g. Then he wouldn't have gotten a stomach ache; he wouldn't have driven the Sarymsaks —father and son —out of the camp, and everything would have gone peacefully and smoothly. The Sarymsaks would have received fifteen lashes —the usual punishment for theft. There wouldn't have been blackened, bald patches covered with pieces of charred felt in the middle of the camp, two scorched, twisted corpses wouldn't have been placed in a yellow steppe grave, and the bash himself wouldn't have had to spend two months recovering from his burns.
But the bash said to Sarymsak father and son:
"You are thieves, sons of dogs! Last year you stole a blanket. Today Abdurazak said you sold his rams. You will be judged by Kotta-gap2. ."
Turning abruptly, the bash retreated into the yurt. As soon as the soft felt mat closed behind him, the expression of anger and imperiousness vanished from his withered, high-cheekboned face. He sat up and groaned, clutching his stomach tightly with his hands. The pain would subside, then spread across his abdomen again in full, swirling circles. The bash tried to lie down, but turned pale and quickly rose. Leaning his back against a pile of brushwood, he drew his knees up to his stomach.
The pain didn’t subside. Grunting and groaning, the bash threw a few branches onto the smoldering coals in the clay bowl and began carefully and deliberately fanning the flames.
Gray smoke, thick as clay, slowly crept upward from the brushwood and froze, filling the entire top of the yurt. Little by little the smoke was drawn out.
Pale blue, light began to jump and flutter across the brushwood.
Bash unlaced his pants, lifted his shirt, and stood up, exposing his yellow belly to the warmth. His flattened face gradually cleared of the deathly, greenish pallor, and the sparkle in his old eyes faded—the pain was subsiding. He stood there for a long time.
His old legs shook and buckled. Cautiously, as if afraid of shattering into pieces, the bash sat up, and a joyful smile filled his yellow face. He leaned his back against the low chest, spread his legs, and stared at the fire with his motionless, watery eyes.
So he fell asleep, and his sleep was calm and sweet. Bash was awakened by a horseman.3:
“The old people have come.”
Bash perked up and quickly tugged his shirt over his bare stomach. The horseman left. Bash briefly thought he shouldn’t have shown himself to the horseman like that. Then he paused for a moment, tilting his head as if listening.
There was no pain. Just a feeling of heaviness pressing on his stomach from the inside.
As easily and smoothly as glass, the bash rose and donned a white robe and white skullcap—emblems of power and justice. But as soon as the bash took his first step toward the exit, the familiar swirling pain struck his stomach again. The bash shuddered, turned blue, and stopped, raising his distorted face, his eyelids drooping and trembling.
The horseman entered the yurt again and bowed low:
“Go, wise one. The elders are waiting for you...”
Bash groped for his stick behind the chest and walked out of the yurt. The August sun hit him blindingly in the face. Every step echoed in Bash’s stomach like a painful blow. Bash tried to walk as fast as he could, but smoother and lighter - because of this, his gait lost its former fussiness and became majestic and menacing.
The old men sat on the felt mats, tucking their legs under them. Wisely and decorously, they took turns smoking chilim4. The crowd swayed and buzzed before them. Seeing the bash, the elders bowed in unison.
Bash answered them and nearly collapsed from the pain. Frowning, he overcame his trembling and, straightening up, pulling his stomach tight—it made things easier for him that way—he walked to his place in the middle. A faint whisper swept through the crowd: Bash was menacing, dark-faced. The old men exchanged meaningful glances.
Bashu was served a chillum. He took a drag, coughed, and vowed never to smoke a chillum again—it was so painful for him to cough.
“Where is Abdurazak?” asked the bash.“
“Here,” a muffled voice responded from the crowd.
Bash looked closely at Abdurazak. Then his gaze slid over the crowd and settled on the Sarymsaks. They were sitting right on the bare ground, pitiful and dejected. Bash felt his stomach ache even more. The Bash’s eyes swelled with cold malice. It was because of them that he, the Bash, had to suffer here; it was they who had torn him away from the fire, where his stomach felt so at ease. Bash gritted his teeth. His gray beard jutted out. He hoarsely shouted:
“Don't turn away! Thieves!”
The sarymsaks lowered their eyes, and Bash tore his blazing gaze away with an effort. The crowd fell silent. The bright sun scorched and oppressed the steppe. The annoying chirping of grasshoppers drifted from the yellow grass. Humpbacked, mangy camels wandered lazily between the yurts. Bash called out:
“Abdurazak!”
Abdurazak quickly pushed his way through the crowd and stood before the court. Bash, closing his eyes, leaned back on the pillows, exposing his belly to the sun. Abdurazak’s eyes flashed and, leaning on his cane, he leaned forward. His old, wrinkled cheeks trembled. He said:
“Wise!” and fell silent.
A hot, deathly silence hung over the crowd. A sleepy sultry heat enveloped and lulled the steppe.
“Wise one,” Abdurazak began again, and everyone thought he was speaking too loudly. “You know how I live!”
Abdurazak fell silent again, searching for words. His fingers, like the wings of a wounded bird, fluttered and beat on the thick curved staff.
His head lay half-motionless, like a piled blackbird. His dry face, the colour of steppe sand, was covered, like a salt marsh, with a dirty, unhealthy pallor. Abdurazak suddenly shook his cotton-white beard and, extending a trembling hand toward the court, began to speak quickly and passionately.
He, Abdurazak, had lost his rams. What rams they were! Bash probably knew them, because no one else in the entire nomadic camp had rams like them... Their wool was whiter and lighter than a cloud, and their fat tails weighed a pood. He, Abdurazak, had two of them—two magnificent, fat rams!
He bought some rams last year. He’d been meaning to buy them for years. Bash knows how he and the old woman live. Bash knows their yurt is the poorest, that they only eat meat on major holidays. Until now, they’d had nothing of their own. Even their yurt was given to them out of kindness by Tyuryakul. May Allah protect him for many years to come! He and the old woman lived as farmhands, earning pennies and eating only flatbread. They saved up for a blanket and rams, because it’s cold to sleep without blankets, and without rams, a Kyrgyz’s heart is like wormwood. He and the old woman worked together for six years, six years!
And in the seventh year they immediately bought two blankets and two rams.
They went to Kokand three times to haggle for these rams. Each ram cost more than a year’s work. Does the bash see his back? It’s arched like a saxaul, from the weight of hauling so many pounds of baggage. Does the bash see those legs, arms, eyes? He, Abdurazak, old and sick, sweated in the heat and shivered in the cold wind, earning his rams... And the old woman?! Let the bash look and say she’s only forty! She looks seventy, and that’s because she, too, has been overworked... He and the old woman bought blankets and rams, wanting to rest peacefully, knowing they would be remembered kindly after death and their rams would be used to make a fine dinner. But the rams were gone!
The old woman cried her eyes out. He, the old man, with his aching legs, walked dozens of miles, searching for the rams. He visited all the neighbouring nomad camps, and in the Kara-Bagish camp, he learned that his rams had been sold to the Karabagish Sarymsakis —those jackals, father and son, who were now awaiting trial.
He brought two Karabakhis with him to confirm the accuracy of his words. He came to the bash, to the elders, to ask for justice and judgment...
The old man had barely finished speaking when an old woman, jumping out of the crowd, began chattering. Bash winced and waved his hand.
“Shut up, woman!”
The old woman obediently fell silent and timidly looked at the old men with her red, eyelashless eyes.
“Are Abdurazak’s words true?” the bash asked the Sarymsaks.
“No!” the Sarymsakis answered at once.
“You didn't steal any sheep?”
“No! We didn’t steal!”
“Call the Karabakhis,” the bash ordered.
The Karabakhis approached and bowed their heads respectfully. Bash greeted them, and they replied:
“Peace to your grey beard and mind, clear as water!”
“Did you see how they,” the bash nodded towards Sarymsakov, “sold two white rams?”
“Yes, we saw it,” the Karabakhis answered.
The Sarymsaks exchanged glances, and the muscles in their son’s cheeks began to twitch.
“Are you lying?” the bash asked solemnly.
“No! Our words are true.”
Bash turned to Sarymsak.
“What do you say? These people saw you selling the rams!”
Sarymsak-father gave a forced laugh and answered rudely:
“What did they see? Did they see us steal? We found some rams in the steppe.”
Bash pursed his lips and said contemptuously:
“You, Sarymsak, want to play your language like a dutar.5 I’ve seen many like you, and I’ve seen many smarter ones than you. Who would believe you found rams? And didn’t you know they were Abdurrazak’s rams?”
“I can’t know all the rams!”
“You’re lying!” the bash shouted angrily. “Even I knew those rams! You stole them! It’s your fault!”
The Sarymsaks cowered. The Bash, feeling a surge of unbearable pain, gritted his teeth, and the elders thought he was beyond measure angry. The elders spoke briefly: The Sarymsaks are guilty; let the Bash punish them.
The Bash spoke last. He stood and buttoned his white robe. The crowd froze. The Bash’s abrupt words fell heavily and clearly, like stones, into the crowd. The Bash said that stealing from the poor was worse than renouncing one’s faith. He said that the Sarymsaks had disgraced the nomad camp and that the word would spread across the steppe that everyone in the camp was a thief. The old men sat on painted felt mats and rocked rhythmically. The Bash spoke, barely able to stand—it seemed as if his heart would burst with pain. The Bash hastily finished:
“I’m thinking of giving them thirty lashes each, taking away their rams, blankets and yurt and driving them away!”
Bash looked questioningly at the old men. Five long gray beards rose and fell again with a flourish. The old men agreed.
“What do they have?” asked the bash.
“They both have twelve rams, five blankets, a donkey and a yurt.”
The old people decided to give Abdurazak a donkey, four rams and two blankets.
“Give three blankets and two rams to the basha, and slaughter the rest for the entire nomad camp.”
The Sarymsaks sat as if turned to stone. They hadn’t expected such a harsh punishment. The sentence had ruined them and condemned them to eternal poverty and vagrancy. The horsemen led the Sarymsaks by the arms to the court.
Bash sent to the yurt for special whips, used only for flogging the guilty. The Sarymsaks were stripped and laid on the grass. The horsemen sat on their legs and shoulders. The flogging began. The whistling whips struck the Sarymsaks’ backs, leaving crimson welts.
Bash counted the blows on his fingers. The Sarymsaks didn’t even groan. After the flogging, they pulled on their tattered robes and walked away, heads down, not looking at anyone. Bash hurriedly shuffled into the yurt. There, he fell face down on the blankets and bit into the sleeve of his robe. A horseman entered. Bash shouted:
“Fire! Hurry!”
And, not embarrassed by the horseman, he again exposed his belly to the warmth.
Happy Abdurazak drove his donkey and rams towards him, his old woman, bending over, dragged blankets, and her eyebrowless face shone with joy and happiness.
The nomad camp was noisy, preparing for a feast.
2
The Sarymsaks stopped about four miles from the camp. They sat down under a bare saxaul bush on the hot, dry sand. It was very hot, and sweat was eating away the scars and wounds on their battered backs. Near the bush, a cold, clear spring trickled from the clay. After drinking, the father took two flatbreads from his robe and silently handed one to his son. His back ached. He bent over and, carefully, as if touching a fine glass, ran his finger down his back, and the finger bounced over the swollen scars, as if on a ladder. The father squinted at the sun. Soon it would be evening. It was hot. The sand had become hot. The son hoarsely asked:
“Where are we going?”
Father didn’t answer. Where will you go? And with a battered back, too! Uzun-kalak6 will spread the news of the judgment across the steppe. Everyone will guess immediately. What camp will accept a thief?.. Where to go?..
“I don't know,” the father finally answered.
The son muttered angrily:
“You know how to steal! You taught me!”
“Shut up, jackal,” replied the father. “You’re a thief yourself.”
The son stopped chewing and gnashed his teeth in rage. He swallowed the flatbread hastily, cursed with relish, and raised his dirty fist to his father’s face.
“It’s because of you!” he shouted. “It’s you, you old thief! You bastard! Where are we going? You bastard!”
The son bent low and spat a luscious, savory spit into his father’s sparse red beard. The old man let out a high-pitched squeal and slapped his son in the cheek. The son saw everything red and cloudy. In a frenzied rage, he crushed and squeezed his father, dragged him around, tugging him, shoving his face into the hot sand. When he came to, his father was lying face down, groaning and wheezing. Drops of blood lay black on the gray sand. With an effort, the father raised his head and turned his swollen, blue face toward his son. Thick blood slowly trickled from his suddenly swollen nose, his lips swelled into blue blisters, and his left eye was swollen shut. He continually coughed up strange, thick clots of blood. He stared long and piercingly at his son with his only seeing eye. Moving his broken lips in agony, he whispered:
“You won't find a place for yourself even in hell, jackal! May Allah give you torment, endless and slow as water!”
And, struggling with his undislocated arm, unable to rise to his feet, the father crawled to the spring and began washing his face. A bloody dawn swayed over the mountains. The pink water in the spring turned red with blood. Purple shadows spread from the distant mountains across the steppe. The sand took on a strange pink hue. The son sat down to one side—the glow of the dawn made his face seem bronze. The father lay there and groaned softly: he felt he was going to die.
A sultry, dense night descended swiftly upon the steppe. In the black, crumbling sky, plump stars swelled with a blood-red light. It was so quiet that the scurry of a mouse across the sand could be heard clearly and distinctly. Then, with effort, a murky, crimson moon, like a severed head, crawled out from behind the dunes and sparkled, crumbling like dull copper, in the pockmarked waters of the spring. The son sat in his previous position, occasionally grinding his teeth. He felt his body fill with a piercing cold of anger. The father stopped moaning. The son rose and, striding, walked into the steppe, into the darkness. The father perked up. He was afraid his son would abandon him alone. But the recent insult chilled his heart again. The father said not a word. Let him go! The father would not ask for help from his accursed son.
Seeing the cheerful glow of the campfires above the camp, the son sat down on a hillock. Anger raged within him like a dark hurricane. His rams were being roasted over these fires; his bash was lying on his blankets! And he, hungry, beaten, spat upon, didn’t know where to spend the night!.. Powerless tears streamed down his dry cheeks.
So he sat until the lights in the camp went out.
Only two watchfires were burning dimly. The Son perked up and looked around the steppe.
The moon was already setting—crimson, enormous, bloodshot. A thick, ominous reddish darkness hung all around. The son walked toward the camp. As he neared, his steps became light, and the sand beneath his feet crunched softly and secretly, like dry snakeskin. A dog barked anxiously. The son whistled affectionately to it.
It fell silent. The son slipped behind the first yurt into the shadows and stood there, barely breathing... “Quiet...”
The son crept up to a stack of dry weeds, took an armful and ran to the bash’s yurt.
He ran back and forth between the haystack and the yurt several times, and soon the bash’s entire yurt was surrounded by weeds. Putting a pile of white akbash flowers, which ignite at the slightest spark, under the weeds, the son ran to Abdurazak’s yurt.
Snoring could be heard from the yurt. The son listened and spat on the yurt.
At that moment, someone coughed behind him. His son thought he heard it nearby. He crouched down and pressed his hand to his heart, afraid they would hear the sound. The man walked back to the neighbouring yurt with heavy, sleepy steps.
The son remained motionless for three minutes, then began to pile weeds around Abdurazak’s yurt. He thus surrounded the yurts of the bash, Abdurazak, and all the elders who had judged him. Then he crawled toward the extinguished fires. He picked through the ashes with his fingers and pulled out the embers.
He filled the bottom of his hat with earth and placed a pile of smouldering coals. He walked around the yurts again, stopping at each one, placing a coal under the weeds, and fanning it until the akbash blazed. By the time he lit the last fire, the weeds at the bash’s yurt were already simmering, flowing in trembling red streams.
The son, joyful, ran quickly into the steppe. About twenty minutes later, he turned around and froze: above the camp, piercing the darkness like bloodied hands, tongues of fire swayed and flickered. The flames sometimes sank, trailing along the ground, sometimes boldly and sharply reaching toward the moon. Illuminated by the red glow, people scurried between the yurts, putting out the fires.
The son nearly squealed with malicious delight. Running to his father, he grabbed him, lifted him easily, and laughed, jumping and grimacing, extending his threatening hand toward the fiery pillars. Looking at his father, he saw his head lolling limply, his body like a sack. His father was dead and had already gone cold.
[3300 words]
1Bash - head, leader.
2Kotta-gap is a big piece of advice, a trial.
3Dzhigit — warrior.
4Chilim – a hookah.
5Dutar is an Uzbek plucked string instrument.
6Uzun-kulak - popular rumor.
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