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.
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