The Blue Sky

by Galsan Tschinag

  At long last she arrived. “What has happened, Deedis?” she asked. She was panting, and her voice shook. “Arsylang has swallowed poison,” I cried with tears in my voice because I had lost so much time waiting for her. Again I reached for the bucket.

  “And where is Father?”

  “On his way, with Arsylang.”

  As I dashed off, I heard Mother call, “Oh, my rich Altai!” She sounded joyful.

  I was offended by her joy. I was offended because Arsylang was perhaps already dead. I tore off and did not respond to what she shouted next.

  I found them behind the first mountain saddle. Father gently tried to stand Arsylang on his legs, but the dog was no longer up to it. So we laid him on his side instead. His legs stretched outward as if he was trying to flee from the poison and the death that had already nested in his belly. His tail stood up straight. Although the only sign of life was a quiet rattle, we tried to force milk into him. Since his teeth were clenched, Father stuck the tip of his knife into a gap behind his fangs to pry his jaws open. But the teeth pressed hard against each other and would not be parted. Foaming slime oozed from the gaps, and when we wiped it off, something that was a very dark red, almost black, became visible. It must have been his tongue.

  In the end, we stuck an onion stem into one of Arsylang’s nostrils and dripped milk into it. I took milk from the pail and into my mouth, and released it into the stem. Father warned me not to get too close to the dog because he had heard that poison can cause rabies.

  The milk we cleverly trickled into one nostril soon came out the other one, but what came out was foaming like water and curd.

  A racking cramp shot through Arsylang’s body. Then he cried, more softly than before. At that moment I noticed Mother. All of a sudden she was standing next to me. Although my grudge against her had not died down, I felt a flash of gratitude. It was the kind of gratitude you feel toward people who have stood by you through some great disaster. I knew then that Arsylang was dying. Still, I was astonished when Father said it was over with the dog—astonished not so much because the death that was already inside Arsylang had now completed itself, but rather because anybody could simply say, “It’s over with the dog,” as if he were saying, “The milk has gone sour,” or “The wooden pail leaks,” or “The horseshoe is worn through.”

  The gratitude I had felt toward Father for staying with me and the dead Arsylang and for not going after one of his countless other jobs clouded over, disappeared, and finally became anger. When I tried to find reasons to blame him, I did not have to look far. Arsylang wasn’t just any old dog. There were many dogs around, but Arsylang was the best among them. He was entirely unique, and yet Father had poisoned him! And then another thought flashed through my mind, some dark inkling. Soon a puppy would arrive, get raised, and take Arsylang’s place. I held Father responsible for this untimely thought as well, even though it had been me who had thought it. I simply assumed, without a moment’s doubt, that he would have had the same idea.

  Right then I heard Mother say, “I was so worried about you.” To my ears it sounded like, “Lucky it was just the dog!” Instantly my gratitude toward Mother died as well. Something dark and bitter crept over it and spread and hardened into rock.

  The world was beyond understanding. I began to feel deathly ill. I had to do something, I had to rear up and shatter the rock inside me and spit it out so it would not kill me the way the poison had killed Arsylang. And so I did. I wrenched myself up, stepped over beside the dead Arsylang, raised my fists to the sky, and screamed, “I-ih-iiij, Gök-Deeri!”

  It must have shocked my parents terribly, for everything went quiet around me.

  “I-ih-iiij, what sort are you if you are so powerless against a pinch of measly powder?”

  At that, Father jumped at me, but I fled, my fists raised, and continued to scream: “Have you turned old and deaf and blind? Or are you so evil that you would not deign to hear and help me in my time of need?!”

  Father got a hold of me, but I continued to scream: “Yes, it was you! You let it all happen: that Brother and Sister were taken from me, that Grandma died, that the flock was lost, and that my dog is now dead!”

  Father held me and tried to silence me: “Let it be, my dear, dear child! Let it be, I ask you, I beg you.”

  But I would not hear of it: “I-ih-iiij, Gök-Deeri, what have I done wrong? What have I done to deserve this? Are you not ashamed to have done all this to a poor, weak child? I-ih-iiij, gögergen Gök-Deeri, i-ih-iiij!”

  Then Mother was right in front of me. Her eyes wide with horror, she forced my arms down and said something I didn’t hear. “E-eh-eej, Gök-Deeri! Deaf one who did not hear me, now listen to how I shall punish you—” Mother had put her hand over my mouth, but the force used against me only pushed me to the edge. I became a savage beast, kicking and hitting, scratching and biting, until eventually I escaped Father’s grip. And then, waving my clenched fists, I pronounced judgment on Gök-Deeri, our blue sky: “From now on, I will no longer be your son. I will have nothing but contempt for you, i-ih-iiij, gögergen Gök—”

  At that my head was dealt a blow and I lost my voice. It would have been easy to think the sky had struck me—my once powerful, now shabby Gök-Deeri—but I knew it was Father who had whacked me. Barely conscious, I sensed myself falling to the ground and tumbling down the stony slope. Then I felt hands on my neck and my face, and I noticed a face above me. It was blurry, but I recognized Mother by her calloused warm hands. She held my neck and stroked my cheeks. A little further up, outlined against the evening sky, I noticed another tall, blurry figure. I instantly picked up the fight again which, at that moment, seemed to me a fight I was neither allowed to quit nor to put off. I roughly pushed away Mother’s hands, got up, staggered toward the figure, and roared with all my strength: “I-ih-iiij, now that you have poisoned my dog, why don’t you kill me, too! Go right ahead and kill me, I am ready! Why should I continue to struggle on this earth, far from Brother and Sister, without Grandma, without my flock and without Arsylang, beneath a sky that is blind and deaf?!”

  Suddenly all the troubles and sacrifi es I had endured during the endlessly long spring came back to me, and words poured out of me like water gushing from a turned-over basin: “Beat me to death or finish me off some other way. If you think I am afraid of dying, you are wrong. If you don’t kill me, I’ll do it myself. I’ll jump off a cliff or do myself in some other way. I want to die, and I want to be eaten by black worms. I am not your child anyway, I am your slave. Have you ever let me sleep in? Do you even know how cold I am, how hungry, and how tired? All you ever think of are your animals. Fodder for the wolves! You never think of your children! You have already given away two of them. And as for me, you make me slave away like a Kazakh herdboy!”

  I hurled these words the way people hurl rocks. I wanted them to hit my parents, to hurt and kill them.

  “I want to die and be eaten by black worms, i-ihiiij! Die and be done with, like others before me. I want to go where Grandma went: into death, i-ih-iiij! Do you really think I still don’t know? Grandma is dead, and you got rid of her like a dead sheep or a dead cat. You have probably hidden her under some gravel or in a hole in the ground. Or maybe you threw her to the foxes and the wolves. You keep talking about a journey and about the salt, but I know what is going on. You’re lying through your teeth because you think I am a fool, but I am not!”

  By then I could see and hear clearly again. My parents stood as if chased apart and looked past me silently. It was probably this wretched picture that brought me to my senses. I suddenly understood that they hadn’t tried to beat me to death, but merely to silence me. And then it dawned on me that I was without Grandma, without Arsylang, without the flock I had once owned, separated from Brother and Sister, at war with the sky, and about to go to war against my parents! I would lose what little I had left. There was no way I could afford to lose them, so I had to resign myself to what had happened.

&nbs
p; Someone who was inside me, but could not be me, was saying these things. It must have been a stranger. There was no way I would listen to him. I did not know him; he had only just showed up, alien and disgusting, and was insulting me along with everything that had ever happened, everything that had been part of my life, everything that nobody had the right to tear away from me.

  I pulled myself together and resumed the fight. I screeched for all I was worth, lashed out in all directions, threw myself to the ground, jumped up, stumbled again, threw myself down once more, and then jumped up again. What was the point of my birth and my survival? What was the point of my dreams and my prayers? What was the point of the blessings others had given me, of their praise and their promises, or of the efforts I myself had made? I had been cheated out of a life. I did not belong between sky and earth.

  So far, my voice hadn’t gone hoarse nor my body limp. But I knew I was about to lose my voice and the strength in my limbs, and that thought enraged me more than anything else.

  But the same knowledge also made me fight. Who was I if I could not ward off he injustice so shamelessly inflicted upon me?

  Why was I this way?

  Why was it this way?

  Why, i-ih-iiij, why?

  The defiance in me blazed fie cely.

  Under no circumstances would I give up the fight. I had to fight to the finish, come what may. So what if my neck broke and my thread of life snapped? So what if I bit the dust, forever the poor devil, and black worms ate me? So what if the loaded dice fell that way? And so I went on, ranting and raving …

  GLOSSARY

  Ail (Mongolian) settlement consisting of several yurts

  Aimag (Mong.) administrative unit (provinces or regions); in Tuvan, it can refer to any administrative unit

  Arate (Mong.) poor herder, a pillar of Socialist society

  Awaj (Tuvan) sister, aunt; form of address for females among one’s paternal relatives

  Baj (Turkic) rich person

  Daaj (Tuv.) maternal relatives

  Darga (Mong.) supervisor, head, person in position of authority

  Deedis (Tuv.) euphemism for Deeri—sky

  Desgen (Tuv.) plant with a strong, hard root

  Dör (Tuv.) the north side of a yurt, opposite the entrance, considered the place of honor

  Dshargak (Tuv.) skirt-like piece of clothing made of sheep or goat leather, worn by the poor

  Dshelbege (Tuv.) fairy-tale character who devours everything but is never satisfi d

  Dshele (Tuv.) a rope to tether yak calves and foals

  Dshula (Tuv.) a lamp that burns clarifi d butter, used for religious purposes

  Dshut (Tuv.) violent weather, most often leading to a lack of food for the animals

  Düüleesh (Tuv.) alpine plant with strong roots and soft, bushy tops

  Enej (Tuv.) grandmother

  Eshej (Tuv.) grandfather

  Gashyk (Tuv.) ankle bones of sheep and goats, used both as a toy and as an oracle

  Gök-Deeri (Tuv.) blue sky, revered as sacred

  Hara mola (Tuv.) curse, referring to a Kazakh burial marker

  Hara-Sojan (Tuv.) one of the three main ethnic groups among the Tuvans, the other two being the Ak-Sojan and the Gök-Mondshak

  Hendshe (Tuv.) baby lambs, kept in a flock by themselves and herded by children; also, the youngest child

  Höne (Tuv.) a rope made from yak hair to tether lambs and kids

  Hürde (Tuv.) sheepfold or pen made of wickerwork, usually portable

  Khalkh (Mong.) largest and dominant ethnicity in Mongolia; its language is Mongolia’s official language and the language of Mongolian literature

  Kulak (Russian) fist; peasant in Russia wealthy enough to own a farm and hire help; also applied to wealthy Mongolian herders

  Örtöö (Mong.) express-messenger mail service, created by Mongolian rulers in the 13th century and abolished only in 1949. The distance between two Örtöö was roughly 30 kilometers. Örtöö service relied on the unpaid labor of impoverished males and their provision of mounts free of charge

  Oshuk (Tuv.) fireplace consisting of iron rings, on four feet

  Pidilism (Mong.) colloquial term for feudalism

  Sum (Mong.) administrative unit (district or prefecture)

  Ton (Tuv.) skirt-like piece of clothing for the cold season

  Yak (Tibetan) long-haired cattle breed of the Central Asian mountains

  Yrgaj (Tuv.) tamarisk-like shrub; its red, hard wood is used for whip handles

  Yurt (Turkic) circular tent of felt, skins, etc., on a collapsible wooden framework; widely used in Central Asia

  WORDS TO ACCOMPANY MY BLUE SKY CHILD

  Truly I have had enough difficult hours in my life. Yet at different times, and in different places of my life’s work, I have called myself blessed, for the life I have been granted has been both long and rich. I say long because inside a single skin and a single lifespan, I have been privileged to experience almost everything that humankind—since the time of Adam, or the apes, if you prefer—has had to go through to rise to its present state. I have been a gatherer, hunter, and herder; a school boy, a university student, and a professor; a trade union journalist, a shadow politician, and quite a few more things. Today I am the chieftain of a tribe, a healer, an author, a father and a grandfather. I know how to slaughter sheep and how to hunt marmots with or without weapons. I know how to skin them, cut up their bodies and prepare their meat in different ways; I know how to tan their pelts and how to cut and sew them into different pieces. I know how to cobble, how to do carpentry, roll felt, set up and take down a yurt, shoe horses and break in their young; I know how to milk goats and mares and how to let their milk ferment to kumys and distil it into schnapps; and I know how to support birthing cows as well as women, and much more beyond. During my lifetime, I have lived in an indigenous, feudal, and communist society. Today, I move about the country on horseback, by car, or by plane. With my shaman’s whisk, a truncheon, or a laptop, I alternate between living in the indigenous culture of the post-Socialist Tuvans, the rising tribal capitalism of Mongolia, and the enlightened state monopoly of Western Europe. Finally, my life has been rich because I have always found myself at the focal point of each epoch and have pursued all my tasks and each of my professions with passion.

  The Blue Sky is the first part of my autobiographical trilogy. It describes my early childhood and ends with my rejection of Father Sky. The second part, The Gray Earth, deals with the violence inflicted on me when I underwent a period of reeducation in a totalitarian school system. The outlawed art of shamanism competed with the body of knowledge of a modernity under communist rule. Outer violence triggered resistance: I recanted my rejection of Father Sky from the end of the trilogy’s first part, and fie cely chose a return to my roots. The trilogy’s final part, The White Mountain, traces the unavoidable mental breakdown of the adolescent forced to lead a double life. Both of the latter books contain stories more tragic than those in The Blue Sky, but since the art of survival is strong among nomads, some primordial serenity hovers above everything. I survived and was preserved for that small, vanishing remainder of my people for whom each member is vital. By the end of the trilogy I arrived in the wider world, and although still a blind human pup, I had already forgotten how to whimper. I thought then that life had tanned me; that the period of my life during which I had been cooked and left to ferment like mare’s milk had come to an end. But today I know that each new phase in life brings its own boiling heat with which to get under your skin; its own paralyzing cold; and its own murderous poison—powers none can get past without making the required sacrifi es.

  I have been one who has hastened with seven-league boots across our planet’s racked fi ld of history. One who has been particularly indifferent, even careless, about three things: my career, clothing fashions, and literary trends. Although my views about other things in life have continued to change, my fundamental faith in the indivisibility and immortality of a soulful and spirit-fil
led universe has, I believe, remained unshakable. Humankind, which for me in the beginning meant my small tribe of Tuvan people, has grown larger and richer in my heart with the addition of other peoples. Now, the publication of The Blue Sky extends it for me even further by including the peoples of North America. I am mightily pleased, not least for these peoples themselves, whose world, in turn, will now include the mountain steppe of Central Asia, and whose awareness of humankind will embrace the nomadic people from that corner.

  My father was called Schynykbaj, his father Khylbangbaj, and my grandfather’s father, Tümenbaj. And if the flow of history in my homeland had not been disrupted but had continued in its familiar bed, my name would have likely been Dshurukbaj. Baj denotes in all Turkic languages ‘rich,’ or ‘somebody rich, noble, or powerful.’ ‘Tümen’ in my great-grandfather’s name means ten thousand. It was not his original name but an honorific he was given when his herds numbered ten thousand animals. Khylbangbaj, my grandfather, was not quite as rich, but rich enough—he was still the richest man in the country. His many sheep, goats, horses, and yaks had to be divided by twenty-five because, in addition to the two sons and three daughters in his own yurt, he had twenty foster children, most of whom had found their way to him as adolescents, and some as adults. (He had only four camels, each a gelding that he got when he was an old man, each in exchange for twenty-five fully-grown sheep rams. Th se four, he used to say, belonged to nobody but him and his aged wife and were for carrying his equally aged yurt.)