1931.04 Proverbs

 КАЗАХСКИЕ НАРОДНЫЕ ПОСЛОВИЦЫ

Уныние — море, утонешь безвозвратно, реши­

мость — лодка, сядешь и переплывешь.

Лучше заблудиться вместе с другими людьми, чем 

находить дорогу одинокому.

Если есть один праздный человек, есть и другой, 

умирающий с голоду.

Если гость придет — сварится мясо; если мясо не 

сварится —- сварится лицо хозяина.

Ленивому сон заменяет богатство, глупому смех 

заменяет ум.

Если котел без покрышки, так собака без совести.

Худший из жеребят бывает иноходцем, худший 

из людей — муллой.

---

KAZAKH FOLK PROVERBS

Despondency is the sea; you'll drown forever. Determination is a boat; you'll board and swim across.

It's better to get lost with others than to try to find your way alone.

If there's one idle person, there's another dying of hunger.

If a guest comes, the meat will be cooked; if the meat isn't cooked, the host's face will be cooked.

For the lazy, sleep replaces wealth; for the fool, laughter replaces intelligence.

If a pot has no cover, then a dog has no conscience.

The worst of foals becomes a pacer; the worst of men, a mullah.

1931.03 Iron Devil

 

1931.03 Iron Devil

by Leonid Solovyov (1906-1962)

Chulak and I sit on a tattered, shaggy felt mat. To one side, in the cold ashes of the fire, a teapot cools, long since ceasing to fog the blue air with steam. Before us lies the unchanging steppe: yellow expanses of burnt grass, stiff and dry like the body of an Afghan dervish. Bordered by dull greenery, the lakes lie quietly—in shadow and glowing dimly, like enormous blue moons—two sleepy eyes of the steppe, stretched out along the lake.

Millennia-old burial mounds, smoothed by rain and wind, spread long silks of purple shadows across the steppe. A wind, gentle and soft as the down of a young ram, rustles the dried grass stalks over the burial mounds. And over everything—over us, over the lakes, over the burial mounds—a sparkling, unique sunset. Snow on the mountain peaks, white in the mornings like the turbans of Samarkand’s Ishnans¹, now bloodied and burning. A huge crimson sun falls behind the mountains, fusing its rays into a single, solid, unbearably hot crown. The sunset’s reflection burns on Chulak’s copper face. Chulak is motionless and strangely reminiscent of a bronze statue. We sit in silence for a long time, until finally Chulak extends his withered brown hand toward the sunset, the colour of the wood of the ancient gates of the Khiva fortresses. He speaks to me hoarsely and quietly, pointing toward the sunset:

“Look... The day is dying. You see... We Cossacks say that the sun is a warrior. Bright Warrior. And evening is a warrior, only black... Every day they fight twice. One time the sun conquers evening, and the other time evening conquers the sun. You see, the sky is red and burning. It was evening that struck the sun in the chest and blood flowed... And twilight is a mardeker.² He walks around with a rag. He’ll wipe the sun’s blood from the mountains and the sky with it, and then he’ll cover the earth with the same rag. And there will be night...”

Unnoticed, night takes hold of the steppe. A lazy, flat, lightless moon emerges from behind the bushes. It’s reflected in the lakes in long, glowing columns, thickening the steppe with a red, ghostly darkness. Time passes terribly slowly, like a blind man without a guide. The steppe’s silence is dully filled with a vague noise and rumble, as if someone enormous were shifting heavy stones deep within the earth. The roar approaches, widens, grows; ducks, startled from the night reeds, fly overhead with a buzzing whistle, and about two miles away, a train bursts out from behind the hills. A long ribbon of lanterns flashes by, then it disappears into the ominous, impenetrable distance, and with it, the roar fades, dies... Quiet... Here comes the last, barely audible whistle...

“He screams,” says Chulak, “he screams every day... I remember he screamed just like that before he killed my father... You’ve heard, of course, about my father, Akhmad-Khalp. His fame spread throughout the steppe. He was a great bash.³ and Ishan. He received the letter of guidance, hatti-irshad,⁴ from Annnar-Muhammad-oglu-Ishan himself, whom Allah took alive to heaven in Alma-Ata. When my father was alive, we were free Cossacks. We didn’t sit in one place, as we do now. Our home was in the steppe. We never thought we’d become Sarts.⁵ But he died, and we became Sarts....”

Chulak waves his hand and falls silent. He remains silent for a long time, a heavy silence. To provoke him to talk, I ask:

“Was he, your father, as cunning as Sarymsak?”

The deceased Sarymsak, our mutual acquaintance, was the bash of one of the nomadic camps. Upon hearing about Sarymsak, Chulak turned sharply to me:

“Sarymsak! You’ve found someone to compare me to! Sarymsak!.. Sarymsak is a jackal, and my father is a tiger. And my father’s wisdom wasn’t pig-like, like Sarymsak’s. My father was as wise as Ok-Ilen.⁶ He was the wisest of the Bash. At the age of twenty, he left for Alma-Ata and returned three years later as an Ishan. And more throughout the steppe, from Jety-Su.⁷ Before Fergana, I don’t know a single bash who was also an Ishan.

“Exactly two years after my father’s return, our old bash died. I wasn’t even born then. But the elders told me: the bash died, and Ahmad-Khalpa decided to become bash himself. When the elders gathered for the election of a new bash, he came and said:

“I want to be a bash!”

The old men answered him:

“You’re young. You haven’t yet demonstrated your wisdom to us and haven’t brought any benefit to the nomad camp. Show your wisdom, and you’ll be a bash.”

My father then said this to the old people:

“I can show you my wisdom and can be of use to the nomads. The Ailchins are strong and rich. The Ailchins are our enemies. I will steal all the Ailchins’ cattle and the daughter of Bash Abdurazak.”

The old men thought and answered:

“The Ailchins are stronger than us. You won’t be able to steal their cattle and the bash’s daughter. You’ll die and destroy all our horsemen. We refuse.”

Then my father came out and said to the horsemen, his comrades:

“Who is going with me to the damned villagers?”

Only the cowards remained in the camp. All the brave horsemen were glad to take revenge on the villagers. And the old men said goodbye to my father:

“If you win, you’ll be the bash. If you destroy the horsemen and return in one piece, we’ll kill you.”

“The horsemen rode out into the dark night. They wrapped their horses’ hooves in felt. The Ailchins stood on the banks of Lake Dongus-Kul.⁸ The cattle roamed about five miles from the yurts, and between the yurts and the cattle stood a full mile of dry reeds. Father placed four horsemen in the reeds and ordered them to light the reeds after whistling. He ordered the rest to kill the guards and drive the cattle after whistling. He himself quietly rode closer to the camp and hid in the tugai. He whistled. That’s it.

Chulak, putting two fingers in his mouth, whistled loudly and merrily. Answering whistles were immediately heard—the shepherds were responding from the night.

“He whistled,” Chulak continued. “They couldn’t kill the guards right away. They started shooting. The villagers became alarmed and galloped toward the cattle, but fire blocked their path. Then many of the villagers swam their horses across the lake—and the lake was wide, about four miles—and some of the villagers returned, while others drowned.

“Meanwhile, my father galloped to the nomad camp, where only the old men and women remained, pulled the daughter of Bash Abdurazak from the yurt, and carried her away. When Abdurazak came to his senses, he had neither his daughter nor his cattle... As soon as our horsemen returned, we took off and left these parts. The Ailchins never found us.”

Chulak giggled briefly and joyfully.

“And then?” I asked.

“You’ll have time. Well then. My father was about twenty-five years old at the time. He became a bash and married Abdurazak’s daughter. A year later, I was born. There was a toi.⁹ They say there’s never been a party like this. Everyone was drunk for four days. The marijuana dealers made off with pockets full of cash...¹⁰

Many years passed. My mustache began to grow. Ahmad-Khalga once again demonstrated his wisdom to the elders. He completely subjugated the Ayilchins and made Abdurazak’s son his mardeker. Our clan became the most powerful and wealthy, and we had no dangerous enemies.

But then one day, when we were standing near Aulie-Ata, a hard year came. The grass dried up. The cattle were plagued. Sheep died by the dozens. Famine threatened. Akhmad-Khalpa called the elders together for a kotta-gap.

The old men thought for a long time. The whole night. They smoked three bowls of chilim, and drank a whole cauldron of tea. And in the morning, my father gathered the entire camp and said that if we didn’t want to die of hunger, we should go to Fergana, to the Karatau Mountains, where the grass is always fresh and green, where the water is not harmful and the cattle don’t die from it.

We left. We left when the moon had just risen, and by the time we arrived, it was already full moon.

The entire journey, my father was dull and gloomy. He didn’t speak to either my mother or me. His face brightened when we found green, lush grass and good water near the Karatau Mountains. We rejoiced. We didn’t know that my father, the great bash and ishan, whose wisdom had made the Chulan family great and glorious, was destined to perish here.

There was a hunter named Hamrakul in our camp. He went looking for goitered gazelles. He returned two days later, and his face was ugly. He went straight to his fathers tent and said he needed a kotta-gap. The old men came.

I was sitting there too, next to my father. Hamrakul swore by his beard that he’d seen the devil run past him. They didn’t believe him at first, but he swore again by Saint Turakhon, and my father said:

“Old men, go with him and see if he’s telling the truth. If he’s lying, cut out his tongue right there, so he doesn’t call upon Saint Turakhon to testify to his lies.”

I went with the old men. Hamrakul led us through the mountains, through the sands, and after a night, at midday, we saw iron paths.

“That’s where he runs,” Hamrakul said.

We decided to wait until morning. But we only waited until evening. That evening we saw this devil. He was running, puffing, and burning in the middle. We all fell to the ground, our horses scattered, and we barely managed to catch them. Upon arrival, we reported everything we had seen to Ahmad-Khalpa. His face darkened and he said nothing, only glaring menacingly at Hamrakul. He prayed all night. In the morning, at the kotta-gap, he said to the old men:

“We better get out of here.”

“You are the bash, and you must protect us from the devil. Where will we go if there is no grass anywhere else... You are an ishan. You are blessed by the proximity of the great teacher Annar-Muhammad-oglu-Ishan. Are you, a saint, afraid of the devil? When we chose you as bash, we thought we would have a protector...”

My father gave Hamrakul a terrible look then. So terrible that I still remember that look. And remembering, I think that the wise Ahmad-Khalpa still knew then that he was going to his death. And he hated Hamrakul, because of whom the elders sent him to fight the devil. But the elders were noisy, and rumours spread throughout the camp that my father was a coward and an unworthy bash. Then my father made up his mind. He ordered everyone who wanted to go with him to bring guns. He prayed over the guns all night, kissed each bullet, and loaded them himself with prayer. In the morning, before leaving, he said to me:

“Chulak! Remember what fools the old men in our nomad camp are. Remember also how your father went crazy.”

Then we set off: my father, I, eight old men, and ten of the bravest horsemen. We arrived at the iron paths again, and it was raining. And my father prayed and cried. And everyone prayed. And a thunderstorm played over the mountains, and thunder rumbled.

Then we lay down in the bushes, guns at the ready. It was getting dark. We heard a roar. Hamrakul shouted:

“Running! Running!”

My father kept praying. I ran up to him and said:

“He’s running!”

Father rose from his knees. His eyes were red from tears. He kissed me hard several times and —I think—smiled. The devil appeared over the hills. He ran closer and closer. Father, pale, stood in his path and shouted:

“In the name of Allah, stop!”

He howled... Ooooh-oooh-oooh!.. He was angry... But he got up! I’m telling you the truth - he got up! And when he got up, father shouted to us:

“Hey!”

We fired immediately. He whined again, lunged forward, and my father disappeared under him. When he passed, my father was left in two halves, crumpled and trampled.

Akhmad-Khalpa was buried with honour. And I became a bash. And then we began to plow the land. We became Sarts. The iron devil destroyed us.

Chulak stood up and walked into the yurt, hunched over and pitiful. At the entrance, he turned around and added:

“The old people used to say that my father died because he forgot to polish his guns with the cap of Saint Turakhon, which Annar-Muhammad-oglu-Ishan had given my father. And now I know that you Russians make such devils and take people in them for a fee. But we old people are afraid of them. And the young ones... My nephew goes to Tashkent and back twice a year. He says he’s learning to make these things himself. But I still think it’s against Allah.”

[2300 words]

1 Ishan is the highest Muslim spiritual rank.

2 Mardeker - worker.

3 Bash - head, leader.

4 Hatti-irshad - charter of Naishandom.

5 Sart - a derogatory name given by nomads to the sedentary population of Central Asia.

6 Ok-I flax—a special kind of snake.

7 Jety-Su—Semirechye. The region of the "seven rivers", only five of which still exist today, parts of Kazakhstan and parts of Kyrgyzstan.

8 Dongus-Kul - Pig Lake

9 Toi—a feast.

10 Hashish is an intoxicating smoke.

1931.02 Thief

 

1931.02 THIEF
1

The Bash¹ shouldn't have eaten so much fatty mutton that morning. 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.