own vastness， remains separate， making the waterline distinct.

A long time ago， so long ago that there were no trains， cars， or planes， the only waterway for northern merchant ships， warships， and civilian boats to reach the more southern parts of Jiangxi was Poyang Lake. Back then， Poyang Lake was bustling with boats and sails. During wartime， it was a strategic location fiercely contested. The winning side， if they happened to become emperor， would name a small island in the lake after themselves， such as Zhupao Mountain.

Legend has it that at the end of the Yuan Dynasty， Zhu Yuanzhang and Chen Youliang fought for supremacy in a great battle on Poyang Lake. Once， Chen Youliang chased Zhu Yuanzhang to a small unnamed mountain island in the lake， where Zhu Yuanzhang’s boat suddenly disappeared. Chen’s troops searched the island carefully and finally discovered Zhu Yuanzhang hiding among a pile of rocks. They surrounded the pile and shouted， “Zhu Yuanzhang， come out! Zhu Yuanzhang， come out quickly!” (Had they known this man would become emperor， they wouldn’t have dared shout his name so carelessly even if given a hundred times the courage.) Zhu Yuanzhang remained silent until Chen Youliang grabbed hold of what turned out to be just Zhu Yuanzhang’s campaign gown. After the establishment of the Ming Dynasty， this small mountain was named Zhupao Mountain， with “zhupao” meaning “Zhu Yuanzhang’s gown.”

In the lake， there is also a small rocky island that looks like a star floating on the water. It’s said that this island is a star that fell into Poyang Lake and transformed， hence it’s called Luoxing Dun (“Falling Star Islet”). The ancient poem “Today’s lake stone， yesterday’s sky star” refers to it. There is another mountain that resembles a shoe， so people simply call it Shoe Mountain. The legend goes that a fairy named Lingbo was so enchanted by the moonlight and the vast lake while strolling at night that she didn’t notice when her embroidered shoe fell off... There are over forty small islands in the lake， each with its own tales and legends， as numerous as the islands themselves.

But once winter comes， the lake water dramatically recedes， as if countless gigantic beasts at the lake’s bottom have sucked away half the water in one gulp. The once vast lake turns into various wide and narrow， winding rivers— “High water is a lake， while low water resembles a river，” “Rising water makes a vast expanse， while receding water draws a line.” Large areas of grasslands， shoals， and marshes are exposed. The roots and stems of plants and the fish， shrimp， clams， and snails in the shallow water attract birds seeking wintering grounds， who arrive in droves. With thousands of feet and hundreds of beaks， the birds gather， creating a scene reminiscent of a Ming Dynasty poet’s description: “Fish and dragons disappear in the water country， and storks and cranes rest in the sunny sky.” Each winter， the sky is never empty， filled with the silhouettes and calls of thousands of flying and chirping birds like cranes， geese， herons， and storks.

Almost at the same time as these birds arrive at the lake， so do the photographers.

They carry their cameras with long lenses like rifles， along with water and food. They find a mound of moderate height or a field ridge， and if lucky， a deserted shed once used by a melon farmer. They set up their cameras and patiently wait， willing to endure freezing temperatures. If they can capture a shot of a dancing white crane， a watercock fighting for territory， or a falcon catching a pigeon... all the hunger and cold they endured would be worth it.

However， what fascinates Zhou Qiang the most is the great bird， the white crane.

A few years ago， when she first followed a group of bird photographers into the great lake， she knew nothing except how to focus and press the shutter. You could say she herself was a bird， a rookie! Through the lens， so many birds appeared， each as beautiful and nimble as a sprite: white (whooper swans)， gray (gray cranes)， black-winged with white necks (hooded cranes)， those with a little tuft on their heads (northern lapwings)， those with white foreheads like villains in Chinese opera (white-fronted geese)， those with long， upward-curving beaks as if in a constant sulk (avocets)， those wearing red caps (pochards)， and those with long legs like models wearing red stockings (oriental storks)... She slowly moved the lens， pressing the shutter repeatedly， greedily trying to capture every bird， regardless of whether the final images were blurred.

Seemingly by chance， they appeared in her lens—they seemed to leap into the frame themselves—large-winged， snow-white all over， with wingtips dipped in black， like ink. Could they be... white cranes? She searched her meager knowledge of birds and the words “white crane” leapt to mind.

Yes， it was them， two of them! One of them stood on tiptoes， stretching its body upwards， its long， pointed beak calling out to the sky with high， clear， and long sounds. Its wings spread to their maximum width， flapping slowly a couple of times before suddenly folding， and lowering its body swiftly. Almost simultaneously， the other crane stood up and repeated the first crane’s actions before lowering itself again. A few seconds later， both stood up together， facing each other， calling out， spreading their wings， then as if following an unseen command， “One， two， three， fly!” Both cranes leapt into the air simultaneously， crossing paths mid-flight， swapping positions before landing， stretching their necks， calling out， spreading their wings， rising and falling gracefully， like two violins playing a duet. Finally， they leapt up once more， this time soaring high into the sky like trumpets， moving rhythmically with their calls， and in the blink of an eye， they flew out of Zhou Qiang’s frame.

Zhou Qiang had been holding her breath， and only then did she remember to exhale. She let out a long breath， her fair， delicate face flushing red. She collected herself and murmured， “White cranes， dancing.”

Several photographers nearby， intently focused on their viewfinders， heard her words and came over， asking， “Where? Did you capture it?”

“Capture?” Zhou Qiang seemed to awaken from a dream， “I... I forgot to press the shutter...”

“Forgot to press the shutter? Were you holding binoculars instead?” someone mocked her.

“First time photographing birds and you get that lucky?” The speaker was likely envious， their tone dripping with sourness. White cranes are very hard to capture， let alone dancing white cranes.

“You must have been seeing things?” someone else teased.

Zhou Qiang felt a bit ashamed but not particularly regretful. So what if she didn’t capture it? At that moment， she had devoted all her attention to observing， admiring， and marveling at them， engraving the images in her memory， clearer， more vivid， and more lasting than any photograph—that was enough!

“They say seeing white cranes dance brings good luck. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t capture it，” her boyfriend， standing behind her without her noticing， reassured her， placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Her boyfriend’s surname was Qi， a tall man whom she called Da Qi. Bird photography was originally his hobby， and during their dates， he often showed her his photos. After graduating from university， Zhou Qiang worked in various media outlets， including newspapers， magazines， and TV stations， making her quite experienced. Yet the creatures between heaven and earth deeply fascinated her， so she took up a camera and followed along.

“Did you see them?” Zhou Qiang asked Da Qi. “No， I was over there， focused on photographing a few whooper swans.”

Zhou Qiang pondered， feeling a bit puzzled， “Could it be that only I saw them? Or was it a mistake? Impossible， the images were so vivid. Or perhaps， they danced only for me? Why?” Why? Zhou Qiang would gradually come to understand in the days that followed.

Actually， there was another person who saw the white cranes dancing at that time—Jiang Tao. He was just an eight-or nine-year-old boy then， a bit precocious， introverted， and liked to ponder things quietly by himself. His father often let him follow his uncle when he went out to photograph birds， hoping he would interact more with people， observe trees， mountains， water， and birds， and become more cheerful and lively. That time was his first time entering the lake with his uncle to photograph birds. Being shy and distant， he didn’t know whether the two dancing white birds were white cranes—he didn’t recognize white cranes back then. He just watched silently， saying nothing. On the return trip， he told his uncle that he might have seen white cranes dancing， emphasizing “might.”

“It’s not might， it’s certain!” his uncle said confidently， hoping it was true. “Tao， you’re lucky!” His uncle liked to call him “Tao.”

As he went birdwatching with his uncle more and more， Jiang Tao slowly developed an interest in birds and became much livelier. As he grew older， his uncle gave him an old camera he had retired and taught him how to take pictures. When he photographed birds he didn’t recognize， he would look them up online—what family they belonged to， their habits， what they ate， their growth patterns. Over time， he became quite the bird expert， and even his uncle would come to him with questions about unfamiliar birds.