[Illustration]
A person who is alone spends a great deal of time in thought. It was
so with Turgen. And though his thoughts repeated themselves day after
day, still he found pleasure in them. True, they got mixed up at times,
so that he found it difficult to separate present from past: all
appeared part of one precious experience, without beginning or end. But
whichever way his thoughts turned--there were Marfa and the children.
They had become his friends shortly after the death of Marfa’s husband.
Turgen had known the couple for years, but acquaintance is not the same
as friendship.
He remembered Marfa when she was a frightened girl working in the homes
of wealthy Yakuts. At that time he had no occasion to speak to her, and
besides she was very shy. Then when she was past her first youth she
married a Yakut in the neighborhood who needed a good worker to look
after his three cows. Marfa’s life was changed by marriage but it was
not improved. Her husband was a sickly man unable to do a full day’s
work, and when the children came her cares increased. The death of the
husband soon after the birth of their second child left Marfa with the
burden of the household upon her. Of the three cows, two had to be
sold. Hardships and the years put wrinkles in her face and she grew old
before her time. However, her body was fortunately still strong and she
accepted what God sent.
This part of her life Turgen knew only from hearsay. It was later that
he met her as a friend, and he loved to recall the incident.
One winter, returning from a hunt on skis, he was passing her yurta
when he noticed that neither sparks nor smoke came from the chimney.
He stopped at once, thinking in fright, “A dead chimney. What has
happened? I must investigate.”
To people of the North a chimney without life in the cold of winter is
a sign of disaster.
Turgen ran towards the yurta. While still some distance away he could
hear the anxious mooing of the cow and a child weeping. He opened the
door cautiously. The yurta was dark and cold.
“Who is it? Come in and help me light a fire,” a childish voice
called. Turgen struck a match and saw a small boy, his face and hands
black with soot, rocking a cradle in which a baby sat crying as if the
world were lost. With his free hand he tried to stir the fire in the
komelek into life while he blew on its dead embers.
“Let me,” Turgen said, and added, “Don’t be afraid of me. But I can see
that you are a big boy and not easily frightened.”
“Yes,” the boy answered soberly. “Mama says that I am already five and
Aksa is two winters old. She is little and an awful cry-baby. My name
is Tim. What is yours?”
“My name is Turgen. I like you, Tim.”
“I like you, too.”
Then, examining Turgen by the light of the new dancing fire, he said,
“Why should I be afraid of you? You built the fire, so you must be
kind.”
“Where is your mother?” Turgen asked.
“She went to work and I was to keep up the fire. But I slept and the
fire died,” the boy admitted guiltily.
The yurta was now warm and cheerful. Both the cow and the baby had
stopped their crying. The little girl could not take her bright,
inquisitive eyes away from the strange man.
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While taking off his kuklianka Turgen questioned the boy. “Is the cow
hungry that she was calling so? And what about your sister?”
Tim shrugged his shoulders. “Our cow always moos like that when there
is no fire in the komelek. She is afraid for us. And Aksa must be
hungry. Mama told me to give her milk with hot water to drink, but how
could I heat the water when there was no fire?”
“Of course,” Turgen agreed. “That wasn’t your fault. I’ll do it right
away.”
Having had her warm milk, Aksa was soon sitting on Turgen’s knees
looking with drowsy and contented eyes into the leaping fire. The
visitor pleased her as well as Tim.
Happy to have their trust, Turgen considered what other help he could
give them. “Have you any flour, meat and fish?” he asked the boy.
Tim shook his head, “Mama said that there is a little barley meal, but
no meat or fish. She will ask the neighbors for some. Perhaps you are
hungry. I will give you half of my mill-cake. Do you want it?”
“No, thank you, Tim. I am not hungry. Besides, there is smoked uikola
in my bag. Do you like it?”
“Very much. It is fat. Aksa also loves it, and Mama too. Give some to
them.”
“I shall give you all that I have and later I’ll bring you more.”
Turgen was enjoying his conversation with the bright little boy. “Tell
me, who taught you how to keep the fire going in the komelek?”
“Mama,” said Tim promptly. “She says that if you blow on the hot coals
they will flare up. But no matter how hard I blew, nothing happened. We
have matches but Mama hides them from me. She is afraid I might set the
yurta on fire.”
Aksa was ready to sleep now, so Turgen wrapped a blanket around her and
put her in the basket, which served as a crib. Then he examined the
yurta.
Poverty stared at him from every corner. Nowhere could he see a sign of
food. “I will come tomorrow and bring more fish,” he promised himself,
“for I have plenty of everything.”
“When do you expect your mother?” he asked Tim.
“Soon. She never lets us stay alone in the dark, and it is almost
evening. Maybe she got a lot of fish and it is heavy for her to carry,”
he suggested.
“Perhaps. But sit up until she comes, and keep the fire going. In
weather like this it is easy to freeze without a fire.” He picked up
his kuklianka. “Now I must be going. Tell your mother that the Lamut
Turgen was here. She knows me.”
The boy looked at Turgen with eyes which begged him to stay. “I like to
watch the fire ... when I am not alone. You know how to do everything,
don’t you? When I grow up I will know everything too, just like you.
Please don’t go for a while.”
“I must,” Turgen told him. “I live in the mountains and want to be home
before it gets too dark. It is good that you are not the cowardly sort.”
“Why must you get home before dark?” Tim wanted to know. “Are you
afraid of wolves? I hear they attack people in winter. But you have a
gun. What kind is it? A good one?”
Turgen threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, what a talker! You know
about wolves and even guns. Someday you’ll surely be a hunter. And now,
good-by. Mind you don’t fall asleep. I’ll be back soon.”