The Blue Sky

by Galsan Tschinag

  What was it Grandma had always said? Bird songs ward off disaster, while bird screams bring it about. Brother Galkaan once claimed he had found out first-hand that she was right. Sister Torlaa had had a good laugh at him. She figured screams were like songs. Only now did I realize how little I had thought of Brother and Sister recently, and I felt ashamed. But I noticed that my shame quickly became a burning, smarting desire to see Brother and Sister and to have them with me that very moment so I could share with them the beauty of spring.

  Then I wished that Grandma, too, could be with me. If only she would be standing in front of the yurt with that child’s smile in her wrinkled, kindly face when I got home, or when the three of us came home like three yrgaj branches. I had never seen a yrgaj, but I knew that it was a tree and that everybody with good fortune in life got to see it once. Grandma had told me as much, and it was she, too, who had said to the three of us: “May you grow tall and strong, and may you stick with each other like three yrgaj branches!” A gift had preceded that blessing: the ewe Dshojtung had given birth to triplets, and Grandma had given each of us a lamb. But none of the triplets was left. The last of the three, Üshüsbej, belonged to Sister Torlaa before it died during the last dshut. The triplets were no longer alive, and the three of us who were to stick with each other had been separated. Why? Grandma alone would have known. It was time she came back from the salt, or from whatever it was that existed forever. If only Grandma would come back!

  All that longing and remembering sharpened my senses as I became even more aware that Arsylang had not come back. For the first time ever I thought that an accident might have befallen him. The thought alone made me cry, but instead of wiping away my tears or holding back new ones, I began to pray. “Oh Deedis, oh my rich Altai!” I exclaimed and lifted my arms. I was speaking even as I was weeping floods of tears. “Please hear me and stand by me: Where is my Arsylang? Oh dear, dear Deedis! Please, please let him be safe! And stave off any accident that might lie in ambush for him.” Then I began to sob and could not go on. If only it would pass! I imagined how Arsylang, had he been with me, would have squatted beside me and howled to the sky and to all four corners of the earth. I was shaken by the thought and suddenly sensed a lump inside me that seemed to be growing bigger and heavier. Pain was radiating out from it, so much pain that it almost made me faint. I cried out again and again. Later I no longer felt the pain. But then I was afraid that it might come back, and I clenched my teeth and tried to choke back my tears and sobs.

  The attack passed. But my restlessness stayed, and gradually solidifi d into certainty: Something had happened to Arsylang.

  I worried about all sorts of dangers. A fox never could have harmed him. Arsylang could handle not just a fox but even a wolf. But what if a fox had lured him to a pack of wolves? His only salvation would have been to turn around immediately and flee from the pack. Would Arsylang have done that? Hardly. He would have put up a fight.

  On the other hand, he might have stepped into a trap. Admittedly, I hadn’t heard anything about Father setting traps again, but who knew; maybe he had. Or perhaps Arsylang had stumbled upon a forgotten trap. Somebody could have set it, covered it with dried, pulverized dung, sprinkled a thin layer of sand on top, and no one would have known what lay underneath. If later on the hunter lost his way and could no longer find his trap, he would have told himself that a wolf or bear had stepped into it and dragged the trap away, when in fact it could have lain there for a year, or for two years, or five … until finally someone stepped on the ground that was hiding such danger—and this someone was Arsylang!

  Or perhaps—this took my breath away and almost made me sick. I tried to think of some other possibility but failed. Arsylang was not a horse, which might throw itself off a rock. Nor was he a sheep that might stumble into a crevice and break a leg—even with a broken leg he would have been able to drag himself home. No, no, everything else was out of the question.

  I decided to look for him. But first I pointed the hendshe toward the hürde and hollered a few threats over to the odd lamb that tried to turn back. Then I went, or rather ran, up toward the bright path that lay far above me like a ring around the mountain’s chest. It was a steep climb, but I kept running, and kept falling, on the slippery slate gravel. Hurrying along, I prayed silently to everything around me: to the sky that swayed and shimmered above the path and the rocky ridge, to the stony steep slope I was battling my way up, to the mountain high above me and to the next one beyond it, to all of the mountains. I pleaded with them to protect my Arsylang.

  Finally I reached the path. It no longer resembled a ring, but rather a scarred-over wound that seemed to have gnawed its way into the earth and its rocks, into the mountain’s body. I reached the path and stumbled. For a moment I stayed on my knees in the dusty, ringing gravel, fingering a bare rock that poked through the ground and had been polished in the course of time by feet, hooves, and paws, and by wind and water. I could suddenly hear myself panting, feel myself sweating, and sense a burning behind my chest bone. But I got back on my feet and rushed on. Now it was easier. Now I was racing and had more strength to pray. I prayed to the sky, which had turned reddish and brilliant. I prayed to the breezes that filled the sky and to the winds and the clouds which, though invisible, had to be there, at rest after finishing their work high above all living beings below. I prayed to. the mountain saddle Ak Gertik, which was coming toward me, to all the saddles, hills, and peaks, and to all the hollows, valleys, and gorges beyond it, naming each in due order: Saryg Gertik, Gök Gertik, Hara Gertik, Dsher Haja, Myshyktalyyr, Gongaadaj, Dsher Aksy, Dshukschud … I prayed to the path I was treading, the path my forebears and their herds had already tread, addressing it as the great wide path that was part of all paths leading to the three worlds and their thirty-three oceans—phrases I had learned by listening to Father. I prayed and prayed for Arsylang. For my Arsylang.

  I found him at the lower end of the Myshyktalyyr gorge. Tall and dark, he faced me but stood unsteadily like a young yak suffering from brain disease. Then he reeled back. A few steps behind him was the edge of the mountain. A steep rock face dropped into the dreaded abyss that plunged several rifle shots deep before bottoming out in the great river that carried off he waters of all Tuvan rivers.

  I wanted to let out a cry, to call the dog by his name, but I couldn’t: I had fallen mute. Instead I tore down the steep slope. With each step I leapt and fell and bounced off the ground like a stone that has sprung from the slope and free-falls down the mountainside. I managed to control my tumbling body just in time to stop before Arsylang. And then I touched him.

  He was unrecognizable. His hair stood on end, which made him seem tall and dark. His limbs were spread and stiff, his head was thrown back, and his muzzle covered with froth. His eyes had taken on a reddish shine and were fixed in a vacuous stare, while the gaping pupils were terrifyingly alive and glowed like two holes blazing with raging fires. He trembled and gasped and seemed to be fighting a force that was pulling him backward. I could tell that he was powerless and losing the ground below his feet one span at a time. Just then he must have recognized me, for he made a little noise that sounded like crying.

  I was still under the spell of the muteness that had overwhelmed me farther up on the mountain, and so I was not crying myself even though tears were filling my eyes and blinding me. I grabbed hold of Arsylang as best I could, clutched him against me, trying to grasp what had happened.

  Finally my shock gave way and I realized what was happening. I decided to resort to the ultimate: I would turn to the sky himself and plead for help—and either he would hear me and instantly bestow his help upon me, or I would renounce him forever. This fortunate flash of inspiration came from stories I had heard. Such things were talked about in legends. I had never seen or heard any of the people I knew personally try it out though.

  So I took off my belt, tied a heavy rock to each end, put the burden around my neck, knelt down, turned my eyes to the
sky, and called out: “EH-EH-EEH, GÖK-DEERI!”

  I was glad that my voice had come back. It sounded eerily loud and multiplied as happens in a gorge. The echoes resounding from the rocks chased and crossed each other in all directions. With shock and awe I listened to that grave word which had never before crossed my lips but which I had uttered right then and which each and every rock was now shouting back at me in my own voice, as if the Altai was hurling it at me from all sides. There was no turning back. Now that I had awakened the Supreme One, I had to tell him why I had done so. So I continued: “HEAR ME, EH-EHEEH, GÖK-DEERI! HOLIEST OF ALL WHO ARE HOLY, GREATEST OF ALL WHO ARE GREAT! THIS IS YOUR SON DSHURUKUWAA, WHOM IN THE YEAR OF THE BLACK HORSE YOU GAVE TO THE SON OF HYLBANG AND HIS WIFE ORLUMAA SCHYNYKBAJ, AND TO THE DAUGHTER OF LOBTSCHAA AND HIS WIFE NAMSYRAA BALSYNG, SO THAT HE MAY CONTINUE THE TRIBE OF IRGID, WHICH HAD ITS BEGINNINGS IN THE WHITE MILK OF THE GRAY WOLF AND IN THE RED BLOOD OF THE BROWN DEER!”

  The gorge was filled with my voice. From all sides I could hear myself make a racket and felt quietly satisfi d that I had been able to adapt words from a shaman’s chant for my purposes. But my smugness vanished instantly when I saw another terrible cramp torment my dog.

  “EH-EH-EEH, ETERNAL FATHER OF ALL FATHERS, SONS, AND GRANDSONS, HEAR ME AND KNOW: I AM ONE WHO STILL HAS TEETH LIKE NITS AND HAIR LIKE DOWN, AND WHO HAS AN EYE FULL OF WATER AND A HEART MADE OF FLESH.”

  With the last words, self-pity took hold of me and tears began to well up. I suddenly became aware of the weight of my rocks. Although I figured this was how it was meant to be, the rocks were so heavy that I had to hurry to exclaim the most important part:

  “EH-EH-EEH, GÖK-DEERI, MOST KNOWLEDGEABLE OF ALL WHO ARE KNOWLEDGEABLE, MOST POWERFUL OF ALL WHO ARE POWERFUL! HAVE MERCY UPON YOUR POOR, WEAK CHILD AND LET MY DOG LIVE! EH-EH-EEH, GÖK-DEERI, HEAR ME AND STAND BY ME! LET MY DOG LIVE! EH-EH-EEH, GÖK-DEERI, I HAVE CALLED YOU BY YOUR NAME AND HAVE DARED THE ULTIMATE. NOW I AWAIT YOUR HELPING HAND AND THAT ONLY: IF YOUR HELP ARRIVES, I WILL BE YOURS EVEN MORE IN THE FUTURE THAN I HAVE BEEN IN THE PAST. BUT IF IT DOES NOT, I WILL NO LONGER BE YOURS, AND YOU WILL HAVE LOST A SON! FOR EVER AND EVER!”

  I could have stopped there. But I felt a remnant of strength and the need to add the following for the sake of clarity: “EH-EH-EEH, GÖK-DEERI, DEAR AND HOLY FATHER! LET MY DOG LIVE, MY ARSYLANG, WHO IS A BROTHER TO ME IN PLACE OF A BROTHER, A FRIEND IN PLACE OF A FRIEND! LET ME, WHO LOVES AND WORSHIPS YOU, CONTINUE TO BE A SON TO YOU!”

  I paused and waited. In the epic, help was always quick to come. The sky sends rain in torrents that hit the enemy like thunderbolts and wash the wounds of the hero in need so they will heal in no time. While I could hardly imagine such a miracle actually coming about, even less could I imagine it not coming about. So I stayed patiently on my knees with my arms lifted, my eyes turned to the sky, and my belt with its two rocks across my neck. Behind me I could hear Arsylang gasp and stumble. He had once more moved a bit farther away from me.

  I would have dearly loved to turn around, to catch up with him and hold him fast in order to stop him from drawing any closer to the edge of the cliff. But I was waiting for the miracle the sky was bound to send me. The weight of the burden pulling me to the ground only increased my defiance. So I crouched on my knees, grew stiff nd stubborn, and waited.

  It ended when I broke down. All of a sudden I fell forward on the sandy gravel. It was good to feel the solid ground supporting my stiff, numb arms, and equally good to feel the cool rock touching my hot face. I threw off my burden, struggled to get up, and rushed over to Arsylang, who had teetered all the way over to the edge. When I got to him, the blue void seemed to reach for me. I could clearly feel my hair stand on end, and the next moment I felt jerked up into the air. I let out a cry, threw myself backward, and fell on my buttocks. I could not decide whether to open my eyes—which I had closed without intending or even knowing I had done so when I fell backward—but I opened them anyway. I saw Arsylang right in front of me and quickly reached for him, grabbed his neck, and pulled. He was as heavy as a rock, and I realized that I could no longer keep him where he was, let alone pull him close. I sensed a weight that I could not match. Only then did it occur to me that I should have turned Arsylang around earlier so that, being constantly pulled backward, he would have stumbled away from this cliff. I might even have managed to take him home. As it was, I was afraid to get up. The mere idea paralyzed me and hurt me to the roots of my hair. I felt cheated, and I was sorry I had been so rash to take on the sky without knowing beforehand if word about his helpfulness was true. The thought came as a shock. I tried to drive it away and to conjure up a different thought to prove the sky’s omnipotence and mercy: The rain He sent to earth year after year, almost always at the exact same time—what would have come of us without it? And the sun He gave us each day, and the moon and the stars He gave us each night! Oh, it was good that I instantly had all sorts of evidence at my command. The grave, terrible thought had been suppressed—though not wiped out. Indeed, no thought can ever be wiped out. Now I knew.

  Meanwhile I lay flat on my belly as Arsylang slipped away. With each breath, sensation and strength drained from that arm of mine that his life depended on. I realized that one span of ground was all that was left, and I was terrifi d that it, too, would soon slide from us. Arsylang would slip from my fingers no matter how hard I dug into his coat. I would never see him again, just as I would never see Grandma again. I would be left alone with my flock, which had itself been beset by heavy losses. I would watch for Brother and Sister alone, and I would walk toward them alone when they came home. This would be my future. It had just begun.

  My mind told me as much. But at the bottom of my heart I had not accepted these thoughts, nor did I want to. With everything in my power I resisted.

  Then another stubborn thought came to mind: What if Arsylang’s hindlegs were to step into the abyss and out of sheer terror he’d bite into my sleeve to hang on? Panic overcame me and left me feeling sick. But still, I was not willing to let go of the dog to save myself.

  Convulsed with fear, I began to pray in a low voice: “FATHER SKY AND MOTHER EARTH! HEAR ME AND STAND BY ME: GIVE MY ARM THE STRENGTH TO HOLD THIS DOG WHERE HE IS NOW, AND THE STRENGTH NOT TO LET HIM MOVE A FINGER’S WIDTH FURTHER!” At that moment I heard a shout. It was Father’s voice: “Hang on—I’m on the way! Hang on—I’m on the way!”

  The miracle! flashed through my mind. I was overcome by gratitude for the sky’s mercy, and new tears welled up in my eyes. All the same, I did not forget that I now needed to hold fast even more. And so I did. Meanwhile Father crept toward us, apparently on tiptoe. I missed the moment he reached me and was startled when he grabbed my knees from behind. As I learned later, he had thought the dog was clinging to me with his teeth and wanted to reach us unnoticed.

  When he pulled me to him, I screamed: “Not me! Get Arsylang!” He grabbed for Arsylang and seized one of his front paws. Now we were pulling together. Arsylang looked half dead already. His pupils were gaping but empty as if the blaze behind them had burned itself out. His body seemed lifeless when we poked it, and it was beginning to turn stiff. “Ej, for Heaven’s sake,” Father lashed out. “He must have swallowed some poison. It’s too late to do anything about it. Thank goodness the worst hasn’t happened to you, my little one!”

  I was devastated. Too late to save Arsylang—just when he had been rescued from the abyss? No miracle after all? How stupid to call that good. Stupid and mean! I jumped with pain. Then I pulled myself up hard and yelled at Father: “You have done in my Arsylang, you and your stupid poison! And now you say it’s too late to do anything! And you say thank goodness?”

  With the last word I mimicked him.

  I expected to get my ears boxed. But Father didn’t move. I saw him grow pale and his lips tremble. Why didn’t he hit me? Why didn’t he fling me to the ground with a slap or a kick? Why not? At least then I would have had reason to cry and scream and rage, and try to
throw off the pain. But instead I was left at its mercy, not knowing what to do next. We both stood there without moving, as if we were waiting for the end. Waiting for Arsylang to fall over and die. So we could say he was dead. So we could go home. So, once home, we could wash our hands with juniper extract, eat and drink, and go to bed after having struggled with the sheep and their lambs, only to get up and struggle some more with the sheep and their lambs. So, in short, we could get on with life without Arsylang. How awful and how shameful. Father asked why my belt lay there with rocks tied to it. I told him what had happened.

  “Oh, my son,” Father said sadly, “once the terrible poison gets into the stomach, it’s too late. Then not even the sky can help.”

  I did not reply, I had no reply. I could not grasp it.

  Father let go of the gasping and trembling dog he had held and supported up to this point, walked over to my belt, untied the rocks, came over to me, and put the belt back on me. I did not move. With one hand on Arsylang’s flank, I could feel death spreading inside him. With my belt around me I felt a little relief, some slight support. Suddenly I remembered the story of Old Man Schirning and shouted, “Milk! Could milk possibly help?”

  Father paused and looked at me. His eyes lit up. I took heart again. “Let’s go,” Father said. “We’ll take him to the flock.” With a tug he lifted Arsylang and flung him over his shoulder. We went up the gorge, climbed the steep rockface. I ran, or tried to. Father couldn’t run, but he was only a few steps behind.

  I was furious to find that the flock was no longer where Father had left it. The animals had wandered toward the ail and the hürde. Now I ran faster and Father called after me: “Don’t wait for me. Run and tell Mother to get some milk.” I ran fast. Downhill was easy.

  I caught up with the flock by the edge of the ail. When I saw the hürde and then the yurt, I started to roar: “Ihi-iiij! Ihi-iiij!” Mother was nowhere to be seen, and I was about to explode with rage because she wasn’t coming out of the yurt and walking toward me with her milk pail. Suddenly I heard her voice on the other side, over where the small flock was, and saw her hobbling toward me. She was suffering from the pain in one of her legs that would eventually force her to use a cane. “What’s up?” she called. “A disaster has happened, a disaster!” I yelled back. I continued to gallop toward the yurt. Luckily, I found a wooden bucket filled with milk in the yurt. I grabbed it and ran back. In the meantime, Mother had made quite a bit of headway, but rather than wait for her to arrive I began to dash back to Father. But Mother called, “Wait for me, will you? Wait!” So I had to stop and wait for her to make it all the way to me. She seemed to take an eternity. I was seething with rage and shouting: “Faster, faster! Hara mola!” The latter was a rather harmless curse which many people used in a kindly teasing manner, but in our family it was only used in the most extreme cases. Now I used it on my own mother.