The Tale of Aypi

by Ak Welsapar

  “You’ve all found yourself something to be scared of tonight!” said fat Rejeb, scoffing at superstition, when the fishermen had all sheltered together in Hodja’s fairly roomy house to pass the night. “In this era we’ve the power to punch a hole in the moon,” but you’re still aflutter about some tale from granddad’s time!”

  The feeble electric lighting had dimmed out earlier than usual today, so the men made do with a smoky, eye-stinging, oil-lamp they were now circled around. Rejeb’s words disconcerted rather than comforted them.

  “If you make a hole in the moon, youngster,” said their host, who had given some thought to the moon’s fate, “what if a poisoned wind comes blowing out of it? It’s no good; to do it would be utter foolishness. If you go round doing these thoughtless things, wait and see; it’ll just make life worse for people like us. That’s why you, Rejeb, ought to make sure they don’t! You’re half city-man: a striped man on your way to the capital. When you get there, tell this to the scientists for us: Stop chasing after the moon and the sun! The cosmos has always been in the sky, so why meddle with ‘em? Who knows what’s on the dark side of the moon? No one does, and neither do we, so why should we delve into it for no reason? Have you already learned about everything there is on earth? If you get up there, who knows what could happen? You’ll only know when it does, and by then it’ll be too late! So there’s nothing better than to leave those wonders be. Well boy, tell that to the scientists!”

  The fishermen sitting by the lamp muttered accord with Hodja, and for a while they discussed outer space and argued about heavenly bodies. Meanwhile, the storm gathered force and shook the scattered houses until the men returned from space to more unavoidable, earthly concerns, such as their uncertain future. After this storm they might have to rebuild most of the homes, but where were the funds? It seemed like the folks relocating them would have their day soon, if there were no longer anything left to tie the locals here.

  The children were becoming a nuisance, but the adults decided to stay put until the storm blew over. In the dreary, peculiar light, the older folk talked, while the kids sprawled at their feet watching the oil lamp’s sad flame, which jumped and sputtered like a devil. The women stayed back, veiled in the darkness behind their husbands and commiserated in whispered ululations.

  Hodja turned towards Gutly with a hope of giving people something else to think about: “Read those papers of Araz’s, if you’ve got them. You had something with you when you came in, unless I imagined it.”

  “No, you weren’t imagining it,” said Gutly, picking up the thick envelope resting at his feet, and taking out a bunch of yellowed papers. “They’re said to be from Araz’s father’s father. I took them to Ashgabat to be written out in modern letters; they were originally in Arabic letters– the old writing.”

  The audience began to pay a little attention. “Well, let’s hear it then!” someone said.

  Gutly put the old manuscript away and brought out several white sheets instead. “Let me read you some things about Aypi.”

  “In her childhood, no one spoke her true name, but referred to her merely as Aypi. When she misbehaved, her father was angry and he sometimes threatened: ‘It seems the only work you do is breaking dishes: because of you, our home has neither a teapot, nor a cup, nor a pitcher! If you weren’t my only daughter, I would have thrown you into the sea ‘ere now.’ In all the village, but one person used her true name, and that was her old grandmother. ‘Why do you misuse your tongues? If you speak it, speak her full name: Not Aypi, but Ay-Peri! Is she some friendless orphan, that you abuse and shorten her name so?’”

  “Few listened to the old woman though, and her grumblings did not change anyone’s habits. After her grandmother died, Aypi’s true name was entirely forgotten. Naughty as she was, this girl was quite skilled at swimming from a very young age. Once she stepped into the water, she swam like a fish! Besides, her beauty outshone most other girls’…”

  Everyone was attentive now. “Well!” marvelled Hodja. “Who’d have guessed that our old legend’d turn out to be true?”

  “It has a ring of truth,” remarked Gutly, looking up from the paper. “But these writings seem to have been put down long after Aypi’s era. It was a century later that old folks’ talk began to be written down. Listen to this: “By order of the judges, as punishment Aypi was taken to an island in the middle of the sea, to be thrown into the water from a great height. Aypi, however, when she landed in the water, recovered herself and began to swim back to the village. Dadeli saw this, so he chased after her and held her under the water, though she struggled mightily. Yet, her strength was not the equal to a man’s, and finally she had drowned.”

  Just as Hodja anticipated, this part didn’t cheer up anyone; instead, an even greater pall hung over the party. “Unjustly spilt blood doesn’t rest, they say,” admitted Hodja, as if to himself. “I don’t suppose our ordeal now is totally unconnected to this.”

  “Are you saying Aypi has the power to take revenge on us?” asked Man-Weli.

  The men all fell silent, including Hodja.

  Unable to endure the storm any longer, the outer door flew open. The wet air, as though seeking out a particular person, flew to the far corner of the room, blowing out the oil lamp as it passed. Women gasped, and someone ran to close the door. Nur Tagan struck a match, and its dim light made the wrinkles on his distraught face, deeper even than during the day, seem like bands of pure black. The devil in the lamp leaped up to its dance again, and everyone resumed listening to the storm.

  “We made fast all the skiffs and canoes earlier,” said Nur Tagan warily. “That was a lucky thing. We should poke our heads out and check on them, in case the guest suddenly comes!”

  The gale continued, though Hodja’s house seemed barely able to endure, it creaked and shook so. The next gust of wind was poised to rip it from the ground and carry them all into the sky. They had to shout to be heard, as the wind wandered around the house whistling cacophony through every crack and crevice. The weak light of the lamp threatened to die again, which depressed everyone and reminded them how helpless living creatures really were before nature’s arrayed powers. Suddenly, the tarp tied over the roof was whipping free in the wind, and the downpour had insinuated itself into the house. The men ran outside to set it right, returning soaked. Having tested their strength against the storm, their spirits revived a little, and they tried to jest with each other.

  The darkness grew though, and their good spirits did not last long. Voices unconsciously grew hushed until the familiar solemnity held court. There was no telling how long this would continue. They felt as helpless as dried out stumps; in the sickly light between these walls they did look more like dried stumps than actual living people. The smallest children, exhausted from whining and crying, dozed off, while the slightly older ones, who still didn’t know what a natural disaster was, couldn’t understand why the adults didn’t stop the unpleasantness, relight everything, and go outside. Yet older youngsters, proud as they were, tried to appear self-assured like the adults – at least in front of their mothers and sisters.

  Not one of the adults ever closed their eyes; instead they kept listening to the sea gnawing at the coast like a hungry raptor, until the water’s roar and the sky’s thundering stopped for a heartbeat. It was just long enough to permit a woman’s skin prickling cry to ring out from the very depths of wild darkness.

  “Ara-a-a-a-az!”...

  Everyone sprang up like cold water had hit them, then froze. Coming to their senses, they ran out into the storm and rain towards the sea.

  The woman’s voice echoed over the coast, like a chant to chase the storm away. With each repetition, more people came to the beach, and they seemed to hear the names, unspoken and forgotten for many a year, of all the fishermen who had never returned.

  When they reached Ay-Bebek, she was as silent as the black stone she sat upon, and comp
letely insensible. The wind tousled her hair, but she had roused the merciless night’s pity. Now she sat listening compliantly to the crash of surf and thunder.

  The fishermen were horrified when they realized that they had forgotten Kebe grandma too during the night, but they found her on the beach as well. The old woman looked like a wet cat, and shuddered with fever. They brought them inside, the old woman and Ay-Bebek alike. It broke the fishermen’s hearts to see the stricken women looking like broken winged gulls separated from their flock. They weren’t sure what their fault in the matter was, so they shrugged their shoulders in front of the sea and admitted that they knew nothing.

  Their ordeal ended only with the return of daylight. The thunder, which had come to their very doors, slowly receded, and normal sounds took its place, until night and storm were gone. Everyone carefully emerged from their homes and went down to the beach.

  The sea was losing its strength: it lay there gasping and frothing at the mouth as it clawed the coast like a purring, feral cat. When folk noticed that the weathered old ship was missing from its place, they all agreed, per the old superstition, that the sea had carried it home.

  They chattered and tarried a while on the coast before dispersing to hearth and home as the sun climbed into the sky. Afterwards, without a whisper, they started to pack up their possessions and prepare to carry it all away.

  Ay-Bebek was far from all such concerns, and she didn’t spend a minute packing. As she always did, she went outside to watch the sea hum its old tune.

  “We’re staying. We won’t move.” These powerless words turned into a mute sob, and a tear came to her eye. “I couldn’t go to the city and leave your father alone here.”

  Baljan came over with the little baby, who’d just begun to toddle around, and put the infant in his mother’s arms. “Don’t cry, mommy. Daddy’s lost, but you’re not alone. The baby and me are here next to you. Wherever we live, this is our beach. You know, the sea isn’t moving – just us. Whenever we come back, the sea will be waiting for us here. It’s our sea, right mom?”

  Ay-Bebek considered this for a moment. “Yes,” she replied, putting a hand on his shoulder. “This sea and this sky are ours. Just as love does, the sea honours loyalty. Whenever we return, it will be waiting.”

  THE END