smell, even sight; hearing alone becomes exceedingly acute. After only
a few minutes I could hear my heart beating, the blood pouring
through my veins, the whisper of the trees, the rustle of the mist, so
that the dead silence of the wood was broken in upon by sounds, which,
though scarcely audible, continued to increase. Suddenly a very real
sound rang out amid these fancied ones, and forced me to open my eyes.
It came from the further end of the lake, and was like the measured
strokes of an oar. I fixed my eyes on the spot whence it seemed to
come. The veil of mist was trembling slightly, and beyond it, in the
distance, something indistinct appeared low on the water. After a
moment a small Yakut pirogue emerged from the shadows, and sped along
the lake. I could perfectly well see the rower squatting in the bottom
of the boat, and striking first with one, then with the other blade of
his long oar, from the ends of which the water poured in a shining
stream, like molten silver.
He soon approached the bank, and drew the boat to land. I crept
towards him, hiding in order that he should not see me too soon, and
run away, as I knew he would. He was engaged in taking something out
of the boat.
'What news?' I greeted him, according to the local custom, coming
slowly out of the bushes.
He started and exclaimed, but did not run away, for he recognized me,
and I him. He was a poor Yakut, who lived about five versts from me.
'I know nothing! I have heard nothing! Oh, how you did frighten
me,--but it's all right!' he said hastily, giving me his hand.
'What did you think it was?'
'Why should one meet a man in the wood at night time?' he answered
evasively, eyeing me suspiciously from head to foot. 'You often think
it's a man you know, and you talk to him as if you knew him, and then
it turns out in the end not to be a man at all.'
'What are you doing here so late?'
'I am going home; it's a holiday to-morrow. I have a long way to go
from here to Babylon[19] for fishing,--thirty versts. You know we're
poor folk, we live by fishing,--we haven't any horses; so one is
always in a boat, always in a boat. As I was dragging it through the
wood I cut my foot, so I've got behindhand.'
'You have cut your foot?'
'It isn't much, for I've stopped the bleeding.'
'Then perhaps it was you whistling and calling?' I asked, remembering
a strange sound I had heard a moment before.
'I!--No!' He was silent, and I noticed him lean over the boat, and
cross himself.
'And what are you doing here?' he asked in his turn.
I hesitated.
'Looking for ducks,' I lied, not wishing to frighten him more.
'Ducks!' he repeated, laughing heartily, and his white teeth shone in
the darkness like pearls.
'There have never been any ducks here!'
'Never been any? Why?' I asked, as I helped him to draw the boat along
the edge of the wood towards the lake, which could be seen in the
distance. The fisherman was limping.
'The lakes are different,' he explained, 'and there are as many lakes
in our country as stars in the sky, and the stars are only the
reflection of them. The lakes are as different as the stars:--there
are large and small ones, and some so deep that you can't reach the
bottom; or else they are shallow, or marshy. In one there are fine
fish, in another small, in some the water's bad, and makes a man ill,
because the cattle go into it, in others again it's as pure as air.'
We halted on the bank, let down the boat into the water, and entered
it, the fisherman in front, I behind. Leaning lightly against one
another, back to back, we sailed along like a god with two faces of
which one was bearded and European, the other flat, clean-shaven, and
Mongolian.
The Mongolian face continued its conversation, only interrupting it
now and then to give me a warning not to move when the boat rocked too
much.
'Everything comes from the water. Even the cow lived in the water
until she was taken and tamed by man. There are different kinds of
wild beasts and even people living in the water, as there are on land.
Now just look!' and he pointed with his oar to the long water-weeds
swaying under the passage of the pirogue. 'Isn't that a wood?' It was
indeed a wood, dark and mysterious, visited only by fishes and drowned
men. Once he had fallen in, no swimmer ever extricated himself from
its thickets.
'Old people say,' the Yakut continued, 'that formerly everything was
different,--everything was better, because there was more water, and
that even the sables used to come up to the farm gates, and there was
so much fish that it was enough to shoot an arrow into the lake to
draw it back with a good catch. But now there's nothing; the sables
have run away, and there isn't much fish. It's only the traders, our
fathers, who save us, or we should die. They give the money to pay the
taxes, they give tea, tobacco, and cotton. Eh yes! these traders! I'd
just like to be a trader!'
The little boat struck the bank. We therefore drew it along to the
next lake, and continued the rest of our journey in this manner, this
being the sole means of travelling in summer in that country of lakes,
marshes, and swampy woods.
After travelling thus for an hour along a narrow stream, overgrown
with bulrushes, we ultimately arrived at the last lake. The sparks
from a yurta chimney were glittering on its bank in the distance, like
tiny red stars.
'I expect you are going to Chachak?' my companion asked, when we
stopped on the bank. 'I am spending the night there.'
I took up some of the fisherman's things, and walked towards the
yurta. I had known Chachak for some time past already. He was a queer
man, who laughed at his own extravagances, and frequently even shocked
the feeling of the neighbourhood. 'Chachak has made himself a cap of a
whole wolf skin!' I had been told laughingly. 'Chachak has paid the
merchants only two roubles for a brick of tea; "they would make too
much profit by three roubles," he said!'
'What about the merchants? Did they give it to him?'
'Eh, why, his old woman gave it to them on the sly! Why! You don't
know Chachak! He won't give three roubles;--he won't drink, and he
won't give that!'
Chachak had been famous in his youth as the best hunter in the
district, and wonders were related of his prowess and skill. He
preferred bear hunting to any other, and set out to it summer and
winter with his spear and gun, killing in the open field or lair,
just as it happened. He was as ready for such encounters as he was for
cards. Only let him hear of a bear, and from that moment he had no
peace until he had tracked and killed it. Many a time he had been
invited to accompany hunters who had found a den with several bears.
But burning with the fever for the chase, he had been unable to wait
until morning, and had slipped away in the grey dawn with his faithful
dog to hasten to the spot, where he was usually to be found, pale and
splashed with the blood of the 'forest lords.' There was nothing left
for his companions to do but for each to eat a portion of the hard
heart and liver of the vanquished, and to drink a cup of blood,
shouting the triumphant 'uch!' three times. All eyes would be upon
Chachak, who would try to appear indifferent, although excited and
feeling the just pride of a hero. Once, moreover, he had killed a bear
with a tail, which, as everyone knows, is not a bear, but a devil. Had
he not killed the 'icy demon,' who tracked people, carried off cattle,
and whom neither bullet nor spear could touch? Chachak himself never
spoke or boasted of his victories; he was always modest and reserved,
as befits a man who possibly knows more than others. Since the
accident which befell him during his last hunt, however, he had been
completely changed. He had given up hunting and playing cards, become
poor, and grown morose and strange:--he had lost his influence.
His yurta stood near the bank, so I quickly found myself at its gate.
A bright fire was burning within, and voices could be heard talking.
So they were not asleep yet! I went up to the door, and peeped through
the chink. Chachak was sitting before the fire, with his face towards
me, holding a net which he was not winding, for his hand was stretched
slightly in front of him while he related something to the listeners
gathered round him. At his feet a small naked child played with the
brass chain of a knife hanging in a wooden sheath sewn to his leather
trousers above the right shin. Chachak was very animated; every now
and then he bent forward towards his listeners, and stamped his
massive heel on the clay floor of the cottage.
'They have a horror of horseflesh, and eat pigs!' he was saying, 'yet
a horse is a very clean and sensible animal.'
'Why, yes!' his listeners assented.
'But pigs!--I have seen them! They're disgusting! They've no hair!
They're bare, dirty, stupid, and bad tempered! They've enormous
mouths, thin curling tails like snakes, small eyes, and teeth like a
dog's. They're spiteful too!--When I was at Yakutsk I had an adventure
with the pigs, and they all but ate me. There're lots of them there.
I had gone out by myself in the early morning to finish my pipe in the
passage; everyone was still asleep, and it had only just begun to
dawn. The pigs were going round the courtyard, squealing. I was young,
and liked a joke, so when they ran round me I shook my fist at them.
They rushed at me like mad!' He broke off with a laugh. 'I ran along
the passage, they after me; I jumped on to a bench, and they came
grunting round me, while I kept shaking my fist at them. Ha-ha!'
He spat into his hand, and stretched it out before him.
Suddenly the door creaked. The woman exclaimed, the lads jumped up
from the floor, the children began to cry.
'Who's coming? A Russian, perhaps, and pigs with him!' Chachak stopped
talking, and drew back his outstretched fist.
The entrance, as is usual in a Yakut yurta, was behind the fireplace,
the one source of light in the evening; thus a full minute of fear and
anxious expectation passed before I entered from the darkness. Yes, it
was a 'Russian,' but a well-known one, a friend, and, into the
bargain, without pigs!
Their faces brightened, and they stretched out their hands, welcoming
me warmly and frankly, as guests are always welcomed in the North.
Chachak laughed, made room for me on the bench before the fire, and
ordered the kettle to be put on.
'Tell us the news, and what is happening,' they begged me.
I began to relate the local news. They all listened attentively,
although, as it turned out, they had already long known it. The
companion of my night journey entered, and the conversation became
general. The men grouped themselves round the table, on which
Chachak's wife had set supper for us; freshly made soup, sour milk,
and a large pile of fish, dried and smoked.
Chachak stood at the fire, warming his back, and did not join in the
conversation. His daughter, a young and rather pretty girl, placed a
few white china tea-cups and saucers on the table, and the usual Yakut
entertainment began: tea with milk and cold refreshments, followed
later by a hot supper with fish. Although the offer of meat was very
tempting, and we were rather hungry, we were not equal to tasting all
the dishes set before us. Chachak noticed this at once, and attacked
me about it with his wonted brusqueness.
'You aren't eating? You've had enough? What's this new fashion of
going to pay visits without being hungry? You Slavs eat like birds
when you go to people's houses, but you go home and call out: "Wife,
the samovar; put the saucepan on the fire,--I'm hungry." You're
disgraceful!'
They all began to laugh, the old man no less than the rest.
A general conversation was started, at first about different countries
and customs, but soon reverting to burning local questions.
'What's wrong with Andshay? He's in trouble. There's no trace of his
boy.'
'None?'
'A pity! He was a sturdy lad!'
'Have they found nothing?'
'No. All the neighbours have been out to search; they've searched the
lakes, they've searched the wood, they've been searching for a whole
week. But there's nothing,--nothing.'
'Ah!--sure to be a bear. They say one appeared in the valley;
Kecherges saw him,' muttered the fisherman, who had arrived with me.
At the word, 'bear,' Chachak, who was standing by the fire, silently
playing with his fingers, suddenly looked up. Everyone stopped
talking, and involuntarily turned towards him. His old wife nervously
tried to change the subject.
'A bear! Where was he seen?' Chachak asked quickly in a low tone,
sitting down on the bench.
'Oh! Who can tell? Perhaps it wasn't one either,' the fisherman
answered hesitatingly.
'A bear,--depend upon it!' Chachak said slowly. 'They have found
neither flesh nor clothes:--"He" usually buries the remains of his
prey in the ground,--"He" even scrapes the blood off. That's just what
"He" does. You say Kecherges saw "Him?"' he again asked the fisherman.
'Lies!' the latter answered evasively.
'Oh! "He"'s clever, "He"'s sly and revengeful! Andshay must have done
something to "Him" in order to be able to boast of it, or to have
something to talk about. "He" remembers insults a long time, that's
why "He" has carried the boy off. Although "He" lives far away, "He"
hears in the mountains and forest quite well what we are saying here,
and understands like a man,--better than a man! Who knows what "He"
is? Skin "Him," and you will see how like a woman "He" is. But "He"'s
revengeful,--and terribly fierce,' Chachak added, looking down. '"He"
doesn't forgive!'
'You Russian,'--he turned to me suddenly,--'be ready for "Him" on the
road. Take care! Take care! Though a bear is big, "He" can go as
quietly as a shadow when "He" wants to fall upon a man unawares. I
advise you to stay the night with us; there's no joking with "Him"!
Once I was not afraid either, but now;--there--look!' He undid his
shirt sleeve. It was a terrible sight. The left shoulder, which, as I
had previously noticed, the old man could make little use of, was
shrunk and thin to the elbow, like a mere bone covered with skin, and
those veins and muscles which were unscathed, wound round the bone
close to the surface. There was a mass of white scars, crossing in
different directions.
'I have killed many,--many!' he continued, 'and now I know that they
will eat me for it,--eat me because I'm afraid. It happened like this.
It was rather later in the season than this; it was freezing. I got
ready my spring-gun for elk-shooting, and God gave me one of these big
beasts. To have carted its flesh, skin, and inside along a bad road
would have needed seven or eight horses. So I decided to build a
larder on the spot, and to lay the elk in it for a time, till the road
became frozen. I and my boy set out early to work. The lad was
lingering a little way behind me, and I was walking quite quietly
along the road, and had just passed the willow which grows on the hill
not far from here, when "He" came upon me. He ran towards me like a
dog, and before I could look round "He" was already standing on his
hind-legs. I reached out for my knife, but tried in vain to drag it
from the sheath. There was a night frost, and on coming out of the
house I had not wiped my knife, as I should, after eating, so it had
frozen to the sheath. It was God's hand!--So the "Black One" knocked
me down. Finding myself overpowered, I seized him by the throat with
my right hand, and laid the left on his jaws, and called to the boy to
run for help. The silly boy jumped on him, and--whack!--went his
pocket knife into the bear;--he had a little knife that size,' and
Chachak measured with his finger. '"You want to eat my father!" he
shouted. The Black One was frightened, and jumped into the bushes. But
the boy had hit me in the chest with his knife, and I should have been
killed, had it been able to pierce the stag's hide. They could
scarcely bring me round again.'
'And you see from that time, when "He," sitting on me, looked into my
eyes, my mind has been troubled. I am afraid,' he added quietly, 'very
much afraid.'
Not long after I took leave of my kind hosts, and went home. The moon
was shining brightly, the mist had disappeared, and the well-known
foot-path shone white before me. I had gone along it a thousand times
without fear or thought of evil, but this time when I neared the place
where Chachak had been attacked I involuntarily fingered my
knife-handle, and for a moment I seemed to see the monster lying in
the shadow of the bushes, its shaggy muzzle on its outstretched paws.
A few years later I heard that Chachak had disappeared without trace
in the wood: the 'forest lords' had doubtless accomplished their
revenge.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] 'Talaki,' Yakut for 'water-willow.'
[15] 'Yurta' = Yakut hut.
[16] 'Kyrsa' = white fox.
[17] Native name for this forest.
[18] 'Taiga' = primeval forest in Siberia.
[19] A large lake to the N.E. of the Kolymsk district.
IN SACRIFICE TO THE GODS
WACLAW SIEROSZEWSKI
Close to where the river Sheroka issues from a rocky gorge into a
broad valley, there is a wooden column, ornamented with carving. At
this column, which stands in the middle of a small meadow near the
water, the nomad Tungus assemble annually from the neighbouring
mountains. Hundreds of reindeer in the midst of a crowd of human
beings make a charming picture as the caravans travel thither
together. When the merry crowd enters the valley the splash of the
river is lost in a ringing echo of voices.
Their camp-fires, scattered in a semi-circle in the wood at the foot
of the mountains, twinkle against the background of eternal shadows
like a shining girdle, in which the delicate spring green and the grey
diaphanous tissue of stems and branches are interlaced.
This is the most agreeable season in the mountain valleys; gnats and
other insects have not yet begun to be worrying, the air is
delightfully cool, everything is unfolding and blossoming, and only
the winter snow on the summits of the mountains lies untouched by the
warmth. The pale, transparent sky above the snow neither darkens at
night nor glitters with stars, but shines with the Northern light
which joins the sunset of the fading day to the sunrise of the next.
The people remain near the column in the clearing for a whole week.
The family elders, grave old men, meet here and discuss their common
needs, collect the tribute of hides, and settle all important matters.
But the young men use the time for love and merry-making, dancing and
races. The valley rings with laughter and shouting, with the strokes
of the hatchet and the echoes of songs; the ground trembles under the
cloven hoofs of the furiously driven reindeer; the leather lassoes
swish through the air as they are thrown on to the antlers of the
animals destined for slaughter. And where work is most active, where
life is at its fullest the jingle of the women's glass and silver
ornaments is sure to be heard.
So it has been time out of mind. But one year it happened differently.
Numbers of people assembled in the valley, as usual, but the noise of
their talking did not drown the roar of the river. The youths did not
dance at the meeting place, no reindeer were to be seen racing. There
was no laughter, no singing.
Nor did the counsels take place in common. The men assembled in small
groups in separate tents, with a dull look on their sad faces. They
talked without animation; jokes and laughter, so beloved by the
Tungus, were checked by a general sense of depression, and only rarely
indulged in.
However, they did not disperse, but waited impatiently for the coming
of old Seltichan, without whom they would not have dared to have
settled any important matters. But the old man did not arrive.
'The old man doesn't come, he doesn't come,--and he won't come,'
muttered one of the group, sitting among his companions, who were
circling round the fire. He was a stout man of possibly fifty years of
age, unlike a Tungus, and dressed like a Yakut, with a silver Yakut
belt. He had the puffed-up air of a rich man knowing his own
importance. 'Who cares to visit the dying?' he added, sulkily.
'_You_ didn't try to escape your fate,' gloomily answered a poorly
dressed old man, as tawny as copper, and as wrinkled as moss, who was
sitting on the opposite side of the fire.
'That is true!' a third repeated. 'You don't try to escape, you don't
hide. Didn't I run away, didn't I hide? And what came of it?' and,
with emotion, he began for the hundredth time to relate the story of
his misfortune. Each time it was received with equal attention.
'When the news of the disaster came I was on the summit of Bur-Janga,
and was just getting ready to go down; but I hesitated, and delayed my
start. For a long while the God had mercy on me;--I know that!--till
one night I awoke terrified, with a beating heart. I listened:--I
heard what seemed like a shot, and loud calling. I drew my head from
under the cover, and again I seemed to hear a noise in the wood, like
distant shooting. The dogs whined and howled, as if they had noticed a
bear. I went out of the tent, and looked. The moon was shining, and an
immense shadow passed into the wood from the bottom of the valley,
avoiding the hills. The dogs fell at my feet, and I covered my eyes
with my hand, unable to look. My heart beat in my breast like a
frightened bird, my feet were rigid with terror.'
'O-oh!' echoed the sighs of the listeners.
'And what happened next?--A hundred reindeer fell dead at once. Not
waiting for dawn, we pushed on that very night. We fled, not halting
anywhere, but our herds became smaller every day. So I divided them,
and sent them in three directions; yet in a few days' time my
son,--and later my daughter,--returned empty-handed. Then I made up
my mind to flee to the end of the world, where no one ever goes. But
is there a place anywhere, to which no one has ever yet been? I took
nothing belonging to the dying animals, not even the halters; I left
everything. And when the leader fell I did not even take the figured
band from his head, which had come down to me from my ancestors.'
'A-ah!' responded the listeners.
'The women burst into tears at that,' he continued, encouraged by the
sympathy of his audience, 'but the Russian traders had advised it.
"Take none of His offering, Brother; He seeks out His own, and will
find it everywhere!" So I obeyed; I left it and fled. At last I had
gone so far that I grew frightened myself:--may be no one had ever
been there before me. There were no trees anywhere, not even
bushes,--only the same rocks and snow everywhere,--and the gale. It
was impossible to pitch a tent for want of poles, and I was afraid to
send to the wood for them, so we dug out a hole in the snow under a
rock, and settled ourselves in it. We were comfortable there, and
began to be cheerful once more, for the plague ceased. One day
passed,--a second,--and none of the reindeer had sickened. We waited
in the silence of fear; we not only avoided talking, but even thinking
about "Him," for possibly "He" too would forget us! We did not allow
the reindeer out of our sight, and we went where they led us, spending
the night among the herd, like the Chukchee. In this way some time
passed. My wife was already beginning to be cheerful, and I myself
thought that all would be well, and we should grow richer after a
while. But again I suddenly awoke in the night, torn by anxiety. The
moon was shining as on that other night, and everything was bright and
still all round. The tired reindeer were sleeping in a heap in the
snow. But a shadow hung in the air, falling independently, and not
from a rock.'
Again the listeners responded with sighs.
'I slipped out of bed cautiously, took my gun, and without dressing,
began to steal, naked, towards "Him." "He" did not notice me, for "He"
was standing on a rock, taking stock of what I possessed. But when I
made a slight sound as I was hurriedly taking aim, "He" turned and
fixed "His" great burning eyes on me. I shot between them. What
happened afterwards I do not know. Did "He" hit me, or cover me with
"His" breath? I have no idea.
'Something like a storm passed over me; but when I regained
consciousness I had not a single reindeer left;--Tumara was a poor
man.'
The speaker was silent, waved his hand, and starting to his feet,
stood with bowed head, and an expression of pain on his face. The
young men in the audience also stood up; but the old men did not stir
from their seats, and fixing their eyes on the speaker, waited for the
continuation of the story.
'Well,--and then--?'
Tumara raised his head and began to speak, but at that moment his look
fell beyond the edge of the circle and became absorbed in the
distance, his face showed astonishment, his lips trembled, and tears
rolled from his eyes. Everyone at once turned in the same direction.
At some distance from the fire, and leaning against the back of a
reindeer as white as milk, stood a grey-headed Tungus in the old-time
national costume. Behind him, holding a riding-reindeer by the bridle,
was a young boy resembling him in face and dress.
'Seltichan!' they all cried, 'you have come at last,--you!--our
father! We thought that you had forsaken us, who are dying! What news?
What have you heard and seen beyond the mountains? How fare the people
of Memel? Are they living still? Or are they, perhaps, also drawing
their last breath, as we are? And you, our leader, what do you mean to
do? Have you come alone, or with all your people? Are you going back
to the mountains? Or are you going to the coast?' The questions came
pouring out.
Giving the bridle to his son, Seltichan joined the circle round the
fire, and greeted everyone singly by a shake of the hand. He sat down
beside the Kniaz,[20] dressed like a Yakut, who hastily made room for
him. Then, pulling a small Chinese pipe out of his tobacco-pouch, he
filled it slowly. The group became silent, and sat down again.
'It is now two months since the plague reached its height,' the old
man answered in a calm, grave voice. 'The people of Memel have
dispersed terrified and fled to the coast, but by different ways, in
order to avoid the dangerous place. You need not expect them here. But
my camp will arrive this evening.'
'Ah! Seltichan, who would ever doubt that you would come? You are
wise, you are daring, you, we know, fear nothing!' the Kniaz cried,
stretching out his hand towards his neighbour's lighted pipe.
A shadow stole over the old man's face.
'No one can escape his fate,' he replied coldly.
'But you were born to happiness, Seltichan! Does not the God love you?
When whole herds were dying everywhere, did you not merely lose a
young calf?'
Again a cloud came over the old man's face.
'He loves me because I keep the ancient customs. My welfare does not
spring from human tears, but the mountains, the rocks, the woods, and
water bring it me,' the old man remarked drily.
His hearers caught up his words.
'Yes, indeed! Your hand was open; you supported your people in the day
of disaster, and shared in it.'
'Yet who can help more easily than you?' said the Kniaz. 'What can I
give, for example, I, who have only goods for sale, and debts? Should
I distribute my debts in these hard times? It is true, I have nothing
against that! Yet I too am a Tungus;--what would anyone gain from my
accursed debts? They don't breed reindeer,' he ended, laughing.
'Yes, indeed! We should die without you, Seltichan! Who supports us?
Whose herds are larger than yours? Who has a better heart? What family
is more distinguished and richer? Whose sons are more skilled shots,
and finer huntsmen? Whose daughters, when grown-up, most attract our
youths? Are you not the first among us,--you who neither suffer nor
fear, never lie, and never deceive as we do, and bow to your fate?
You, Seltichan! And to whom shall we go, if you will not have pity on
us?' came from all sides.
'The God knows, I will share with you! That is why I am here!' the old
man answered, touched.
'Tumara! Tumara!' the Kniaz cried, seeking the story-teller, 'finish
your tale. You will see, Seltichan, what happens later.'
Silence prevailed again. Tumara, who was sitting in the front row of
the councillors, stroked his right ear with his right hand, and began
after a moment's pause.
'I have told you already how, having lost the reindeer, we took our
goods and our children on our backs, and returned to the valley. Our
children became ill, and soon died from eating bad meat, which made us
weak too. But what can a hunter find in the wilderness at a time like
that?'
'What, indeed?'
'Very soon we were entirely without food. We had eaten all our stores,
leather bags, and old thongs, and the women's greasy scarves; there
was nothing left that could have a taste. Do not we, who encamp on the
mountains, know what hunger is? And was Tumara wanting in courage?'
'He was famous for it!' the listeners asseverated.
'But it happened thus, nevertheless;--we had been many, and only four
were left,--I, my wife, my son, and daughter. We went on, always
longing for the sight of human faces. We halted at all the known spots
and ancient resting places, and everywhere found the cold ashes of
fires:--the people had fled, scattered by the danger. And our
wanderings took us ever further from them.
'But when, on coming down from the mountains, we saw bare tent poles,
all our courage forsook us. Notwithstanding, we went on further and
never stopped searching, for it is not an easy thing for a man to lie
down and die in the snow without giving any account of himself.--We
scraped the rubbish, and turned over the wet ashes of the cold fires
to find a morsel of food, stilling our hunger by knawing the bones
left by the dogs. At last it came to this that we could not look at
our own children, full of flesh and warm blood, without trembling.
"Tumara, let the girl die to save her parents," my wife said at last.
I was sorry for the child. She looked at us, not understanding.
"Tala," her mother said to her, "according to the old custom, when the
family is in danger, the daughter dies first."'
'That is so!' the listeners affirmed.
'"Go, Tala," she said, "wash in the snow, and look at the world for
the last time." The girl understood and tried to escape, but I held
her; so she cried and begged: "Wait till the evening, perhaps the God
will send something, I want to live; I am afraid!" So we waited and
watched. The girl was continually going out of the tent, and looking
towards the wood, shading her eyes with her hand. But each time her
mother was behind her, hiding a knife in her sleeve. It had already
begun to be dusk. The girl went out oftener and each time stood longer
on the threshold, while I lay in the shade of the tent, waiting to see
what would happen. Suddenly I heard a cry outside, which froze my
heart. My wife came in with the knife in her hand, staggering like a
drunken woman. "Have you killed her?" "No, the God has had pity," she
said, "there is a large elk running into the wood close by here!" I
jumped up and ran out of the door with my son. The girl was sitting by
the tent with outstretched arms, while not far off in the wood stood a
large elk.--'
'Stood a large elk!' the listeners repeated.
'Is it difficult for a hunter to kill an animal grazing? But my limbs
were dried up with hunger, my muscles weak with pain, and as I stole
towards my prey my hands shook so much I could scarcely keep the gun
in my hands. But when the animal had been hit, and tried to escape
into the bushes, we dashed after it like wolves. And thus the God
helped us;--we remained alive in order to die to-morrow.'
Tumara ceased speaking, and bowed his head, again stroking his right
ear with his right hand. The listeners were silent. In that moment of
strained attention they seemed to hear the splash of each individual
wave in the river, the swish of each branch in the wood, as it rocked
in the gale. Suddenly another sound rang out distinct from these
continuous sounds, making all faces brighten, and all heads turn in
the direction whence it came.
Young Miore, Seltichan's son, bent down to his father, and whispered:
'Father, our people are coming!'
'Yes, they are coming!'
The train was actually approaching.
The old men remained seated, but the young ones slipped out of the
circle one after another, and assembled in groups at the edge of the
bushes, whence the whole procession, appearing at the rocky outlet to
the valley, could be better seen.
A young girl rode in front on a dark yellow reindeer. Her clothes were
richly ornamented with silver, a fact which at once suggested that she
was a great favourite in her family. She held a long spear in her
hand, and wore a band, embroidered with beads, on her loose hair. As
she rode along, she cleared her path by cutting away the twigs and
gnarled branches which might catch from behind on the packsaddle or
her clothing. When she raised her spear the sunbeams played on the
edge of its steel surface in a fiery gleam, and hovered over her head
for a moment like a will-o'wisp; then, passing along her shining
silver scarf, they fell on her right hand, and finally faded away in
the grass of the river-islands.
'Choka! Chogai!' the charming girl exclaimed. She was accompanied by
two black dogs, which kept running ahead, and then turning back to
examine and sniff at everything, leaving nothing unnoticed. Following
her in a long line came the laden reindeer, some of which were being
ridden by women, and children who were tied on to the top like tight
bundles.
At the very end of the caravan two armed huntsmen, aided by dogs,
drove a herd of unladen reindeer with their calves. The noise,
clatter, and bustle, the frightened calling of the cows seeking their
calves which had gone astray in the confusion, the jingle of bells,
the rattle of clappers hanging from the necks of the animals in front,
the cries of the men calling to the herd or keeping it in order,--all
this whirlpool of seething, exuberant life filled the valley with a
resounding echo, and fell on the ear of the listener as a great
familiar song of the happiness and well-being of a free nomad
existence.
The spectators' eyes glistened. Unable to restrain an outburst of
feeling, they began to describe the impressions made upon them by the
scenes and faces passing by like fleeting shadows.
'See, there is old Nioren!'
'What an energetic old woman!'
'Formerly all the Tungus women were like that.'
'So they say--'
'Look how cleverly she manages her reindeer.'
'That's one good thing, but they say that she bore a son to Seltichan
not long ago, and that's better still.'
'There's nothing wonderful in that; Majantylan's wife is older, and
she also bore--'
'Hush! Look, there is Sala, the old man's daughter-in-law, about whom
they sing songs.'
'But is she not worthy of them?'
'Yes, indeed!'
'You may chatter away, but if Miore hears you, he will give it you!'
'What can he do to us? I am not afraid of him.'
'Look,--look!--Laubzal!--Zleci!'
'Actually!--What a wild reindeer!--They needn't have put a little boy
on it!'
'He's a plucky lad! Look!--The old man will be delighted with him!'
'And Chun-Me!'
'Ah! Chun-Me! Chun-Me!' several sighed, their glances seeking the
girl with the steel-coloured fringe on her head.
'They say that the Kniaz wants to win her for his son.'
'Eh, the old man won't give him his favourite daughter,--not he!'
When Seltichan's eldest son rode by,--a famous hunter, commonly known
by the name of 'Sparkling Ice,'--conversation was hushed out of
respect to him.
And when the last reindeer of the caravan had disappeared into the
bushes, and the branches closed swinging behind it, Seltichan rose
from his seat and went away, taking leave of the company with a slight
nod. This was to indicate that he was expecting them all to come to
him shortly.
That evening there was a crowd round the old man's tent, for nearly
all the temporary inhabitants of the valley were present. The host
gave orders for several reindeer to be killed, and welcomed his
guests. With the light-heartedness of true Tungus, they forgot their
sufferings in satisfying their hunger after their long fast, and began
to dance and join in cheerful songs.
The old men sitting by the fire watched the younger ones with
enjoyment, and beat time with their heads, repeating the refrains.
'What do you think, Oltungaba, will the God withdraw his punishing
hand, and allow joy to return to the mountains?' Seltichan asked,
turning to one of the guests, the old man who was as dark as copper,
and as wrinkled as moss.
'Our life, Seltichan, is a shadow falling upon the water,' Oltungaba
answered meditatively.
* * * * *
The following morning the people in the valley awoke in an unusually
solemn mood. The day proclaimed itself rich in events. The weather was
exquisite, the sky clear and blue, without a trace of cloud.
Having assembled at the conference, the older and prominent members of
families took their places in the front row, the younger ones behind
them, and the women and children still further off, beyond the edge of
the circle. Oltungaba, yielding to numerous entreaties, walked into
the centre, and bowing, said:
'Why do you ask this of me, regardless of my old age?'
'To whom else can we turn?'
'There are distinguished shamans who are younger.'
'Oh, Oltungaba, who would dare to prophesy in your presence?' was
asked from all sides.
The old man was silent, and looked distrustingly at the excited
assembly.
'You hesitate,--when, maybe, the last day has come for many?'
'I am not thinking of myself, but calling to mind the ancient customs.
Who will interpret my language to you? A difficult time demands a
difficult language, and a painful time a painful language. And why
arouse danger unnecessarily? If no brave man is found, must I die?'
'Let us all die! Surely, Oltungaba, you wish us well? We are
resolved.'
'Then let it be so,' he assented, after a short moment's thought.
Two of the most famous shamans offered him a shaman's cloak with the
long fringe, and a number of metal amulets and musical instruments.
Then they smoothed out the old man's hair, and placed a horned iron
crown on his head. An elderly Tungus, in attendance on the shaman, was
drying a drum at the fire meanwhile. When perfectly dry and taut, he
tested its elasticity by a blow with a small mallet. The well-known
mournful sound stirred the echoes of the valley, and interrupted the
talking. A white reindeer skin, with the head turned towards the
south, was then spread in the middle of the circle. The old man sat
down on it, and lighting his pipe, swallowed the smoke, and washed it
down with water. Then he poured out the rest of the water to the four
quarters of the globe, and turning his face to the sun, fell into a
state of complete torpor. He sat thus for a long while with bowed
head, his hair falling into his eyes, and his look fixed on the
blinding white of the mountain tops. At length a shiver ran through
his body, followed by a violent sob. The shivering and sobs increased
by degrees until they passed into incessant convulsions and groans, in
part feigned, in part real. The spectators could be heard sobbing
also.
An old woman dropped down in a fit.
At the same moment a fleeting, dark shadow fell on the ground close to
the shaman: an eagle was hovering between him and the sun. A piercing
cry rent the air, and the people bent like grass before the gale.
Who cried? The shaman or the eagle?
No one knew.
'It is bad, it is bad,' the people murmured.
'Hush!'
The drum sounded several times with a deep and mournful echo, as the
crowd was frightened into silence.--The eagle flew away into the
distance.
Once more there was stillness, interrupted only by the shaman's
muttering. After a while isolated sounds, coming, as it seemed, from
the distant wood and depths of the mountain clefts, began to mingle,
like the murmur of a swarm of bees, or the twitter of birds calling to
one another. Then Oltungaba shook his bells. By degrees these sounds
grew louder, and came nearer, until they passed away in the roar of
the waterfall and the splash of the rain which was now falling in
torrents. Yet deep and painful sighs, repeated more and more
frequently, could be heard above the rush of the water. Oltungaba
suddenly raised the drum above his head. Trembling violently, and
covered with the pelting hail, he began to utter frightened sounds,
like a sheep chased by a wolf. Then, all at once, throwing his hand
into the soft reindeer skin, he became silent, but continued to
tremble.
'Oh, Goloron!' the shaman groaned, hiding his face with his hands.
And there was stillness once more. Nothing was heard but the shaman's
sobs and indistinct mutterings, accompanied by the beating of the
drum. Above these sounds rose the intermingled cries of eagles, hawks,
crows, and lapwings, which appeared to be circling in flights round
the mountain tops. Their shrieking and cawing alternated with the
shaman's unintelligible incantations. It almost seemed as if they
foresaw some dreadful event, and were hastening to bring news of it in
advance to the lords of the äerial world.
By degrees the incantations became more distinct, the words more
intelligible, till finally the first strophe of a chant burst from
the shaman's lips.
'Do ye hear the roar of the sea?'
'Ah yes!' answered the attendant.
'I who am the first in creation--'
'Verily,' the attendant replied.
'I, the first among the chosen--'
'In truth,' the attendant repeated.
'Let them come blazing, like the shield of the sun!'
'Let them come!'
'He himself like the clouds,--the fiery raven precedes him--'
'Riddles for a child!'
'Riddles for a child!'
'I am thy son. I, wretched one, walking the earth, implore thee!'
'I implore!'
'Aid my weak strength in this stony path.'
'Oh, aid!'
'Oh, drum, my herald, and wind, my wings!'
'Aye, verily--'
'I approach you, encircled by winged and restless--'
'Winged and restless--'
'Their claws are open, their throats are extended--'
'Extended--'
'The mountains groan, the earth trembles within--'
'Ah!--'
'And I go ever fearfully, yet unhindered--'
'Protect me, my lord, I cry to thee--'
'For I am from the suffering nation!'
'I am indeed.'
'Mighty helper, angry, threatening saviour, have pity!'
'We pray!--'
'If I err, let me not perish on the pathless track!'
'Let me not!'
'Save the erring, lead me.'
'We go--'
Growing more and more animated, the old man stood up, and began to
dance.
The dance resembled a march. The shaman described what he met in his
path in fantastic language, and by gestures. The attendant followed
him, repeating his words, and, at moments, supporting him by the
elbow. Thus they came to the edge of the circle. Calmly and solemnly
the shaman raised his drum towards the sky in silence, and then sang:
'Thou snake-like Etygar, dwelling in regions below the earth, ruling
over the air, sickness, and death itself.--'
'Oh, Etygar!'
'And thou, Iniany, like to a man with huge wings, thou, who shelterest
from destruction--'
'Iniany!'
'And thou, Arkunda, endued with the power of second-sight!'
'And thou, Normandaï, whose piercing cry turns the heart to ice!'
'And thou, iron-feathered Wavadabaki! And thou, whom we only know by
thy shadow!--'
'I ask what you may require, and what is the cause of your anger?
Restrain your ministers, withhold your persecutions. Know ye not that
we perish, and if we perish, who will prepare your offering?'
'Who will?'
'To you I come defenceless, entangled in a long cloak. My head is bent
with years, my open eyes cannot see far.'
'It is even so!' chimed in the attendant, who had been silent
hitherto, not daring to repeat all these awful incantations.
'Going to the sea, and returning to the sea, I am a Nomad--'
'Yea, verily--'
'Ye like dark reindeer, ye like dappled reindeer; have they ceased to
be pleasing?'
'Have they ceased?'
'Ha! Ha! Ha! When you dance, do you forget us, and being merry, do you
shun us?'
'Is it, perhaps, rich furs, silver, glass ornaments, coloured dresses,
sweet cakes, or vodka that you desire?'
'That cannot be!' exclaimed the attendant.
'Fools! Something, were it even everything, must be taken for the
powerful!'
'Therefore choose a young girl from among us, and we will dedicate
her.'
There was silence.
'Oh, fiery Goloron, feared on the earth, proclaiming--'
Again there was silence.
Oltungaba beat the drum, and the strokes rolled like thunder between
the awful words, which, uttered haltingly, seemed to come from a
distance.
'They give the scraps to the dogs! Let the people humble themselves,
and an obedient man be found; otherwise they will fade like the
morning mist.'
'O-oh! How can we possibly give anything, possessing nothing?'
'I will therefore tell you how it was in former days. Let it be he who
is proud, he who is rich, whose sons are famed for their shooting, and
daughters for their beauty; whom all love, whose thoughts are kind,
and counsels wise, whose heart is brave, whose hand is open, whose
soul seeks good. We wish to see the bewildered terror, the pale face,
the tears of separation.'
Oltungaba became silent, and let the drum fall.
'No!' he said, after a moment's reflection, 'I will not disclose the
name; possibly they may say; "Oltungaba is jealous." Yet what is human
blood to me? A shaman needs nothing but his drum.--I have said
everything.'
He concluded the rest of the ceremony rapidly, and took his place
among the spectators, gloomy and exhausted. Tea was offered to him and
the more honoured guests. The young men began to kill reindeer for the
others, and to put the cauldron on the fire without delay. Yet none of
this was accompanied by the gaiety and animation which usually
prevails among the Tungus on such occasions. Those present talked with
great restraint, lowering their voices almost to a whisper. They
behaved with marked politeness to the family of Seltichan, and took
pains not even to look at their host.
Seltichan was as calm and friendly as usual, as if he had not noticed
anything, and even tried to start a conversation with Oltungaba. But
the shaman preserved a gloomy silence. Then Seltichan began to relate
aloud how he had spent that year beyond the mountains, throwing in
various hunting anecdotes which he told with so much humour that he
was soon surrounded by cheered and even smiling faces.
Only his favourite son, Miore, who was standing behind him, looked
gloomily at everyone.
The frame of mind usual before a meal slowly gained the ascendancy.
And when the pieces of savoury meat were taken from the cauldron,
everyone had quite forgotten to be sad. Then Seltichan, forsaken by
his listeners, became depressed at once, and Miore, watching his
father attentively, grew gloomier still.
Unable to restrain himself longer, the lad burst forth angrily to
Oltungaba, as he approached: 'I can see that you really want to make
away with the old man.'
The latter regarded him with angry surprise.
'You are young and ignorant--'
'But nothing shall come of this,' Miore answered, and withdrew,
shaking his head.
This short conversation did not escape other people's attention.
By the end of the banquet Seltichan had regained his usual amiability,
as became a host who was entertaining the second day running without
regard to his herds. But on returning to his tent he no longer
concealed his anxiety, and sat meditatively before the fire, paying no
heed to anything; he did not even see the supper his wife placed
before him.
'Eat, Seltichan; do not grieve, my lord; I am your faithful servant!'
she said at last, shaking him by the shoulder and looking at him
affectionately.
The old man turned enquiringly towards his wife, and smiled. He ate
heartily and with relish, for, according to Tungus ideas, no event in
life is great enough to deprive a fat reindeer of its savouriness.
The following morning Seltichan awoke earlier than the rest, and
possibly for the first time since becoming head of the family, he did
not stir the half-extinguished fire, but, without waking anyone,
quietly escaped from the tent.
The sun was shining, although it had not yet risen above the
mountains. The dawn had disappeared, and it was broad daylight. Here
and there golden lines bordered the blue shadows of the clefts in the
snow-clad mountains. But meanwhile in the valleys, man and Nature were
still asleep:--the wood slept, wreathed in mist; the embers glowed
faintly on the cool hearths; the reindeer lay on the moss in the
bushes, chewing the cud. The only sounds were the gurgle of the river,
and the chuckle of the mountain pheasants, which were leaving their
hidden roosting places, and flying to the tree tops.
The old man gazed at the familiar valley long and attentively.
Suddenly he trembled. He could see a man standing before one of the
tents in the distance; he also seemed to be looking at the surrounding
country. Seltichan's keen glance recognized Oltungaba, but the tent,
before which he was standing, belonged to the Kniaz. The old man's
face clouded, and he went home.
'Get up, children!' he cried. 'Heh! Chun-Me! light the fire! You've
had enough sleep for a day like this!'
They all sprang up frightened, and began to busy themselves. The old
man looked on with pleasure while the work was silently shared in the
order established by centuries. The women put the tea-kettle and
cauldron on the fire, and carried the bedding out of doors; the men,
after examining their thongs and arms, prepared to go into the wood to
call the herd together. The bustle stopped when the tea was ready.
They all sat down gravely round a plank serving as table, but as the
host was silent, no one dared to talk, although all, not excepting old
Nioren, were excited. The young women and girls looked at their father
in unspeakable fear. Miore was sad and angry, but 'Sparkling Ice'
regarded the old man with respect, not unmixed with a certain degree
of curiosity.
After drinking his tea, Seltichan ate something, and lighted his pipe.
Then he said to his youngest son:
'Go out, boy, and call the people.'
Miore did not stir from his seat.
'Do you hear?'
Not until the command had been repeated threateningly did the lad rise
and begin to buckle on his things. But, instead of going, he suddenly
threw himself at his father's feet.
'Are you determined? Are you determined? Oh, father do not leave us!
The family will never agree to it. I was talking to the young men
yesterday, and they said: "Rather than that, let all our reindeer die,
and we will live by industry." But if they do decide on that in the
end,--let the fat Kniaz be killed!'
'You are foolish, my boy,' the old man said with a smile. 'You do not
know yet what I shall do. I wish to see the people.--Go, I tell you!'
'Oh, my lord, why do you deceive us with hope?'
'Don't talk nonsense.--I have already told you--'
'They will never let us off; it would be better to escape secretly.'
'I have already told you--' the old man repeated obstinately.
'Oh Father, let us escape, let us escape!' they all begged, stretching
out their hands towards him. But the old man thrust away Miore, the
most impetuous of them all, with a kick in the chest, and cried:
'Cursed birds of ill-omen, cease from breaking my heart!'
'I would like to know,' said 'Sparkling Ice,' who had been gloomy and
silent hitherto, 'why Miore does not obey when our father commands
him?'
The lad, who was lying as he had fallen, rose, and left the tent in
silence.
* * * * *
Once more the people, from small to great, were assembled at the
column in the valley. The armed men were dressed in their best
attire,--various kinds of fur, which hung in long fringes. The sun
shone on their ornaments as they took their seats in small bands
according to families. They amused themselves, wrestled, and in no way
betrayed the reason for coming there.
The members of Seltichan's family were distinguished among the rest by
their choice arms and rich clothing, as well as by their strength,
skill, and the proud independance of their bearing. Seltichan himself,
who occupied the seat of honour among them, watched everything that
took place with great attention.
'The tribe is enfeebled, and dying out,' he said from time to time.
'Was it not so with the family of Tumara? Where is Leljel, who was no
less flourishing than we? Where is Nilken?'
'If you leave us, we also shall be enfeebled and dispersed,' his
family answered him.
'"Sparkling Ice" will remain after me;--he is not my son, but my
comrade!'
The grief of Seltichan's family on hearing this made the old man
hesitate as he looked at them.
Meanwhile the excitement prevailing in the assembly increased, and
strange rumours were whispered abroad. Somehow it came about that the
members of Seltichan's family became more and more isolated from the
rest, and were greeted with silence when they approached. Miore and
some of the other young men were not disconcerted by this, however,
and continued to mix freely with the crowd.
In the evening they all dispersed, but the excitement did not die
down, and was only transferred to the tents and the camp fires. People
sat talking in low voices until late into the night, alarmed when they
saw anything unusual. Several even sharpened their spears. 'A man like
that does not die without something happening,' they said.
On the third day they all came fully armed. Many of the young warriors
brought their spears with them, and stood leaning on them outside the
circle. The deliberations did not begin, but the excited whispers
which passed round the crowd showed the passionate, though
restrained, feeling. All eyes were continually turned towards
Seltichan, who was sitting splendidly dressed among his sorrowing
family, he alone calm and cheerful.
'Shall we allow the old man to cheat us?' whispered several.
'Shall we allow the old man to cheat us?' asked the Kniaz, going from
one to the other.
'Well, and what then?' they asked him at one meeting. 'Perhaps you
think it will be easier to get hold of the daughter when the old man
is not there? You need not expect it; "Sparkling Ice" will never give
her to you. He has not forgotten that little affair.'
'What affair? May all my reindeer die, and may I stay in one place to
the end of my life, like a Russian in a wooden house, if that is
true,' swore the Kniaz. 'Oltungaba is not a man of that sort!'
'Oltungaba drinks vodka!'
The Kniaz became confused, and did not know what to answer at once.
'Idiots!' he finally exclaimed, and stroking both ears, he ran off to
carry his complaints elsewhere.
All this increased the excitement, and caused a great deal of talk,
which ultimately reached Miore's ears through Seltichan's kinsmen.
'Father, they are deceiving you,' the youth exclaimed passionately,
going up to him. 'You are willing to die, but it is all the doing of
the Kniaz; he has bribed Oltungaba! He thinks there will be no one to
equal him when you are not here! Father, I beg you, escape quietly.
Our tents are struck, the young men are ready, the reindeer saddled;
we shall be on the mountains before they have noticed anything. And
even should they do so, are we not your children?'
Seltichan's face clouded.
'Let Oltungaba be summoned,--let him be tried!' he cried, rising.
'Oltungaba! Oltungaba!' exclaimed many of Seltichan's family.
'Oltungaba! Oltungaba!' was heard on all sides.
The grey-haired old man entered the circle reluctantly, looking as
dark as moss.
'Is it true that you have taken a bribe from the Kniaz? That out of
regard to him you have deceived us?' they all cried.
'Wait a little; let one speak! Don't you see that I have only two
ears, so that a hundred voices only bewilder me?'
'Then let one speak!'
The head of one of the most distinguished families, who was very
highly respected, stepped forward, and sitting down, began to ask
questions.
'Did you take bribes?'
'Why shouldn't I take them? Don't I live on men's bounty? Haven't both
you and Seltichan given me some too? The Kniaz also gave one, but he
didn't ask for anything, and I promised him nothing. Is it not a sin
to suspect it? How is it possible to say such a thing? The man will
die! Ask his people.'
Witnesses were summoned, and the Kniaz was summoned. They all stood in
the centre of the angry circle, looking rather frightened, but the
enquiry led to nothing. The only thing that was clear was that
Oltungaba had visited the Kniaz in his tent, as he had visited others,
and had profitted by his liberality.
Stroking his ears with both hands, and swearing with quite unusual
fervour, the Kniaz talked at extraordinary length of his
disinterestedness, his merits, his zeal in safeguarding the interests
of the tribe with the government, and, above all, of his
sacrifices--in paying taxes.
Oltungaba spoke scornfully, and in monosyllables.
'You don't believe me, Seltichan,' he said finally, turning to the old
man. 'Have you forgotten how I loved and taught you when you were a
boy; how I advised you in difficulties, told you old legends, and
about distant countries? Was I not your father's comrade,--his friend
when you were still a little child, crawling on the ground? And
later, when you grew up, did I not boast of you, and you, did you not
listen to my advice? Who was the foremost warrior and hunter among us?
Who spoke wisely and courteously?--You were always a true Tungus,
Seltichan; we all know that.--Was it the worst who were offered in
olden times? I swear to you, old man, and to all the tribes that I
spoke the truth. I said what a voice from heaven commanded me to say!
May my face be turned round to my back, and my body dried up like
tobacco leaves, may my eyes fall out, and my muscles grow weak like
badly dried yarn, and--may my hand burn, as the heart burns from
unkindness'--here with a rapid movement he put his hand into the
flame.
They all sprang up, and Seltichan drew the old man away from the fire.
'Oltungaba, forgive me, and all of you, forgive me,' he said with
emotion. 'It is a sin to suspect evil. I will go,--I had already
determined to do so. I am summoned, and I will go. If I stayed, you
would be forced to go,--so would it be worth while? There is always
one rotten egg in a nest.--Can a man be a man without reindeer? What
is a Tungus without other Tungus?--I leave you, but you will not
forget me!--Good-bye!--May your herds increase! May your children grow
to manhood! May joy not shun your tents! May there be no lack of food
in your cauldrons, of powder in your horns, and of goodness in your
hearts!--I go away, but my thoughts are gentle, as the rays of the
setting sun.--I am going now; I take leave of you, my people!
--Farewell!'
With a quick movement he tore the figured 'dalys' on his chest, and
plunged a knife up to the hilt into his heart.
He stood for a moment, his fading glance passing round them all,--then
staggered, and fell.
A single great sigh burst from the crowd.
Oltungaba hastily knelt down beside the dying man, uncovered his
breast, and placing his right hand near the wound, stretched his left
towards the sun, crying:
'Oh, thou God ruling all things, help us,--shield us! We are not the
last, and not the lowest, if we can send forth hearts like these!'
'Hearts like these!' groaned the crowd.
All, even the stout Kniaz, felt at that moment as if their hearts beat
with the same readiness for sacrifice as that which was growing cold
under Oltungaba's hand.
'He was a warrior,' whispered the shaman after a moment, and picking
up the 'dalys,' he threw it over the face, quivering in its death
agony.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] 'Kniaz': Russian 'Soltys' = village mayor.
PRINTED AT
THE HOLYWELL PRESS
OXFORD
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Uncommon spellings in original retained.
Missing and incorrect punctuation fixed.
Hyphenated and non-hyphenated of same words retained as in original.
P. iii: "Orford" changed to "Oxford"
P. 8: pronunciation key ditto marks changed to "English"
P. 55: "months had passd" changed to "months had passed".
P. 81: "couse" changed to "course"
P. 172: "asserverated" changed to "asseverated"
P. 180: "Then let is be so" changed to "Then let it be so"