Table of Contents
ALSO BY GALSAN TSCHINAG
Title Page
Dedication
THE SPIRIT
BROTHER
THE WORLD BEYOND THE RIVER
NUMBER ONE HUNDRED
THE PRISONER
THE ONSET OF WINTER
WRONG QUESTION
LITTLE BLUE MOUSE
THE BLACK TAIL OF THE WHITE RABBIT
ALL-GOOD AND HALF-GOOD DAYS
DAY WITHOUT SKY
A STOVE GOES OUT
DEVOURING THE STONE
GLOSSARY
MILKWEED EDITIONS
JOIN US
Copyright Page
ALSO BY GALSAN TSCHINAG
The Blue Sky
For Dshokonaj,
My brother and teacher,
Who had to go
So I could stay.
THE SPIRIT
At my feet lies a miserable, mute, and fearful sky. It must submit to my battered brass ladle each time my ladle dips into the clouds. Then the sky shivers and shudders and the clouds blur. Sitting above the sky, I shamanize and fondly consider the sheep whose fleece I am plucking.
With each scoop from the river the verse also rises, answering my need. The water streams into the aspen-wood pail with a bright streak and a dark rumble and then, once the pail has filled up, sparkles and splashes over its brim.
Meanwhile the verse sinks softly and quietly onto my tongue, and word after word rolls into my throat where it turns into song. I keep the bright, fluttering melody from the prickling, almost piercing splashes of the gushing water and draw out and savor each line’s last syllable.
How fortunate that I have bush standing behind me firm and thick to hide me from other people’s eyes and ears. Here I can shamanize as long and loudly as I like, and dally as much with the spirits as my desire and courage allow.
I am determined to become a shaman, even though my parents are against it. They say I lack the roots. There has never been a shaman in our family; the one shaman we have—a woman named Pürwü—is only related to us through marriage. When they hear me shamanize, they get angry with me. But Pürwü has given me permission to follow her example. She said so in our own yurt, in front of Father and Mother and a handful of other people.
This was years ago. Brother and Sister were still at home, my dog Arsylang was still alive, and Grandma was still on this earth, close enough for us to see and touch her. I had been sick and bedridden for days, and so the shaman had to come. As she was shamanizing, and slapping me with her shawyd, the colorful whisk made from strips of fabric, I suddenly—so I am told—reached up and snatched the shawyd from her hand. And that was not all. Apparently I also jumped up and raced around the stove, whipping myself with her shawyd and singing about a white sheep that alone would save me.
At first they tried to catch me and quickly tuck me in again, but I fought ferociously and insisted that a sheep be consecrated on the spot if I were to be kept alive. The shaman, who had lost her place in the chant, stood confused and then decided to do as I wished. So the sheep I had demanded was brought and consecrated. I cannot actually remember any of it. Only dark, shadowy shreds of memory have stayed with me—I must have been delirious with fever.
Soon afterward I recovered completely. But for a long time the strange behavior of the child I was remained a topic of conversation. The farther word of it traveled through time and space, the more impressive and lavish the story became. And when I told my story to other children, I embellished it with even more details, making it even more beautiful and significant. I can’t say whether this was the reason, but I sensed that everyone knew and admired me.
“He is Ish-Maani’s youngest,” strangers said when they referred to me, and the respect they had for this particular youngest child could be heard in their voices. Ish-Maani, “Oh-You-Poor-Soul,” is my kind and empathetic father’s nickname.
All of this led me to butt in a second time when one day Aunt Pürwü was shamanizing again. But this time I knew what I was doing. Without any warning I jumped up, tore the scarf from the head of the next best person within my reach, and, screeching and waving the scarf, followed the shaman. Cooing and snorting and stomping and waving wildly about, she stepped out the door to tackle something invisible in the darkness of the steppe. In the flickering light of the dung fire the faces around me looked rigid with fear, which gave me a prickling satisfaction. A man’s voice hissed through clenched teeth, “Hey, come back, you bad boy!” But by then I was almost through the door and obviously in no mind to turn back. Instead, I was surprised the stranger would not know who I was. He made me smile. But then I put on a serious face, stepped forth, and, drawing on everything I had, supported the shaman in her struggle to drive away the evil spirit I believed to be hidden in front of me in the dark.
Later, when I had returned into the yurt under the shaman’s wings, I heard the same reproachful voice brazenly raised against my parents: “You’re not the only people with a youngest child.”
Another voice agreed: “Yes, this has gone too far. Who knows where it will lead.” I recognized the voice; it was Tuudaj. Tuudaj always showed up when we butchered a large animal. That it was her, of all people, annoyed me somewhat, and I asked myself what I would do the next time she popped up at the edge of our ail with that greasy, shiny goatskin bag under her left arm. Would I run toward her as fast as before to restrain our dog? But then the shaman interrupted her chant and said, “Let him be. He has his reasons, or else he wouldn’t do it.”
I was grateful to her, but I had lost the courage to carry on and instead crouched and hid behind everyone at the back, while a heavy silence weighed upon them.
The following night wolves attacked our ail’s flock. We soon lost sight of the animals the wolves had chased away. But somehow we managed to stay connected with the victims until dawn, firing shots in their direction, banging pails and basins with sticks, and calling out after the sheep and goats, pausing only to listen. The animals knew each of these sounds was meant for them, and baaed and bleated in reply.
At dawn, we saddled the horses and loaded the dung baskets to bring back the dead and the wounded. More than a dozen animals had been killed—there were whole piles of remains. The dogs howled for several days and nights, their helpless cries born from shame and rage.
Every misfortune demands a culprit. This time, the verdict fell on me. Had it come from only one side, I probably would have tried to defend myself. I could have said the attack was part of life and our ail, having been spared for so long, was due.
But too many people, everyone really, went to battle against me. Even Mother did. She accused me of a brazenness not even a madman would allow himself, and she claimed that with my twitching and screeching I had scorched her face for all the world to see. Father agreed with her: with my performance I had done worse than bring shame to the family—I had enraged the sky. The bundle the sky had given me at birth simply did not include shamanizing. Their voices were cold and hard, as if I were no longer their baby child. Other people came and behaved as if demanding damages from Father and Mother since I, their child, had awakened the evil spirits and lured them close with my insolence. Soon my defiance collapsed. I remembered whom I had named in my verses: Ary börü, asa gooshu . . .
Greedy wolves, ghostly devils ...
Of course I had tried to drive them away instead of luring them close. But the fact remained that I had called their names. And maybe they had heard their names, rushed toward us, and slipped past me. I had been insolent and, unfortunately, blind as well.
I shrank down to the size of a tick and waited in agony for someone to hurl the fateful line from my verse at my head like a rock. Fortunately, no one did. But things w
ere bad enough already. There was no way of knowing when—if ever—the flock would recover from the loss. For the longest time I could not shake my remorse and melancholy. Time after time I swore to myself never again to shamanize.
Time passed. Among shamans and their nightly performances, I kept my word. I was just one of their spectators and listeners, and a very mute and quiet one at that. Whenever I watched one of the shamans rise up against death and the devil, my plight returned. I felt the sharp pain of remorse in my diaphragm. The wound might have formed a scar, but it was far from healed.
Then the bad year arrived. It ended with me rising up against the sky and flinging at him my best weapons—my words. I denounced him. Instead of replying, Father Sky stayed as unreachable and invulnerable as ever. That provoked me the most. What exactly was the sky? I had to find out. In the beginning, I was afraid. I feared he would strike back. But absolutely nothing happened. First I was thrilled and encouraged, then disappointed and affronted. Curiosity awoke in me like in a suckling that stirs, stretches, and waits for his mother to come and feed him, and then starts to cry when no one comes.
My way of crying has always been to sing the shaman’s chant. So I started to shamanize again, even more than before.
Ever since that awakening, I have been calling out for the sky. My language is poetry and song. My poetry is mostly pleas, sometimes threats and scorn. When I feel the urge to take on the sky, I flee from people. If people overhear my shamanizing, it is because I have made a mistake. Then I must accept rebuke. But people’s passing remarks are tolerable. They remind me that no one can train his mind for the work of a shaman the way he can train his hands for the craft of a tanner, that the sky alone calls one to shamanizing, and that, when he does, the call is by no means a reward. It is a heavy burden, almost a punishment, and impossibly hard to bear for a human being with an eye of water and a heart of flesh. Anyone who is truly a shaman feels condemned to carry this heaviest of burdens through the years as his or her fate. This is how our aunt, the shaman, puts it.
Nevertheless, since that worst day in that bad year I have not been given a beating. I can tell my parents are treating me more cautiously. That is probably best for all of us, for every so often I feel the urge to run away. I would love to fly away like a bird or swim away like a fish, away from all these powerless people and animals and away from these unreliable mountains and valleys, which dish out we never know what from one day to the next. Away from the mute and pitiless sky that supposedly knows all, sees all, and hears all, but pretends to be deaf and blind the moment I need to be heard and seen.
I envy the winds, the water, and the birds whenever I think of them. They blow, flow, and fly; they all get to leave, whereas, in spite of my two quick legs, I am condemned to stay among the mountains and the river valleys, not much different from a tethered horse. I grow restless whenever I imagine the world beyond the mountains. I want the gusts of wind, floods of water, and birds of passage to take me wherever they go. I would gladly go to the end of the world, look into the gaping abyss, lose my way, and face the furies of everlasting night and hell’s roiling, toxic sea. How often I wish I had spirits to take me there and bring me back. Because this feeling is so strong, I am ready to give up whatever I have and to do whatever it takes to become a shaman.
“Watch out,” Mother warns me one day. “Others have dabbled in shamanism against the will of the sky, who had not given them such powers. Quite a few paid with their lives.”
Father is usually quick to support her: “Anyone chosen by the sky is seriously ill and needs to heal before becoming a shaman. It is difficult.”
I do not reply, but mull over their words for a long time. Eventually I decide to ask the shaman herself. She says more or less the same thing as Mother and Father, but when I dig, I learn more: in rare cases a person with pure bones can get infected with shamanism by a shaman. Such an infection can be brought about by different means, but most often results from a blood transfusion.
This is a fateful bit of news. I decide to try, or rather force, a blood transfusion between the two of us. Some time later I go back to our aunt’s place. In the birch-wood sheath on my belt I carry a small dagger with a horn hilt that Father keeps ground and honed. Soon my opportunity comes: the woman is sewing, and when I see her struggle with a dull knife to unpick an old seam, I jump to help her with my dagger. Now she holds the two sewn-together pieces in her hands to stretch them apart. All I need to do is touch the yak tendon with the grimly sharp blade of my dagger, and the two pieces of sheepskin spring apart with a soft crackle. When my aunt praises me, I grow unsure of my plans, but promise myself not to miss the opportunity that is within my grasp, making my fingers prickle. Just before we come to the end of the seam, I twist the dagger slightly. We both cry out. I am surprised how easy it was, how fast the desired, precious—sacred, even—blood spurts out. The blade has touched the tip of my aunt’s right ring finger, and bright-red blood runs over the fleece and the blade.
While Aunt Pürwü sets about plucking a tuft of wool from the back of the sheepskin so she can burn it and press the glowing ashes into her wound, I dash from the yurt. I hear her shout after me, “Make sure you wash the blade carefully.”
When I have reached the hiding place I sought out in advance, I open my lawashak, drop my long pants with their wide legs, and pierce the thick, soft flesh of my left calf with the blade I have carried, bloody side up, in my outstretched hand.
Fortunately, I have no time to think, and everything happens fast. The wound hurts badly. I cannot help but cry out, and my whole body begins to shake. But otherwise I don’t move. My face is twisted with pain, but I am determined. I stare at the blade. The bright silvery steel is stuck two-fingers deep in my flesh, and its knobby goathorn hilt trembles ever so slightly.
I wait to make sure that the alien sacred blood gets absorbed by my flesh and travels through my body. Meanwhile, my leg feels heavier, and a dull pain begins to extend to the tips of my toes. Finally, I pull out the blade. That hurts even more than thrusting it in because the steel is stuck. My wound begins to bleed, which worries me mostly because I am afraid the sacred blood might leak out. I lick the wound until the bleeding stops. Then I bandage it with a strip of fabric I tear off my belt.
Now I have a limp. When people notice, I explain that I hurt myself on a branch jutting from a tree. As time goes by, the pain only increases. The wound turns an angry red and begins to fester.
All that happened in the summer. Now it is autumn, and still the wound has not healed. It is the reason we had to take our yurt on a detour along the dangerously wild Homdu River instead of traveling across Borgasyn and battling straight through our mild, milky-white mother river, Ak-Hem. The day before yesterday we arrived in this place on the far side of the district center and the large water, and yesterday the doctor came to look at my wound. He brushed on a pungent liquid and told me to take off my old puss-encrusted pants and go to bed. At first I enjoy lying in bed. I even fall asleep in the middle of the day! But then I decide to get up. Many lines of poetry come to mind. Bite after bite, they slide over my tongue. I can neither make them stay nor make them go silently—they demand to be chanted aloud and released into the wide world.
I have no choice but to get up and steal away from the yurt.
Worn thin are my soles
Like the shoes of a camel yearling.
That is how much I have looked for you, o-oh-ooj.
Threadbare is my throat
Like the opening of a bag.
That is how much I have called you, u-uh-uuj.
I am calling for the spirits even though the words, jumping dumb like fish from the flood, run effortlessly together as lines, and the voice that nets them has already found its own strength. So far I am no more than a neighbor to the clouds and a brother to the fish, but I sense I am being transformed and on my way to water and air, ready to rise above myself and become the fish’s throat and the clouds’ heart. If I succeed, I will
also succeed in becoming a counterforce and a counterweight for the sky and the earth.
For anything that needs to be poured,
Here is my brainpan.
Round and rooted with soot-black hair
Take it, a-ah-aaj.
For anything that needs to be bound,
Here is the thread of my life.
Red and braided of eight springtimes
Take it, e-eh-eej.
I take my time as I call out to the spirits whose presence I sense as clearly as the sun and the wind. Incessantly I plead and relentlessly I lure, for today I want to see them in the flesh.
And then I catch sight of something: a blurry figure in a pale, fluttering cape stands before me in the ladle. I am startled, and as the ladle slips from my hand, I believe I see the figure shrink into something round, like a stuffed first stomach of a sheep, its rumen, before bursting and dissolving. I quickly turn and jump: someone is standing right behind me.
He is an elegant, foreign-looking man. His body is angular and chiseled and his face light-skinned and smooth. Luscious glittering hair flows out with a flourish from under his ash-colored peaked cap. His long coat is as green as bile and unbuttoned, and his narrow boots have high legs and heavy heels, and are made from leather polished to a mirror.
A muffled groan escapes me as I stare at the man who seems more likely to have fallen from the clouds than squeezed through the dense willow bushes—he seems so celestial. Nevertheless, his pale chiseled face with the narrow flat eyes and the bony crooked nose looks familiar. Suddenly I recognize Brother Dshokonaj. Yet I cannot believe it is him, or why it is him.
I cannot help thinking about the figure I saw in the water. Still, I have my doubts. That figure was stripped bare both above and below the waist, was it not?
Until now the man has stared at me in silence, but now a greeting escapes him: “Come here, little man, let your big brother sniff you.”
The Gray Earth Page 1