path: root/77051-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77051 ***





  BOOKS BY
  NICHOLAS KALASHNIKOFF

  The Defender
  Toyon: A Dog of the North and His People
  Jumper: The Life of a Siberian Horse
  They That Take the Sword




[Illustration]




  THE DEFENDER

  by Nicholas Kalashnikoff

  illustrated by
  Claire and George Louden, jr.

  New York        1951
  CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS




  COPYRIGHT, 1951, BY
  NICHOLAS KALASHNIKOFF

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK
  MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT
  THE PERMISSION OF CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

  [Illustration]




  TO
  MY DAUGHTER




AUTHOR’S FOREWORD


_“Everywhere there is life, and everywhere there are warm human
hearts.” These words, spoken by a school-teacher, I remember from many
years ago when I was a boy in Siberia. The teacher, Ivan Pavin, was a
man who took joy in his work and passed joy on to his pupils. The world
was a more wonderful place for discovering it with him. Best of all, he
delighted to tell us about people--all kinds of people--but especially
those of northern Siberia who lived in never-ending conflict with a
harsh land._

_When I grew up and left the village, I spent several years in the Far
North, where I had many occasions to test the truth of this saying.
Yes--I found warm hearts in plenty, but none warmer than that of Tim,
who was of the Yakut tribe. Tim’s full name was Timofey. He was greatly
respected by people among whom he lived, not only because he was honest
and brave but because he had powerful fists to match his courage. When
words failed to convince, his fists often could. One thing about him
interested me in particular. He was a self-appointed champion of the_
chubuku, _or wild mountain rams, and took every opportunity to plead
with hunters to spare these rare animals who were fast disappearing
from the region._

_“Why?” I asked him one day, upon hearing him threaten to punish a
hunter who dared kill a ram in that neighborhood. “Why do you put
yourself out to befriend these creatures? Are they so precious to you?”_

_“Why?” he repeated my question. “That is simple. My step-father,
Turgen, who was a Lamut, loved the mountain rams, and I made him a
promise to protect them after he was gone. He is dead now--a fine man,
as anyone will tell you. Perhaps you would like to hear about him.”_

_I assured him that I would...._




CHAPTER 1

[Illustration]


This is the story of the Lamut, Turgen, who lived alone high in the
hills of northeastern Siberia and had for friends a herd of mountain
rams.

Turgen, whose name means “fleet-of-foot” in the Lamut tongue, was a
lonely man. It had not always been so. When he was younger he had had
a wife and a son whom he loved. But both had died of an illness that
burned like fire, and rested now in a single grave under the larch tree
outside his door. He had also had the liking and trust of the Yakuts
who were his neighbors in the valley below. Among them he was famed for
his knowledge of medicine. Knowing him for a kindly, generous man, they
came to him for healing grasses, and were never refused. He, in turn,
visited them and sat by their _komeleks_, or fire-places, to exchange
the latest news.

All this was in the past. Turgen no longer received callers or went
into the valley, except to take fish to the widow Marfa and receive
milk for his own use. Marfa and her two children, a son Tim and a
daughter Aksa, were Turgen’s only friends. For the most part he stayed
close to his _yurta_, a simple hut perched between two cliffs above a
mountain stream. On sunny days, when he was not hunting or fishing, he
loved to sit on a rough bench under a great larch tree and smoke his
pipe while watching the activity in the valley below. The mountains
were full of mystery and peace. Because of them he could think of the
past without regret.

You wonder why the people of the valley shunned Turgen. The reason, you
will say, was no reason at all. Word had spread among them that he was
friendly with the wild rams who lived in the mountains. “Who ever heard
of friendship between a man and mountain rams?” the Yakuts asked. It
was impossible. And if it was impossible, then Turgen was a sorcerer--a
partner of the devil.




CHAPTER 2

[Illustration]


Gossip, starting like a small fire, got bigger and bigger. One occasion
especially helped this evil rumor. On a holiday, years before, the
people of the valley had gathered to eat and drink and dance. As
always, the shamanist was present--a man believed to have power to
communicate with the good and evil spirits who were part of an ancient
faith. And as always he ate and drank with the gayest of the company.

The shamanist had long been jealous of Turgen because of his influence
over the Yakuts. For one thing, Turgen was a sober man and kept his
wits at all times, which the shamanist did not do. As the shamanist was
dependent upon voluntary contributions for his living, he could not
tolerate the thought of yielding any authority to another.

On this day the party went on hour after hour, until the shamanist from
an excess of food, drink, and excitement fell down unconscious. To the
superstitious Yakuts, who revered him greatly, he was in a trance and
they waited eagerly to hear what he would report about his conversation
with the spirits when he awoke.

A woman named Stepa went to him and wailed:

“Arise, O Shamanist, and open our eyes, ignorant people that we are.
Tell us our future and what we have to fear.”

In a short while the shamanist rose, looked about him with wild eyes,
seized his tambourine and struck it several times.

“I saw,” he muttered, “I saw a dark cloud swim across the sky to
Turgen’s yurta. I looked. I looked, and in it was the figure of a
devil. A real devil, with horns and a tail like a cow’s. I spoke,
putting a spell upon him, and he changed into a wild ram. I made the
spell stronger, and he vanished in the exact spot where Turgen lives. O
my friends! Beware of the devil in the ram’s hide!”

With that, the shamanist fell to the ground again exhausted.

Amazed, the Yakuts said to one another, “He has seen the devil! Let us
be thankful that the devil passed us by and went instead after the soul
of Turgen.”

[Illustration]

But here the woman Stepa, who wanted to be in the shamanist’s good
graces, interrupted. “Beware the devil!” she screamed. “He can come
to you too. You say that Turgen is a Christian--but has anyone seen him
pray when the priest visited us? No. Believe me, the devil is looking
to have such people for a friend. Beware of Turgen! Avoid him!”

The Yakuts were more impressed by the shamanist’s vision than by
Stepa’s words. Still they listened and remembered. When, not long
afterwards, the shamanist had another vision in which Turgen was
associating with the devil, the simple started to believe. They did not
condemn Turgen, nor would they harm him. “If he has bound himself to
the devil,” they said, “that is his affair. We’ll just stay away from
him.”

They did so, and time passed. People might even have forgotten the
story of Turgen’s sorcery had not a simple, foolish man named Nikita
come running to the village one day to report in great excitement that
he had seen Turgen sitting on the bench beneath his larch tree while a
mountain ram strolled nearby.

“With my own eyes I saw it,” he declared. “A wild ram in company with a
man.”

Everyone knew Nikita for a careless talker who embroidered truth with
a lively imagination, but the Yakuts were a superstitious people and
like many others were easily convinced by loud shouting. “Think of it,”
they said, shaking their heads dolefully, “a wild ram has become tame.
Such a thing has never been heard of before. This really smells of the
devil’s work.”

For these men had hunted the mountain rams all their lives and they
knew that no wild creature in the world was so fearful of human beings.
Hunting them was hazardous sport because the rams lived in the most
remote crags. Many a hunter had fallen and been crippled for life
trying to search them out. There was a saying that anyone who killed a
ram was certain to meet misfortune, but this was one of those popular
beliefs not to be examined too carefully for truth.

Of course, the Yakuts might have gone to Turgen and questioned him, but
they didn’t. “Is it reasonable to ask a sorcerer why he takes the devil
for friend?” they asked. “Better stay out of harm’s way lest the evil
spirits reach out and take the inquisitive ones also into their net.”

So it was that the people of the valley no longer visited Turgen, or he
them.




CHAPTER 3

[Illustration]


“Words that speak evil, though they have no teeth, can tear the heart,”
was an old proverb. It hurt Turgen that the Yakuts turned from him,
avoided his questions and all contact with him. It was as if a dead
wall of ill-will had suddenly risen between him and the people of the
valley. Because he was ignorant of any wrong on his part, he tried not
to think too much and went about his own affairs. But solitude is not
easy to endure, for the reason that thoughts cannot be trapped. They
keep buzzing round and round in the head, like angry autumn flies,
giving one no rest.

Turgen thought of himself as independent, healthy and strong and in
need of no one’s assistance. Still it was difficult to be deprived of
human talk and human association.

Fortunately for him, there lived in the valley a widow named Marfa with
her two children--a boy Tim and a girl Aksa--at whose komelek he was
welcome to sit whenever it pleased him. There he would smoke his pipe
and entertain the children with some story, and on leaving hear the
warm and comforting words: “Come again Turgen, and soon.”

Marfa owned a good cow which furnished milk sufficient for her own
needs and for her friend. Turgen loved hot tea with milk, to him a real
treat.

Marfa’s yurta stood near a lake which was surrounded by a forest, far
from other dwellings. The Yakuts seldom visited her. Knowing that she
was poor, they feared she might ask something of them, and because of
the children they might be moved to rash promises. Conscience has a way
of making itself felt, like a thorn in the body, so they reasoned that
it would be safer to stay away and avoid temptation.

Marfa would have considered herself poor indeed had she not had a solid
yurta and her fine cow. But one cannot live on milk alone. Necessity
forced her to leave the children by day and work for some wealthy
Yakuts. Her heart was never at ease with the children alone at home,
but she had no choice.

Hers was not an easy life. In the summer she caught fish by nets from
the lake, mowed the field grass to feed the cow in winter, made clothes
for the children, and saw to it that there was firewood stored away
for the cold weather. Trees were abundant, but it was beyond her
strength to chop them down, and she had no horse with which to drag the
logs out of the woods. So, in return for housework, her Yakut employer
chopped and delivered wood for her. In spite of work and worry, she did
not complain. She asked nothing of God, except good health for herself,
her children, and her cow. God must have seen and been pleased, for all
of them were blessed with the best of health.

The cow lived in a warm shed separated from the yurta by a thin
partition which in summer opened like a window to admit her head. There
she would stand chewing her cud and regarding everybody with her kind
eyes. No wonder that she was considered a welcome member of the family.
The children carried on long conversations with her, not in the least
frightened by her great size and magnificent horns. They knew her to
be good-natured and fully believed that she understood everything they
said. Maybe she did. It is certain that she knew her name, Whitey, for
she answered to it promptly when called. In the grazing season the
children were charged to look after her lest she stray too far, but
Marfa sometimes wondered whether it was not Whitey who guarded the
children. In many ways her cow sense prompted her that her help was
necessary if Tim and Aksa were to grow up well and strong, and she gave
it gladly.

These were Turgen’s friends in the valley, a kindly family but poor.




CHAPTER 4

[Illustration]


A person who is alone spends a great deal of time in thought. It was
so with Turgen. And though his thoughts repeated themselves day after
day, still he found pleasure in them. True, they got mixed up at times,
so that he found it difficult to separate present from past: all
appeared part of one precious experience, without beginning or end. But
whichever way his thoughts turned--there were Marfa and the children.

They had become his friends shortly after the death of Marfa’s husband.
Turgen had known the couple for years, but acquaintance is not the same
as friendship.

He remembered Marfa when she was a frightened girl working in the homes
of wealthy Yakuts. At that time he had no occasion to speak to her, and
besides she was very shy. Then when she was past her first youth she
married a Yakut in the neighborhood who needed a good worker to look
after his three cows. Marfa’s life was changed by marriage but it was
not improved. Her husband was a sickly man unable to do a full day’s
work, and when the children came her cares increased. The death of the
husband soon after the birth of their second child left Marfa with the
burden of the household upon her. Of the three cows, two had to be
sold. Hardships and the years put wrinkles in her face and she grew old
before her time. However, her body was fortunately still strong and she
accepted what God sent.

This part of her life Turgen knew only from hearsay. It was later that
he met her as a friend, and he loved to recall the incident.

One winter, returning from a hunt on skis, he was passing her yurta
when he noticed that neither sparks nor smoke came from the chimney.
He stopped at once, thinking in fright, “A dead chimney. What has
happened? I must investigate.”

To people of the North a chimney without life in the cold of winter is
a sign of disaster.

Turgen ran towards the yurta. While still some distance away he could
hear the anxious mooing of the cow and a child weeping. He opened the
door cautiously. The yurta was dark and cold.

“Who is it? Come in and help me light a fire,” a childish voice
called. Turgen struck a match and saw a small boy, his face and hands
black with soot, rocking a cradle in which a baby sat crying as if the
world were lost. With his free hand he tried to stir the fire in the
komelek into life while he blew on its dead embers.

“Let me,” Turgen said, and added, “Don’t be afraid of me. But I can see
that you are a big boy and not easily frightened.”

“Yes,” the boy answered soberly. “Mama says that I am already five and
Aksa is two winters old. She is little and an awful cry-baby. My name
is Tim. What is yours?”

“My name is Turgen. I like you, Tim.”

“I like you, too.”

Then, examining Turgen by the light of the new dancing fire, he said,
“Why should I be afraid of you? You built the fire, so you must be
kind.”

“Where is your mother?” Turgen asked.

“She went to work and I was to keep up the fire. But I slept and the
fire died,” the boy admitted guiltily.

The yurta was now warm and cheerful. Both the cow and the baby had
stopped their crying. The little girl could not take her bright,
inquisitive eyes away from the strange man.

[Illustration]

While taking off his kuklianka Turgen questioned the boy. “Is the cow
hungry that she was calling so? And what about your sister?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders. “Our cow always moos like that when there
is no fire in the komelek. She is afraid for us. And Aksa must be
hungry. Mama told me to give her milk with hot water to drink, but how
could I heat the water when there was no fire?”

“Of course,” Turgen agreed. “That wasn’t your fault. I’ll do it right
away.”

Having had her warm milk, Aksa was soon sitting on Turgen’s knees
looking with drowsy and contented eyes into the leaping fire. The
visitor pleased her as well as Tim.

Happy to have their trust, Turgen considered what other help he could
give them. “Have you any flour, meat and fish?” he asked the boy.

Tim shook his head, “Mama said that there is a little barley meal, but
no meat or fish. She will ask the neighbors for some. Perhaps you are
hungry. I will give you half of my mill-cake. Do you want it?”

“No, thank you, Tim. I am not hungry. Besides, there is smoked uikola
in my bag. Do you like it?”

“Very much. It is fat. Aksa also loves it, and Mama too. Give some to
them.”

“I shall give you all that I have and later I’ll bring you more.”

Turgen was enjoying his conversation with the bright little boy. “Tell
me, who taught you how to keep the fire going in the komelek?”

“Mama,” said Tim promptly. “She says that if you blow on the hot coals
they will flare up. But no matter how hard I blew, nothing happened. We
have matches but Mama hides them from me. She is afraid I might set the
yurta on fire.”

Aksa was ready to sleep now, so Turgen wrapped a blanket around her and
put her in the basket, which served as a crib. Then he examined the
yurta.

Poverty stared at him from every corner. Nowhere could he see a sign of
food. “I will come tomorrow and bring more fish,” he promised himself,
“for I have plenty of everything.”

“When do you expect your mother?” he asked Tim.

“Soon. She never lets us stay alone in the dark, and it is almost
evening. Maybe she got a lot of fish and it is heavy for her to carry,”
he suggested.

“Perhaps. But sit up until she comes, and keep the fire going. In
weather like this it is easy to freeze without a fire.” He picked up
his kuklianka. “Now I must be going. Tell your mother that the Lamut
Turgen was here. She knows me.”

The boy looked at Turgen with eyes which begged him to stay. “I like to
watch the fire ... when I am not alone. You know how to do everything,
don’t you? When I grow up I will know everything too, just like you.
Please don’t go for a while.”

“I must,” Turgen told him. “I live in the mountains and want to be home
before it gets too dark. It is good that you are not the cowardly sort.”

“Why must you get home before dark?” Tim wanted to know. “Are you
afraid of wolves? I hear they attack people in winter. But you have a
gun. What kind is it? A good one?”

Turgen threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, what a talker! You know
about wolves and even guns. Someday you’ll surely be a hunter. And now,
good-by. Mind you don’t fall asleep. I’ll be back soon.”




CHAPTER 5

[Illustration]


Night comes quickly in the north, so Turgen walked briskly. His heart
was troubled as he thought of the children. Only extreme want could
have forced Marfa to leave them alone. For the closest neighbor, he
knew, lived not less than half a mile away.

“Poor woman! Here I have everything and she nothing. It is necessary to
help her. But how?”

Arriving home, he was moved by a sudden impulse to fill a sack full of
frozen fish and partridges. Then, grabbing up some salt and tea, he
started back to Marfa’s. So high were his spirits, he did not feel the
weight of his load. As his skis carried him swiftly down hill, he could
see from a distance bright sparks flying from the yurta’s chimney.

“The boy is not sparing with the wood. That is good.” Then it occurred
to him: “But maybe Marfa is home by now.” The thought abashed him, for
he reasoned: “Suppose she refuses my gift and says ‘I am not a pauper
that I should accept charity’?” And it was possible that she shared the
distrust of the valley people toward him.

At the door he stood for some time hesitating. Finally he decided: “Be
what may. I will say that I have no money, but I wish to buy milk from
her and will pay for it with these foodstuffs.” Nevertheless, he set
the sack outside the door before he knocked timidly.

Marfa’s voice said, “Who’s there? Come in.”

As he stepped over the threshold the boy cried out in joy: “It is he,
Mama. The kind man who built the fire and gave us the uikola. I told
you he would return.”

Marfa looked at Turgen, saw that he was embarrassed, and held out her
hand in greeting. “Don’t mind Tim. Take off your kuklianka and come sit
by the fire. Thank you for what you did for the children. I was working
and was delayed. It always worries me to leave them alone, but what can
I do?”

Moving quickly, she placed a tea kettle on the fire, brought out a
small table and said: “Move closer to the fire and the light. Have some
hot tea with mill-cakes and the uikola you gave us. You are welcome to
all there is. Tomorrow they have promised to pay me in fish. My last
year’s catch was very poor and I have nothing left, although it is only
January.”

Marfa spoke simply, but her voice was charged with anxiety.

Squatting before the fire, Turgen took out his pipe and with his bare
fingers picked up a burning ember with which to light it. He inhaled
deeply, then let his breath go. From behind the screen of smoke he
looked at Marfa attentively.

Now it came to him for the first time that he really did not know her
at all. She was a thin woman of medium height, quick and determined in
her movements. Her face had the prominent cheek bones and flattened
nose of the Yakut. While she was not pretty, she was pleasing to look
at with her dark, thick hair and hazel eyes full of kindness. “There
is beauty of soul in her eyes,” thought Turgen, “but sorrow too.”
He imagined he could read in them the truth she tried to hide: “If
tomorrow I don’t get anything, I really don’t know what will become of
us. You can see for yourself how poorly we live.”

At a loss how to console her, and embarrassed by his own distress,
Turgen turned to Tim as a safe subject of conversation. “You know, you
have a fine son, Marfa. He was generous enough to offer me half of his
mill-cake. He should be a great help to you.”

“Well,” Marfa answered hesitantly, “but it will take time. However,
the young do grow up fast. If only God will give me the strength to
raise them and put them on their feet.” Then she added more cheerfully,
“Do sit down. We’ll have some tea. Everything is ready.”

Feeling bolder and more at ease now, Turgen said, “Thank you, I will.
Only permit me to give you a present. It is right here outside the
door.”

Without waiting for her reply, he got the sack of provisions and
brought it into the yurta.

“Mama, Mama,” Tim cried, “now you don’t have to go to work. Look at all
the food he brought us!”

Marfa leaned against the wall and her eyes filled with tears. Turgen
was more embarrassed than ever. But before he could think what to say
or what to do, Marfa recovered her composure and thanked him warmly.
“My husband used to tell me that the Yakuts avoided you because you
lived in the mountains and ... were friendly with wild rams. He also
said that you were kind and that the people stupidly spread false tales
about you. Now I can see this for myself. Sit down. Do. Talk to Tim
while I go to prepare a real dinner.”

That was an unforgettable evening for Turgen. Though few words were
exchanged, he felt that much had been communicated because the hours
held so much of friendship and hospitality. Tim was long asleep by the
time he was ready to leave.

It had not been difficult to persuade Marfa to supply him with milk in
return for provisions. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I have so
much food that it will take care of all of us. And I need your milk. I
used to get milk from the valley people, but now as you know they do
not approve of me. I am sorry about this, and I should be more than
sorry if they caused you any trouble because of your kindness to me.”

Marfa’s voice was firm as she answered him: “You are my friend, Turgen.
You are saving my children and me from want and perhaps starvation. Who
can forbid me to choose my own friends? Do not fear. I will look out
for myself. Before I was timid, but now I am a mother and in my home I
am mistress.”

So Turgen’s friendship with Marfa and her family began. In the next
fours years, until Tim was nine and Aksa six, it grew and flourished.
“Surely God Himself directed my footsteps to their yurta,” Turgen would
often think.

All would have been well, except that the evil let loose in the valley
was spreading and the feeling of the people against him grew and grew.




CHAPTER 6

[Illustration]


From Marfa, Turgen learned what his neighbors thought of him and
said of him. Although he cared, he was a proud man and did not think
it necessary to justify his actions to anyone. Furthermore, he was
discovering that solitude can be a very pleasant thing. Now that
visitors no longer came with their trifling requests, he had time to
enjoy his small kingdom. Here he had lived all his life and he loved
it--the mountains with their strange enchantment, the brook, the lake,
the forest, the simple yurta. And always there was with him the memory
of the wife and son his love and knowledge had not been able to save
though he tried every art at his command. The flowers he had planted on
their grave bloomed each summer and beckoned him on warm days to sit
there on his bench with his pipe for company.

Turgen was one of those lean, muscular men to whom the years are kind.
His coppery skin, so free of hair, was finely wrinkled under the
narrow, kindly eyes, deepset beneath bushy brows. His gray hair grew in
untidy rows like a neglected field. But his hands kept their firmness,
his eyes their sharpness, his feet the spring of youth. How old was
he? Impossible to say, for he had stopped reckoning the years when he
reached fifty. “Why count the winters?” he asked himself. “You live
through them, and thank God. For whom is it necessary to know?”

In short, Turgen looked like what he was--a kindly man, built to endure
the life of a hunter and fisherman. In both these pursuits he was very
skillful. And he was not poor, though many considered him so because
he owned neither horses nor cows. No one is really poor who can have
food for the taking, and Turgen had besides valuable pelts which were
ready exchange for cartridges, yarn for nets, barley meal, salt, and
other provisions supplied by a merchant who called once a month. Kamov
was the merchant’s name. His visits gave Turgen much pleasure, for he
brought news of the world and was always ready for a friendly chat.

What he got from the merchant Turgen shared with Marfa and her
children. It was a holiday for him just to sit in her yurta sipping
tea and saying nothing. To Marfa he had little to talk about, but with
the children he talked freely of many things--mostly of the life
around them, and of his boyhood. When the children, full of curiosity,
wanted to know more and more, and questioned him about other marvels
he knew, he told them tales to make their eyes grow big--tales of the
great warrior Tugan and his son Chaal, a famous athlete; stories of
the animals and fish who inhabited the tundra; legends explaining the
sun and moon and stars. The sun, it seemed, was servant to the Great
Spirit, a powerful warrior clothed in armor of precious stones and
wearing a crown of fire. The moon was his sister and one of her duties
was to guard the stars, those eyes of countless angels, to make sure
they did not go out and plunge the world into darkness.

Yes, Turgen knew everything.

These evenings were rare. In winter he did not call for his milk
oftener than twice a month but spent the long evenings weaving his nets
or smoking his pipe while he stared into the fire and reflected on the
odd turns that life takes, on the joys that he knew in the peace of his
mountains. Or if the solitude became a burden, he would take down from
a shelf a reed he had carved long ago from a willow tree. And placing
it to his lips he would bring forth a sweet, sad melody that would
express thoughts impossible to put in words.

After that he would lie down to sleep like a marmot, covered snugly
under two blankets made of the skins of rabbits and wolves. If he was
fortunate, he would be carried off in dreams to another and happier
life. What he liked best was to dream of his wife and son, to re-live
the fine times they had together. But to his regret nice dreams were
few, the winters long and stern.




CHAPTER 7

[Illustration]


The mountain rams had become a part of Turgen’s life almost by
accident. It all began so long ago that he never gave thought to it
until one day Marfa out of curiosity asked him a question which brought
to mind an almost forgotten incident.

“Why do you call them rams?” she wanted to know. “Are not they the same
as sheep?”

“Yes and no,” Turgen answered. “In the family of domestic sheep only
the males have horns. But all wild rams have horns. Of course, those of
the female rams are smaller.”

Marfa nodded. “But is it not strange that only recently you came to
love the rams? Surely you knew them before.”

“Of course I knew them. When I was young I used to hunt them.”

“You killed them?” Aksa asked in a shocked voice.

“I did,” Turgen admitted. “It was a sin. Unfortunately, one has to live
many years to understand what is good and what evil. Living alone is a
help to thinking, and often something will happen to open a man’s eyes.”

He paused, got up and put wood on the fire, sat down again and puffed
on his pipe.

“Let me tell you what happened to me twenty or more years ago. It was
winter. November. Government officials called to order me to act as
guide to an important foreigner, a hunter. The man was impressive--tall
and stern and clean-shaven. I couldn’t understand a word he said
but an interpreter explained that he had come to hunt our mountain
rams. I wasn’t very anxious to go with him, but what could I do? The
authorities insisted.

“Well, I led them up the mountain. A hunt--pah! It was a picnic. There
were about twenty people in the party, including Russian and Yakut
officials. There was so much to eat and drink that soon all were acting
as if they were insane--shooting at everything and anything until the
hills echoed with their noise. One thing I must admit though. They had
excellent guns.”

Tim ventured an observation. “With such guns they undoubtedly killed
many animals.”

Turgen’s smile was contemptuous. “No. How could they? They couldn’t
even aim straight. In two weeks they killed two wolves, ten rabbits,
and one bear they roused out of his lair. As for rams, I confess that I
was crafty and led them places where rams were usually not to be found.
Yet a family of five did appear suddenly out of nowhere. O, Lord, what
firing there was! They all fired at once, seized by greed. And somehow
they managed to kill the largest one, who was probably old and the last
in line. At least, that’s the only way I can explain their luck. The
poor fellow fell, and while the other rams vanished so quickly that not
even the dogs could catch up with them, the hunters threw themselves
upon him. What a disgusting spectacle it was. And for what? So that
the important visitor could have a pelt and some horns. The horns were
truly fine. ‘He will brag about them for the rest of his life,’ the
interpreter said.

“It was this brutal murder,” Turgen went on, “that awoke in me pity for
the rams. I was more sly after that and led the party only to places
when rams would never go. When the officials grew angry, complaining
that I was a poor guide and that because of me they were disgraced
before the foreigner, I answered: ‘What can I do? Your shooting has
frightened the animals away and they have run for perhaps a hundred
miles.’ They complained and threatened some more. Then they held a
council to decide where they could find another guide. But the Yakuts
told them that Turgen was the best in the whole region. The affair
might have ended differently, but it got cold suddenly, there was
a blizzard, and the important visitor left post haste for his own
country. Of course, I rejoiced that the rams were now left in peace.
But for several winters I did not see them. They had gone from here.
In time, as you know, they returned. I saw them rarely. They came and
vanished. Still I was happy to have them living again in my mountains.”
As they listened intently, Marfa and the children shared Turgen’s fears
and happiness. Now they understood his affection for the rams.




CHAPTER 8

[Illustration]


By stepping on to a ledge outside his door, Turgen on a clear day had
a wonderful view of the valley below and the mountains above him. When
he tired of watching the tiny figures of men and women scurrying about
at the foot of his hill, he had only to turn his eyes upward to see a
different and fascinating sight. For there, dodging among the crags,
were specks which he knew to be wild rams.

“How do they live?” he asked himself one evening. The hills were barren
except for sparse tufts of moss, an occasional thin clump of grass,
and now and then a tough, hardy shrub that could not contain much
nourishment.

His curiosity and pity aroused, Turgen watched the rams intently all
that season and the next. He could make out nine individuals of what
he assumed to be a family--or, as he called it, a tribe. In summer
one lamb--or it might be two--were added to the number, but they
disappeared with cold weather.

Then Turgen began to worry. For with the cold weather came snow to
cover the moss and grass and dry up the meagre shrubs. Even at a
distance he could sense the animals’ despair as they searched avidly
beneath the snow for any poor morsel to chew upon. Their grey-brown
wool hung loosely on them now, and they moved indifferently, without
spirit. Unless there was a hint of danger. Then they would lift their
heads proudly and take themselves into the distance with incredible
lightness and speed.

“Poor things.” Turgen spoke his thoughts aloud. “To think that I used
to hunt you to kill you! What harm are you to anyone? You who ask only
for freedom.”

But pity could not help them. He must find a way to give them practical
aid. He considered one thing, then another. At last he fixed upon a
plan.

First he built a light sleigh which he loaded with hay. Then, putting
on skis, he pulled the sleigh to the ridge of the next mountain, dumped
the hay, and returned home. Not a ram was in sight, but he could feel
their inquisitive and fearful eyes upon him from behind the boulders
farther up the hill.

From his own door he watched them approach the hay warily, circle it
and trample it, and stoop to nibble at it. They seemed to fear a trap.
But when he went back to the spot the hay was gone. After that he took
frequent offerings of food to them, and gradually the rams came to
accept his gifts without hesitation. Although they never approached
him when he visited the feeding ground, he caught glimpses of them in
hiding, awaiting his coming. In order to gain their greater confidence,
he made it a point never to carry a gun. He even gave up his habit of
carrying an iron-tipped stick which helped him in climbing. For he knew
that all animals fear the rod which gives forth noise and fire.

It was not easy to conquer the fear of these wild creatures. It needed
patience as well as understanding. But Turgen had both. Season after
season he gave them care and attention, and was rewarded by knowing
that they accepted him and depended upon him even though they did not
fully trust him. A time came when they no longer hid from him but
stood watching from a safe distance as if to determine what sort of
being this was from whom they received nothing but good. And he had
another satisfaction. The food he gave them worked a miracle in their
appearance. They were no longer the sad, dishevelled animals of former
days.

[Illustration]

His heart leaped for joy one day when he went to the feeding ground
and discovered the entire ram family gathered in a group on a little
mound near by.

“Eh!” Turgen declared with pleasure. “You are truly a good-looking
band--strong and healthy. And you eat now as if you enjoyed it.”

The rams eyed him gravely, with an expression that might have been
gratitude on their long homely faces.

“Yes,” they seemed to be saying. “Perhaps your pampered cattle down
below would not thrive on this fare, but for savages like us it is
nourishing. You see, we are not looking to put on fat, merely to
survive.”

With these friends, who had become like his own children, Turgen knew
that he would never again be lonely as before.




CHAPTER 9

[Illustration]


“A good man greets each new day as if it were a holiday.” Turgen
thought of this proverb upon waking every morning now, because it
described exactly the way he felt. By becoming the protector of these
defenseless animals, he had found a mission which used all the warmth
of his lonely heart. He only regretted that the idea of feeding the
rams had occurred to him so late. “But why waste time in regret?” he
reflected. “Better rejoice that the idea came to me at last.”

In order not to give the rams occasion for fright, it was necessary
to change certain of his habits. For one thing, he did no hunting at
all in the neighborhood of his yurta and the rams’ feeding ground, but
travelled some distance before permitting himself to fire a shot. He
was gratified to discover before long that with the coming of spring
birds and small animals, especially squirrels, flocked to his mountain
side in great numbers. It was as if a rumor had spread that his place
was their assurance of safety. The next spring and the next it was
the same. Gay and charming visitors he had never known before came to
delight him with their presence, and he felt himself being drawn into
another world. How wonderful to be looked upon as a friend rather than
as an enemy of these creatures!

In three years the rams, too, showed growing confidence in him. He fed
them regularly, even when the snow melted and the crevices of the rocky
hills revealed young grass and tender new shoots on the shrubs.

One sunny day he had gone as usual to the Rams’ Mountain and was
standing on a ledge near the feeding ground waiting for them to appear.
Soon he saw three coming cautiously toward him. Quickly he stepped out
of sight. By their watchful movements he judged that they had been sent
to reconnoitre, and he was more sure of this a moment later when they
bleated a piercing “Ma-a! Ma-a!”

He could not doubt that this was a signal to inform hidden companions
that all was well, for the entire ram family now appeared, led by a
huge powerful fellow who held his head with its sharp spiralling horns
proudly. “What strength! What assurance!” Turgen thought, enchanted.
The long beard and tail indicated that the leader ram was not young,
but his legs were slender and built to endure. He had a reddish-brown
coat flecked here and there with white. By his extraordinary size and
confident attitude he impressed his authority on the herd.

When the leader after a brief survey had satisfied himself that
there was no danger he spoke calmly to his charges. “Ma-a!” he said.
Whereupon all the rams fell to eating.

Turgen counted them: six females and three males--with two lambs not
more than three weeks old, which he had not seen before. Unlike the
lambs he had noticed briefly in previous seasons, these were gay and
frisky and seemed prepared to enjoy a long life. Two lambs to six
females was not a large increase. Still they were promise of new
generations. Turgen was overjoyed. Surely the smaller one must be a
girl, the larger one a boy. He watched them drink greedily of their
mother’s milk, then pick at some grass only to reject it disdainfully
and return to their mothers. Clearly they preferred milk to the food of
grown-ups.

Turgen could not take his eyes from the rams, his wild mountaineers. In
his imagination he saw this little family grown into a great herd.




CHAPTER 10

[Illustration]


Just then the leader sounded a sharp warning upon which the rams
vanished. Turgen looked to see what had frightened them, but could
discover nothing amiss. He listened, and heard a noise as of sifting
sand and gravel. Someone must be there. But who? Then his attentive
eyes caught sight of a bear stealthily creeping toward the clearing. He
was enormous.

By nature a bear was clumsy and sluggish, no match in speed for the
light-footed rams, but he had his own sure method of hunting. He would
search out the path by which the rams traveled to get food and water,
and there he would lie in wait for them behind one of the cliffs. He
would wait for hours, patiently. Providing the wind was in his favor,
his scent did not betray him and the rams would come unsuspectingly
within reach. Then a pounce, a single blow of his enormous paw, and the
nearest ram would be killed.

Turgen knew all this, knew also that the bear before him was an
experienced hunter. Lacking a gun, he was powerless to give the rams
any help. He thought of shouting, remembering that a bear is afraid of
the human voice, but this might frighten the rams even more and decide
them to seek another place of refuge. What then was he to do?

Rocks! He would throw rocks at the bear.

Taking quick aim, he fired a stone which lit near the bear’s feet. The
animal stopped, turned his head to sniff the air from all directions.
When his eyes fixed upon Turgen above him, he let out a roar of fright
that echoed from cliff to cliff and threw himself down the hillside.
The clatter was terrific as he rolled over brush and outthrustings of
rocks, crashing and bouncing and setting in motion a series of small
landslides.

Attracted by the racket the old ram reappeared farther up the mountain
and stood watching his enemy’s progress with an expression of
contentment.

Satisfied that the rams were safe, Turgen started home conscious that
the leader was following him with his eyes. A dreadful thought assailed
him: What if the rams associated him with the bear? What if their old
suspicion of man were aroused and they left this region for another?




CHAPTER 11

[Illustration]


That night Turgen could sleep little, but tossed and turned in anxiety
lest his charges desert him. For they had become necessary to him,
perhaps more necessary than he to them. The next morning he rose early
and hurried to the feeding ground with a generous supply of grass. Good
or bad, he must know the truth.

His fears were promptly quieted when he saw the rams’ fresh tracks in
the clearing. As usual, he deposited the hay, then stood behind a rock
to wait. But not for long. First to come were the scouts, then the
leader. Then the family. In spite of their dirty-brown coats they were
to him a lovely sight in their strength and grace and daring. The old
leader was like a king arrayed in tatters, fully three feet in height
and nearly six feet from tip to tip. The females, appropriately, were
smaller, with almost straight horns, and held themselves with a kind of
humility.

But it was the lambs to whom Turgen’s heart went out. “The darlings!”
he whispered.

Of course, the shy one who never ventured from her mother’s side was a
female, the gay prankish one a male. If in his play he dared approach
the cliff, the old leader recalled him with a snort to his anxious
parent.

“Eh! They are splendid children.”

The rams seemed at home and at ease wandering about the clearing, and
Turgen was reminded that it took more than a single fright to make
them forsake their accustomed haunts. They were known to be stubbornly
faithful to the place which provided them with food and shelter.

Turgen was starting down the mountain to return home when he noticed
the leader ram circle the clearing excitedly, then with amazing
lightness spring to the top of a rocky ledge where he had a good view
of the mountain side. Sharply he surveyed the region, and sharply gave
warning.

The warning was taken up by the other males, and promptly the females
ranged themselves in a circle with their rumps together and their heads
pointing out. The lambs, held within the circle, pushed against their
elders inquisitively in an effort to get out, where were the other
males.

As a general, the leader was magnificent. From a height of at least
twenty-five feet he dropped easily to the clearing and again made a
full swing around its center edge. On another signal from him the males
took posts along the cliff and the herd froze in position, front legs
braced, horns lowered, all facing the exposed slope.

“An astonishing battle formation!” Turgen said to himself in excitement
and wonder. The rams were prepared to fight off an enemy. But who was
the enemy? “Wolves?” Turgen wondered. He had heard of rams’ exploits in
battle, but never had he seen anything like this.

Intently he watched, and soon he saw three forest wolves approaching
the clearing, enormous beasts made bold and dangerous by hunger through
the winter. His heart beat fast with terror for his herd. What he would
have given for a gun! Lacking that, he made sure that his knife was
ready to hand, even though he knew himself to be a helpless onlooker
should the wolves attack. “For I’m not a bird and not a ram, to go from
crag to crag,” he thought.

[Illustration]

The first wolf had reached the edge of the clearing now. With his mouth
open, revealing powerful tusks, and the hair erect on his spine, he was
terrifying to look at. Turgen heard him growl, a low fierce rumble, and
waited for him to pounce, but instead he flung himself full length
on the ground while still keeping his burning eyes on the rams. Was he
perhaps selecting his prey? Turgen did not know, but he saw how the
female rams drew together in a closer circle behind the leader. It was
quite clear by their staunch attitudes that the rams had no intention
of running away.

What a battle it would be! But what chance had the rams against those
three beasts?

The first wolf, tiring of inactivity and prompted by greed, decided
against waiting longer for his companions and rose to his feet. Slowly
he advanced. With each cautious step Turgen expected him to plunge.

Then an amazing thing happened. The old ram without warning, lowered
his head to the ground and sprang at the advancing enemy. So exactly
had he gauged the distance that his horns struck the wolf in the chest
with an impact strong enough to raise him in the air and send him
hurtling over the cliff. His howls echoed around the mountain as he
fell and so distracted the other two wolves that they turned from the
clearing and raced after their unlucky comrade.

It seemed not more than a minute that it took to wage and win the
battle. Then the herd of rams broke formation to lie down and rest.
Except for the lambs who were as full of play as ever.

Turgen, making his way home on legs which did not seem to belong to
him, lived over again the old ram’s victory. It was as if the triumph
were his own.




CHAPTER 12

[Illustration]


At home he could not get the incident out of his mind. These wild
mountaineers had become like his own flesh and blood--what happened to
them was his experience also.

It was midnight, but he could not sleep from excitement. Reaching for
his reed, he started to play--and soon the yurta was filled with music
that spoke of sadness and at the same time of quiet rejoicing. The
melodies were new to him. They had seemingly sprung out of the air in
order to celebrate the afternoon’s wonderful adventure.

At last he lay down to rest. With all his heart he desired this night
to see a fine dream. What kind of a dream he did not know, but he felt
that he must communicate the day’s fortune to the good spirit of the
yurta. For had not a good spirit come to drive out the evil spirit when
he made himself the protector of the rams? Turgen believed that it
had. For his faith in God--the Great Spirit who ruled the world--did
not exclude the possibility that there were other spirits known to his
forefathers who acted as messengers for God and Satan and had more time
to concern themselves with the affairs of a poor Lamut.

His wish was granted him. In his sleep he saw a joyous dream.

His wife and son entered the yurta, looking just as he remembered them.
He wanted to welcome them, to say a thousand things he had in his mind
to tell them, but no words came. He could only gaze at their dear faces
in silent astonishment.

His wife came near, took him by the hand, smiled and said: “Turgen, get
up and come with us. The Great Spirit is happy that you are taking care
of the wild rams and wants to thank you personally.”

Turgen rose as he was directed and went with them. But his wife and
son seemed to float through the air rather than walk and he had great
difficulty keeping up. Up hills, over vertical cliffs he followed after
them, gasping from exhaustion and fearful that they would abandon him.

Finally he called out in despair: “Help me. I cannot keep up with you.
If you do not help me, I shall never see the Great Spirit.”

Encouragingly his wife answered: “Yes, Turgen, you are tired. But don’t
be afraid. We will help you.”

With that she took him by one hand, the son by the other, and all three
rose into the air. Higher and higher they flew, to dizzy heights where
it was hard to breathe, and came at last to a mountain whose top was
lost in the clouds. When they had landed in a small field Turgen looked
around him amazed.

“What an immense place!” he exclaimed. “If the Great Spirit lives this
far away it is no wonder that we never see him.”

The place was remarkable for more than its size. The mountains familiar
to Turgen were also high, but bleak and bare. Here were fields with
trees and flowers growing in abundance and giving off odors that
tickled the nostrils. And in the midst of the wonders he saw lambs
browsing under the guardianship of wolves.

“What is this?” he asked his wife. “How can such young things be
entrusted to killer-beasts?”

Smilingly she said: “There are no killers here, Turgen. Here
everyone--birds, animals, people--live in love and harmony.”

“Wonderful!” Turgen exclaimed. “I should like to live here myself for a
while.”

“You will in due time,” the woman assured him. “But come now--the Great
Spirit is expecting you.”

Turgen looked around, expecting to see a large yurta in which the Great
Spirit lived, but instead he saw only a great larch tree and under it
a bench very like his own. An aged man dressed in white was sitting
there, a man who bore striking resemblance to his long-dead grandfather.

“Who is this?” Turgen asked himself. “Is it possible that he is the
Great Spirit? I did not picture him so. This man is lean and not very
tall and there is nothing of grandeur about him. No doubt he is a
servant.”

But meeting the old man’s eyes, which held a kind of fire, he was
seized with fear and reverence. Humbly he fell on his knees and
whispered: “Forgive me, Almighty! I, a sinner, failed to recognize you.
How could I recognize you, since I have never seen you?”

A gentle voice replied: “Rise, my son. Do not be afraid. If you have
not seen me, yet you heard me when I said to you, ‘Turgen, go feed the
starving rams. They are my children too, just as you are.’ Your heart
is open to goodness. You have given me much joy. Now rise and sit here
beside me.”

Eagerly, Turgen leaped to his feet--and woke up.




CHAPTER 13

[Illustration]


For a moment he was grievously disappointed at having lost his dream,
but soon a great happiness overtook him. Surely this was no ordinary
dream, he told himself. The Great Spirit in his mysterious wisdom had
chosen this way to make his favor known. Although Turgen longed to
rush down the hill and share the night’s adventure with Marfa and her
children, he didn’t--because the dream, for a reason he was at a loss
to explain, seemed to belong to him alone.

Did Marfa notice that something of extraordinary importance had
happened to him? If so, she gave no sign, for it was not her habit to
question. Nevertheless, Turgen felt a sense of guilt that he should
conceal anything from his kind friends.

The children especially might well have asked: “Turgen, why don’t you
tell us stories any more? Why don’t you play the reed and sit by the
komelek and smoke?”

For he did none of these things, being so preoccupied by his own
thoughts and concerns. He went for his milk as usual, gave abrupt
greetings, asked absurd questions which deserved no answers, and
quickly departed.

The truth was, he had to admit honestly, that the family of rams had
become dearer to him than anything or anyone.

At home there was more than enough work to keep him busy, for it was
important that he make good use of what was left of the summer. Hay
must be dried and stored for the rams, wood chopped to last a long
winter, fish and game caught and packed away in a small cellar not far
from the yurta--a hole dug in the ground where food stayed fresh summer
and winter. He remembered the old proverb:

“What the summer gives, the winter will swallow.”

As a result of his dream he suddenly gave most careful attention to his
housekeeping. Every day he swept the floor, and he polished the kettles
and pots until they shone. He did this because, secretly, he cherished
the hope that his wife and son would visit him again. Maybe--who
knows?--the Great Spirit himself might condescend to drop in.

But always the rams came first. At least twice a week, in every kind
of weather, he carried food to them. He fed them even though the
mountains were still green with vegetation, because they were now
more than ever necessary to him. Besides, the succulent grass which
he gathered in the valley gave variety to their diet and they loved
it. While the rams never came close to him but maintained a respectful
distance, they showed no nervousness at sight of him, and this pleased
him very much.

The summer, brief as a dream, had brought changes in the flock. The
rams had taken on flesh, their coats were soft and thick and of a
uniform brown except for tufts of white on the sides, under the groin
and neck. The similar markings confirmed Turgen’s belief that they
were of the same family. Warm weather and plenty of food had made them
active, also; often, out of sheer high spirits, two grown up males
would lock horns in combat. And every day, it seemed, the lambs were
inspired to new feats of inventiveness and daring.

The male lamb especially enchanted Turgen. Everything his elders did he
tried to imitate, executing leaps that made Turgen’s heart turn over in
fear. At times his impudent pranks brought him a sharp reprimand from
the leader.

“The scamp!” Turgen exclaimed. “That one was born to get himself
noticed.”

Soon, Turgen reminded himself, he must exercise still greater vigilance
for with autumn hunters would be abroad in the hills. While he doubted
that his superstitious neighbors from the valley would come near his
yurta, stranger things had happened and he dared not count on it. To
every hunter the rams were an irresistible attraction.




CHAPTER 14

[Illustration]


September came, bringing its customary changeable weather. One damp and
windy day when all the furies seemed loose, Turgen went as usual to
take food to his charges and stand watch.

“Though why anyone should come out in this weather I don’t know,” he
thought. “Even the rams will surely keep under shelter.”

But no. He had time only to drop the hay and retreat to his watching
post when there they were in full strength--the whole family. The rain
annoyed them and they shook themselves from time to time. Otherwise
they showed no discomfiture. While the leader and two other males
circled the clearing on the alert for danger, the rest stood quietly
in the lee of the cliff waiting for the rain to abate. Looking for the
lambs, Turgen saw them lying snugly under their mothers’ bellies.

At the first sign of the weather’s clearing Turgen’s favorite jumped
up and ran to urge the second lamb to romp with him. She refused,
preferring her comfort. He then advanced on the older rams, trying by
all the wiles he could command to get their attention. Turgen almost
laughed aloud watching his antics.

“What a show-off!” Then he worried. “It is cold and wet for one so
young. He will get sick.-- But that’s an absurd idea. He is not made of
clay that he will melt.”

Soon after this the rain stopped and Turgen started for home. He
had gone only a few steps when a shot rang out. There were hunters
somewhere in the hills nearby--too far away to menace the herd of rams
but the sound of gunfire alone was enough to cause panic. While the
echo was still curling around the mountains the rams crowded around the
leader as he stood irresolute, his head raised, his nostrils distended
to test the air. It was he who must say what they should do.

In a minute the old ram turned and came at a light trot across a narrow
stone abutment that formed a natural bridge between the clearing and
the adjoining hill where Turgen stood. Without hesitation the other
rams followed him in single file, males and females alternating.
Turgen’s lamb was behind his mother and just in front of the male ram
who brought up the rear. The bridge led to a labyrinth of caves where
escape was easy. That it led past Turgen seemed a matter of no concern
to the rams in the face of great danger.

The bridge was no doubt slippery but the rams were sure-footed and they
did not give way to panic. They were moving in a direction away from
the gunfire. But Turgen had another plan. He would go toward the place
from which the shot came. Should he meet the hunter, the hunter would
understand that he was trespassing and leave the neighborhood--for such
was the custom. Only one hunter was allowed to a region.

But before Turgen could act on his resolve, there was another shot. The
ram at the rear of the line, hearing it, jumped, made an incautious
step, and knocked against the lamb, who fell from the bridge.




CHAPTER 15

[Illustration]


Turgen’s heart turned in him as he watched the small body hurtle down
the crevasse. Then, peering over, he saw the lamb lying motionless on
the mountain slope. Quickly, he made his way to the spot, fearing that
wild animals would get there first.

The lamb’s eyes, raised to his, were black with terror. It tried
convulsively to rise but could not.

“Thank God, he’s alive,” was Turgen’s first thought. “There’s a chance
I can save him.”

With that he stooped and lifted the lamb gently.

“Ma-a,” said the lamb in a weak, childish whimper. And from a distance
came a mournful answering bleat. “Ma-a! Ma-a!” that might have been the
old leader. Then fog enveloped the mountain.

The lamb was surprisingly heavy, but Turgen hardly noticed the burden
in his anxiety and excitement. Carefully he made his way to the yurta
through the darkness, and as he went he murmured reassurance to his
patient, who made no further effort to escape.

“It is not far to go. Be quiet. Rest. Do not fear--I’ll do you no
harm.” Over and over Turgen said it, like a chant.

At the yurta Turgen laid the lamb on some soft pelts to examine him.
Noticing fresh blood stains, he looked for a wound and found a flesh
cut under the right front leg. It took but a minute to wash it clean
and cover it with a poultice of plantain leaves to stop the bleeding.

The lamb’s fright returned now and he struggled to gain his feet. But
his hind legs would not obey him.

“There, there, lad,” Turgen soothed him with tender strokes and pats.
“What are you afraid of? I will soon make you well and take you back to
your family. Who am I but an old man? There is no harm in me. Besides,
who would dare to lift a hand against such a splendid fellow? Lie
still. Trust me.”

Pain, weariness, and the strange but unterrifying sound made by a human
voice finally had their effect. The lamb rested while Turgen explored
more thoroughly for possible injuries. There were scratches and
bruises, none of them serious. And one hind leg was plainly swollen.

[Illustration]

“God forbid that it should be broken,” Turgen thought in dismay. For
he was expert with animals and he knew the difficulty of keeping a wild
young thing quiet while bone mended.

Fortunately, he found that the injury was no more than a dislocation,
but extremely painful to the touch. With practiced skill, while the
patient bleated piteously, he swathed the whole body to keep it
immobile except for the head. Then, quickly and deftly, he set the
bone, bandaged the leg and hoof between splints and satisfied himself
that the lamb could do no harm to the injury should he get on his feet.
As he worked the lamb regarded him with fixed and startled eyes. It was
breathing heavily and clearly would have liked to offer resistance.

The bandaging operation finished, the lamb grew calm, fright gave way
to weariness.

“Why,” Turgen thought. “There is the same look in his eyes that I saw
in Tim’s when I set his arm. Children are alike. They suffer more from
fright than pain.” To the lamb he said: “That other little fellow drank
some milk and fell asleep when I had doctored him. And so should you.”

Fortunately, Turgen had only the day before brought milk from Marfa’s
cow. It stood untouched in the cellar. He poured some into a large
wooden bowl and offered it to the lamb. At first the lamb turned his
head away in distaste, but when by accident a few drops found their
way into his mouth he smacked his lips with enjoyment. After that he
drank willingly, with relish, looking at Turgen as if to say: “Really,
this isn’t bad at all.”

Turgen was beside himself with joy as his charge finished his meal and
promptly went to sleep.

“Food and attention--that’s all anyone wants,” Turgen reflected. “Just
food and attention.”

It was late when he himself was ready for bed, and after the agitating
events of the day he slept fitfully. Whenever he wakened, as he did
frequently, his first thought was for the lamb--and this stranger in
his yurta seemed not a wild ram but a person close and dear to him. By
going to his rescue, Turgen had found someone to share his yurta.

It is true, he marvelled, what our people say: “Misfortune can
sometimes bring happiness.”




CHAPTER 16

[Illustration]


Man is a changeable creature--despairing one moment, filled with joy
and confidence the next. “The sun shines differently every day,” was
the way Turgen’s father had put it, and he found wisdom in the words.
How different yesterday was from today, he thought upon wakening, and
all because of two dark eyes full of anxiety which greeted him across
the room.

Turgen rose, went to the lamb and stroked its head, under the soft
brown-gray curls were hard knob-like growths which would one day become
horns. Although the lamb shrank from his touch and tried to hide by
closing its eyes, it did not struggle as before. Nor did fear prevent
it from drinking a large bowl of milk for breakfast.

“Oho!” Turgen exclaimed with satisfaction. “Anyone with a hearty
appetite like yours can not be suffering from internal injuries.”

After the feeding, Turgen washed his patient’s wounds and covered them
with a mixture of fish oil and tar. “The oil is healing, the smell of
tar will keep flies and insects away.” This, too, Turgen had learned
from his father. He thought of freeing the lamb of the bandages, but
decided “No. He’s too young and frightened to be trusted. He would only
injure himself more.” As he worked Turgen talked aloud, sometimes to
himself and sometimes to the lamb but always keeping his voice quiet so
that the young stranger would not take alarm.

The chores that day were like child’s play, so busy was Turgen’s mind
with plans. Returning from Marfa’s with a fresh supply of milk for
Lad, as he called the lamb--he thought, “What good fortune has come
to me. When Lad gets well I will take him back to the herd myself.”
And he pictured the reunion of the rams, how Lad would tell his family
of Turgen’s kindness. Who could say?--the news might even reach the
ears of the Great Spirit. For Turgen could not forget his dream. He
was convinced the lamb had come to him for a purpose, as a messenger
from the old man on the mountain to test Turgen’s devotion. Should he
receive care and attention, then Turgen at his death would be granted
permission to enter that world of beauty where his wife and son dwelt,
where wolves were nurses to creatures supposed to be their natural
enemies.

Such thoughts made Turgen very happy. It seemed that on this bright and
sparkling day the birds were gayer, the grass greener, the brook more
talkative than he had ever known them to be before.

When Lad’s wants had been attended to, Turgen went as usual to the
Rams’ Mountain with a feeding of hay. To his disappointment no rams
appeared, though he waited behind his special rock for some time.

“Is it possible they have gone away because of yesterday’s accident?”
he worried. “No, surely not. They will return. They must. Not just
because of the food, but to look for the lamb.”

This thought had hardly come to him when he caught sight of the leader
ram opposite him on the stone bridge. The old fellow moved slowly,
stopping from time to time to peer into the ravine. There was something
very forlorn about him and Turgen’s heart went out to him. As he came
to the middle of the bridge he paused, then on what seemed to be a
sudden impulse, he turned, leaped and vanished.

Had he gone back to the herd? Turgen wondered. But no. There he was on
the ledge where the lamb had fallen.

“Eh, poor fellow,” Turgen addressed him silently. “It’s too bad I can’t
tell you that your boy is alive, that I am caring for him and will soon
return him to you. Don’t grieve. I will keep my word. And you--you must
not go away from here.”




CHAPTER 17

[Illustration]


Turgen had but one determination--to see the lamb well again and back
with his family.

The first few days were difficult. Although Lad was not as fearful and
suspicious as before, he was restive and tried by every trick to free
himself of the bandages. At the first opportunity, when the shoulder
wound began to heal, Turgen removed the wrappings.

Like a flash, Lad sprang to his feet, shook himself, stretched, and
bounded on to Turgen’s bed. Then a look of astonishment came into his
eyes as he noticed his wooden leg. After gazing around the yurta he
turned to Turgen as if to question him.

“Where am I? Who are you? Why do you live in such a tiny cave, where
there is no room for leaping? And why is my leg so stiff?”

Turgen would have sworn that these were the questions in Lad’s eyes. As
he filled a bowl with milk he answered softly. “You are surprised, but
don’t be afraid, boy. That drone, maybe your brother or uncle, who was
behind you pushed you off the cliff. Remember? You have hurt yourself.
But in a couple of weeks you will be quite well again. Believe me.”

Lad accepted attention willingly now. He ate and drank with an appetite
and submitted with evident enjoyment to being petted. But Turgen knew
that he was not to be trusted too far, so he made a collar and leash
when he wanted to take the lamb out for exercise.

Upon leaving the yurta for the first time Lad stopped as if
thunderstruck by the sunlight and the sight of his familiar mountains.
Intoxicated with delight and longing, he plunged forward but the leash
held him fast. He turned, called in a piercing voice--“Ma-a, Ma-a....”
Then, receiving no answer, he jumped and circled desperately in an
effort to be free.

“Come, come,” said Turgen as he picked up the young savage and carried
him back to the yurta. “I understand that you are reminded of your home
and family. You are tired of this dark cage and impatient to be gone.
But there are things that can’t be rushed. Calm yourself.”

So for the next two days Lad stayed in the yurta while Turgen devoted
himself to his comfort and was entertained in turn. The lamb learned
to take his milk with a mixture of barley meal and water. He learned
that grass was good to eat, and how to distinguish the sweet, tender
blades from the tough dry ones which pricked and gave no satisfaction.
Turgen never tired of watching him. To his fond eyes Lad was beautiful
with his proud little head so like the leader ram’s and soft coat of
dark brown spotted with white near groin and haunches. A darker streak
the length of his long face from forehead to nostrils gave him the
expression of a solemn clown.

“Truly, you are a handsome lad,” Turgen assured him.

Lad loved praise, and did not question anything Turgen told him. Free
to go where he pleased indoors, he tapped his way boldly about the
yurta, thrusting his nose into everything, sniffing, examining like a
curious puppy. Only once did he show fright, when a fir log suddenly
sputtered in the komelek and sent out a shower of sparks. After that he
treated the fire with mixed caution and respect.

Yes, Turgen thought, this four-legged wild creature had made his life
over and filled it with a great content.




CHAPTER 18

[Illustration]


It was several days before Turgen found time to return to the feeding
ground with hay for the rams. It troubled him that he had neglected
them, but in honesty he had to admit that with Lad for company he did
not think so often of the others. He wondered whether he would miss
them greatly should they abandon their mountain--providing, of course,
they left Lad behind.

“But that is a dreadful thought,” he reproached himself the next
instant. “How could I take advantage of them by robbing them of their
young one? No, no, I will return him to his family.”

It crossed his mind also that the Great Spirit would be angry if he
betrayed his trust.

Again the only ram he could see was the leader standing on a rocky
ledge above him. Turgen imagined that the old fellow was questioning
him as their glances met. Impulsively he shouted: “It’s all right, my
friend. The lad is doing well and I will bring him back to you myself
in a couple of weeks.”

To his pleasure the ram did not shy from his voice but seemed to wait
for further news of the lost one.

“He knows me. He knows me, and he is not afraid,” Turgen gloated. The
rams would stay now, he was sure.

Returning home, he was still some distance from the yurta when he heard
Lad calling “Ma-a! Ma-a!” Just inside the door the lamb was waiting
with eyes which said accusingly, “You stayed away a long time. Why? I’m
lonesome and I’m hungry.”

Not a movement escaped the sharp young eyes as Turgen busied himself
preparing food, and everywhere Turgen went Lad came clumping behind
him. There was no doubt he had been alarmed by Turgen’s absence and
welcomed him home.

“Eh, my darling, you are very clever,” Turgen complimented him. And to
test him further he called the little savage by name: “Lad, Lad.”

Lad cocked his head attentively, which was the only sign Turgen needed
that they understood each other well.

A few days later Turgen examined the lamb’s injuries to satisfy himself
that the dislocation was mending properly and there was no infection,
but it was a week or more before he decided that it was safe to
remove the splints. Lad was at first bewildered, then surprised,
then delighted. He leaped on the bed and down again. He pranced and
pirouetted. But when Turgen later took him for a walk he showed no
desire to run away. He was happy with the day which was as perfect as
September sometimes brings to the Far North. He was happy with the
limited freedom he was permitted on the end of his leash. Joyously he
danced and flung himself into the air, lowered his head to the ground
and kicked his legs high. And when he had had his fill he came to
Turgen of his own accord singing “Ma-a, Ma-a ...” in a voice warm with
contentment.

Gladly this time he followed Turgen back to the yurta, and entered as
if the place belonged to him. A little later, having finished a hearty
meal, he folded his legs under him and fell sound asleep. Just like any
healthy infant, thought Turgen with pride.




CHAPTER 19

[Illustration]


Reasoning that a child can tell you when he is in pain and where the
pain is, but an animal can not, Turgen watched intently to make sure
that Lad ate and drank as he should and regularly fulfilled the demands
of nature. By this time he was fully assured that the lamb did not
suffer internal injuries. It was a pleasant duty Turgen performed,
making certain that this wild young thing survived its mishap, and when
occasionally he saw the old ram scrutinizing him inquisitively from the
mountainside he thought that the Great Spirit himself might be keeping
just as watchful an eye on him. “To see that I carry out His wishes.”

Does it seem strange that the old ram and the Great Spirit of Turgen’s
dream appeared to him sometimes as one and the same person? It was not
strange to Turgen, who believed quite simply that the Great Spirit was
everywhere at all times. “Only man is too busy during the day to visit
with Him. Therefore He comes at night to call bringing new faith and
strength.” Surely He was powerful enough to take the shape of a ram if
He so desired.

Such thoughts comforted Turgen and softened his dread of having to part
with Lad.

With freedom to move about, young Lad joyfully took over the yurta.
Each day he became more attached to Turgen, following at his heels like
a dog as he went about his chores. The clearing outside the yurta he
also considered to be his special province and he made no move to run
away even when he was once allowed to go without collar or leash.

His eyes questioned sometimes when the day was clear and the breeze
fresh off the hills: “Tell me--what of my family?” And at such times
Turgen answered: “They are well, believe me. And you are remembered. I
see the old ram often. When you return you must assure him that I was
good to you.” When Lad shook his head, pirouetted and leaped for glee,
Turgen took his antics to mean: “Ay--I certainly will.”

It was one day when Lad was frolicking in the clearing and dancing
on his hind legs that the drunkard Nikita happened along and saw
him. Mistaking the lamb for the devil, Nikita fled shouting down the
mountain while Lad, equally alarmed by the strange voice, rushed to
Turgen for protection.

Turgen guessed the cause of Nikita’s terror. “What a fool!” he remarked
to the flying figure. “Now he will spread more lies about me. But what
can one do? To shoot at a rock is but a waste of arrows.”

That same evening Marfa reported the excitement in the valley when
Nikita spread the news of what he had seen. “He was like a madman,”
she said sharply, “shouting that he saw you at play with the devil and
the devil must be killed. When I noticed people listening to him, I
gave them a piece of my mind. I told them what they already knew if
their heads were not stuffed with hay--that there isn’t a better man
among them than you. No, nor a better hunter or fisherman. They are
envious--that is all. So they believe an idler whose words are worth
nothing. With his drunken eyes he saw a wild ram. Tphoo! Of course he
lied.”

Tim and Aksa looked at their mother in amazement. This was not the
gentle woman they knew.

Turgen shook his head regretfully. “Thank you, Marfa, but you shouldn’t
fret yourself so. Remember that dry mud won’t stick to a wall. And to
listen to gossip is like bailing out water with a sieve. It is true
that Nikita saw a wild ram lamb with me. Not a full grown ram but a
lamb which fell from a cliff and was injured. Since I have been caring
for him he has become almost tame. That is all. There is no sorcery
about it. Perhaps I should have told you. But as you know, I am not
much of a talker.”

Tim and Aksa listened, their eyes burning with curiosity and
excitement. They were afraid to ask questions before their mother’s
anger had cooled.

Marfa herself was surprised by what Turgen told her, but after a
moment’s thought she declared vehemently, “Well, what’s so remarkable
about your caring for a poor little lamb? The fools might better wonder
at your kindness and your skill than spread these silly stories. And I
shall tell them so.”

Marfa shook her fist as warning to those “dumb ones.” Then to the
children’s delight she asked Turgen to stay for a cup of tea. Now they
would hear more about Turgen’s surprising guest. A mountain lamb!
Surely this was the finest of all possible treasures. But to their
disappointment Turgen was not in a mood to talk, and in fear of their
mother they held their itching tongues.




CHAPTER 20

[Illustration]


Walking home that evening, Turgen was troubled as he thought over what
Marfa had told him.

“Such silly tattle can do me no harm,” he reasoned, “but what if
someone takes it into his stupid head to sneak up the hill and shoot
Lad? So long as he stays with me there will be this danger. I must give
him back to his family as quickly as possible. There in the mountains
he will have protection.”

The resolution did not make him happy, especially when he saw how Lad
welcomed him and clung to him.

“How strange,” Turgen thought, “that a wild animal can understand
affection while people, who should be wiser, can not.”

For a long time he could not fall asleep but tossed from side to
side thinking of the empty days ahead when he would be alone again.
Weariness finally won, however, just as he was praying: “Great Spirit,
have pity on me ... help me ... teach me.”

Then Turgen dreamed. In his dream it was raining and there were loud
crashes of thunder following upon lightning. He went out of the yurta
just in time to see the Great Spirit rush past. But so swift was his
flight that Turgen had no time to utter a word. Bitterly disappointed,
he returned indoors, thinking, “Evidently I am unworthy to talk to Him.”

But hardly had he lain down again when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in, come in,” Turgen called, and the door opened to admit a
gray-haired old man who looked strangely like himself. He carried a
staff in his hand and a pack on his back.

The visitor bowed, saying, “Thank you, Turgen, for your invitation. It
is raining and I am tired. You live so far from me.”

Turgen, delighted to have company, begged his guest, “Come, sit closer
to the fire, friend, and rest yourself. I will get you something to
eat.” Then, struck by the old man’s appearance, he added: “Why do you
climb mountains in this weather at your age? You’re not strong enough
for that. You see my yurta--it is spacious and I live here alone,
except for this lamb. But I must return him soon to his family. Won’t
you stay and make your home with me?”

It didn’t surprise Turgen that Lad awoke just then, jumped from his
corner, and going over to the visitor placed his head on the old man’s
knees. The visitor stroked him as he said, “You are a good boy and you
fell into the hands of a good man.”

Turgen, rejoicing at such praise, replied: “The lamb and his family are
a worry to me because people hunt them, even though they are harmless.
It is my belief that they should be allowed to live in freedom and
peace like....” He was about to say, “like the birds and beasts who
dwell with the Great Spirit,” but something told him that his guest
already knew what was in his mind for he was nodding. “There is a
whole tribe of wild rams not far from here,” Turgen went on. “Splendid
animals. While I am alive I’ll see that no one molests them. But I am
old and alone. Who will look after them when I die?”

Instead of giving him the sympathy he expected, the old man burst out
in anger: “Alone, alone! And whose fault is that? Your own. Happiness
is right under your nose, but you don’t see it. You are blind as a bat!
Why don’t you ask Marfa and her children to share your yurta with you?
She is a fine woman, and so are the children.”

“You know,” Turgen replied, taken aback, “I never thought of that. But
it is not yet too late.”

“Don’t wait too long,” the visitor advised him. “Inquire of your heart
and act as it prompts you. In such matters the heart is better than the
head.”

Turgen started to say that he agreed but would have to consult
Marfa--and what would the Yakuts say who called him a sorcerer?

But the old man answered him before he could speak: “Don’t let this
disturb you. Marfa and the children will be delighted. As for the
Yakuts--don’t pay any attention to them. It is not that they are evil,
only ignorant. Believe me.”

At this moment, before he could thank the visitor for his advice,
Turgen awoke. So real was his dream that he could not rid himself of
it. “Amazing,” he murmured. “A miracle.”

The yurta was quiet. The fire in the komelek was dying. The lamb slept
peacefully in his corner.

Being a man of simple faith, Turgen did not doubt that the dream was
a sign given him by unknown powers. Had he wanted to ask Marfa before
to bring the children and share his yurta? If so, he would never have
found the courage alone to speak to her of his desire. The dream made
everything simple and right. He had begged the Great Spirit for help,
and help was given him in the form of advice. Now he had only to act.

It was Lad who roused Turgen from his reflections by butting him gently
and crying, “Ma-a, Ma-a....”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed. “It is nearly daylight and time to get up and
you are hungry. Come, we’ll have breakfast and off we’ll go.”

Although it was the last meal they would have together, Turgen was not
sad. Two thoughts were uppermost in his mind: Lad was going back to his
family where he belonged, and Turgen would soon have a family of his
own to love and care for.




CHAPTER 21

[Illustration]


Resolutely Turgen set off for the feeding ground with a bundle of
hay slung over his shoulder and the lamb skipping along by his side.
They might have been out for one of their usual walks. But as they
approached the clearing Turgen noted how the lamb hesitated and looked
about him expectantly.

“Something tells him that he has been in this place before,” thought
Turgen. The thought made him happy and filled him with inner peace....

Suddenly Lad turned sharply and sang out in his youthful voice--“Ma-a,
Ma-a.”

In reply came the same call, but more strongly and Turgen, searching
the cliffs, saw the old ram standing in his full magnificence as if
frozen to the rocky promontory. There was amazement in the look he
directed at the man and the returned lamb.

Turgen shouted: “Come, old man. Come here and accept your son. You
see, I did bring him back to you. As you can see, he is well and happy.”

In answer, the ram raised his head and sent a bellow--“Ma-a,
ma-a”--echoing around the hills. Joy, surprise, and anxiety were in
his voice, Turgen understood. For how could this savage be expected to
trust his old enemy man?

While the ram stood there irresolute, not quite able to believe his
eyes, Lad whirled in a frenzy of excitement and started toward the
cliff. Memory guided him and he ran along the same stone bridge from
which he had fallen. But Turgen had no fear for him now. “Take care of
yourself, Lad,” he called. “Good-by, my dear!”

Upon hearing his voice the lamb stopped briefly to send back an
affectionate--“Ma-a, ma-a.” It was both “Good-by” and “Thank you.” With
that he disappeared around a bend.

For a moment both rams were lost to view. Then they reappeared on the
cliff together--the old fellow and the youngster who was so like him.

Turgen greeted them joyfully: “I can see that you are glad to have Lad
back and safe. He will tell you that people are not all evil.”

The rams answered him in soft chorus, and vanished. But they would
return--again and again. Of that Turgen was certain. There was a pact
between them now that could not be broken. Turgen would feed the family
and protect them from hunters. The old ram, so wise and strong, would
guard the herd against other enemies such as wolves and bears.

“Until some day Lad grows up and takes his place as leader,” Turgen
promised. He was confident that he could foretell this much of the
future.




CHAPTER 22

[Illustration]


Turgen had known Marfa as a friend for many years, but it had never
entered his head to suggest that she and her children share his life.
Now here he was on his way to her, his mind filled with this very idea.
Yet the nearer he came to her yurta the more absurd he appeared to
himself. He was tortured with doubts.

What was a man of his age to say to her? “Look Marfa--I live alone,
make my own fires, do my own cooking and sewing, and worry about no one
but myself. It’s not natural. So I have come to ask you to be my wife.”

Certainly a sensible woman like Marfa could only say, “Why, you old
fogey, are you out of your senses? What would the neighbors think if I
went to live with you, whom they consider a sorcerer?”

Such thoughts made Turgen’s legs grow cold and his feet drag. Still,
he reminded himself, he was following a dream. The Great Spirit had
spoken to him, and he believed.

Nothing was as he imagined it. Perhaps it was that heart spoke to
heart. At any rate, the moment he entered the yurta, Marfa gave one
glance at him and exclaimed:

“Turgen, your face shines like a nicely polished copper kettle!
Something wonderful must have happened to you! Is that true? Tell me.”

Turgen thought, “How could I have doubted my dream? I did not know how
to speak and she has prompted me. But I’ll lead up to the question
gradually.”

To Marfa he said: “You see, today I returned Lad to his family. I
fulfilled the promise made to the Great Spirit. It was good, don’t you
think?”

“Yes,” Marfa answered, perplexed, “but why are you so happy? I thought
you were very much attached to him. And now you’ll be alone again.”

“Yes, Marfa, but listen. I rejoice because the wild rams are my own. I
have had a sign. They will stay and I will look after them. Don’t you
understand that the Great Spirit himself has talked to me and thanked
me?”

“Wait, wait, Turgen,” Marfa interrupted. “I don’t understand a word of
what you’re saying. I believe in the good spirits, but I can’t say that
I have ever talked with them. I’ve never even seen them in a dream.
Are you sure you are in your right mind?” There was anxiety in her
voice.

Turgen smiled as he said firmly, “I am not out of my mind. Listen
to this--” And he told her from beginning to end how he had become
interested in the starving rams, how he had tended them and saved the
lamb. He told her too about his marvelous dreams. It seemed to him that
never before in his life had he been so eloquent.

Toward the end, looking at Marfa’s attentive, smiling face, Turgen knew
without doubt that she understood everything he would say.

When he had finished she put her hand on his head affectionately as if
he were one of her children and said: “You are a good man, Turgen....
And your dreams are good, too. I wish nothing better for myself or for
the children. I know that they love you. We will all be happy. And once
we are living as husband and wife, people will stop their evil gossip.”

She turned to Tim and Aksa, who were listening with curiosity and
whispering to each other. “Children, Turgen will live with us from now
on. Are you glad?”

“Yes, yes!” they answered, their voices eager, their eyes sparkling.
They were delighted.




CHAPTER 23

[Illustration]


That was a day of gayety and laughter for all of them. When Turgen left
toward evening, Aksa who was more talkative and more inquisitive than
her brother asked her mother,

“Now that Turgen belongs to us, will we go to live in his yurta?”

“No, daughter,” Marfa replied. “We will live here, for he has not
enough room for us, and up in the mountains there is no food for a cow.
In the summer we can visit him.”

This did not entirely please the children, who hoped that their new
life would be full of change and excitement. To live in the mountains,
which they did not know except from the valley, would be wonderful. But
grown-ups could not be expected to understand.

“I want to look at the sky from the top of a mountain,” Aksa declared.
“Turgen says that good children can see angels in the sky. But I would
be happy just to see their wings.”

Tim spoke up firmly: “And I want to see Lad and the other rams.”

“So do I,” Aksa added quickly, not to be left out.

Marfa smiled. “Turgen is coming again early tomorrow morning, and if
you ask him he might take you home with him for a visit. If the weather
is warm you can even stay over night.”

“Oh, Mama!” the children exclaimed. “Will you ask him, too?”

“Of course.”

That night the children prayed that the next day would be warm and
Turgen would accept them as his guests, so it did not surprise them
upon wakening to find the day bright and their friend bending over them.

“Dress yourselves, children,” Turgen said, smiling, “I am very glad to
take you with me if you think you can stand the walk uphill.”

“Oh, we can. We are good walkers,” they answered him.

Soon they were ready for what was their first adventure away from home.
Marfa gave them milk to take along, with barley cakes and dried fish.

A twisted path led up the mountain. Turgen walked in front, with Aksa
behind him, and Tim bringing up the rear. The path followed a talkative
little brook and all around was heavy shrubbery with tall fir trees,
larches, and graceful white birches for background. Their progress was
slow because the children must stop every few steps to pick and eat
some of the black and red currants and bird-cherry berries so tasty
this time of year.

Birds overhead twittered so noisily that Aksa asked Turgen seriously,
“What do you think? Are they rejoicing because we are here?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he answered just as seriously. “It is well
known that birds like good children.”

Everything amazed the children. The familiar brook was brighter,
swifter, more mysterious in this higher ground. The woods held
fascinations and terrors they could only imagine. Never having
been far away from their yurta in the valley, they were--thanks to
Turgen--entering a brand-new world. If they stopped frequently, it was
not only because of the berries or because they were tired, but because
they needed time to take in all the wonders. From up here the valley
was a different place than they had known--like a child’s plaything
laid out in squares of green and brown, with the brook wending through
it, a silver thread.

“How close it is!” they marveled. “And we thought we had walked a long
way. Close and small.”

“Yes,” Turgen said, as they strained their eyes to find their yurta at
the bend of the river, “we live only four miles apart. From a mountain
everything appears clearer.”

The path grew steeper the nearer they came to Turgen’s place, and care
had to be taken to avoid loose stones and trees blown down in a storm.
But neither Aksa nor Tim lagged behind their host. They were so happy
to have all of his attention, so eager for what was coming next, that
they could think of a hundred things to say. Aksa especially was very
inquisitive.

“Turgen,” she asked, “why do you live in the mountains instead of the
valley, like us?”

“Why? I don’t know myself,” Turgen answered. “We Lamuts always prefer
to live in the mountains near water. We aren’t like the Yakuts who need
good grazing grounds for their horses and cows. Look at me. I have
nothing except two guns, fishing tackle and my strong legs. I don’t
even own a dog. Most Lamuts are poor. It seems to be our fate. Besides,
there aren’t many of us left. Here--I’m the only one. There was another
family lived here several years ago, but they moved.”

“Why?” Tim wanted to know.

“I can’t say, my boy. Just as a fish seeks deeper water, so a man looks
for a place that will be better for him. Only happiness does not lie in
changing one place for another, but in belonging to a fine family like
yours.”

Turgen patted Aksa’s head as he spoke.

“Didn’t you have a family before?” she questioned.

When Turgen answered her his face was sober. “Yes, but they went away,
leaving me alone.”

“To what place did they go?” the girl persisted.

But Turgen could not talk about this. “To the place all people must go.
It is too soon for you to understand.”

Before Aksa could open her mouth for another question, Tim pulled her
painfully by her braid, saying, “We are now your family. So Mama said.
I will live with you, Turgen, forever.”

“And so will I!” Aksa hastened to add.

“Splendid!” Turgen said, the smile coming back to his eyes. “And now
that is settled we must get to the end of our journey.”

Tim, wanting to distract attention from a subject that was plainly not
to Turgen’s liking, and also because he was bursting with questions
of his own, blurted out: “Is it true what people say, that you are
friendly with wild rams?” When Turgen showed no sign of distaste for
this subject, he rushed on: “I can hardly believe that rams will let
you come close to them. From what I hear, they run faster than the wind
and can jump from one mountain to another. It is difficult even to see
them. We have never seen them--not Mama nor Aksa nor I. Are they really
so smart that they know of danger before it comes near them? People
also say--”

The boy broke off sharply.

“That I am a sorcerer and bewitched. Is that what people say?” Turgen
finished for him. But his expression was kind.

Tim nodded. “This we don’t believe.”

“Good. People will always talk a lot of nonsense when they haven’t
anything better to do.” Turgen shook his head. “More’s the pity. But
since you are interested I will tell you what I know of the rams. What
you hear is part true and part exaggeration. Yes, Lad was my friend.
I cannot say as much for the old rams who are still fearful because
I am a man. And why should they love us who hunt them down?” Turgen
hesitated. “Later I will tell you more. And tomorrow, if you should
happen to wake up early, and the day is bright, you will be able to see
the rams for yourself on top of that cliff over there.” He pointed to
the one opposite his yurta.

Aksa and Tim clapped their hands and whirled with joy. “Will you,
Turgen? Oh, will you? We will do anything you say, and get up very
early.”

A sight of the rams was worth any promise.




CHAPTER 24

[Illustration]


Anything new has a special wonder. Tim and Aksa had never been in a
yurta like Turgen’s before and they had to explore every nook and
corner. The mountains hovering over it were giants standing guard. The
tiny window which with difficulty let in light might have belonged to a
playhouse they built for their own amusement.

Listening to them exclaim and argue and laugh, Turgen prepared dinner.
Here and there, in and out, the children ran like busy moles. Secretly
they hoped for a glimpse of the mountain rams that same night. Yet they
were willing to wait, for Turgen had promised. It would be hard to say
whether Turgen or his guests were happier.

Dinner was a feast. There was ukha or fish-soup which they drank out of
wooden bowls, there was also fat fish and pheasants roasted on a spit.
And to top it all was tea with ... sugar! Yes, it was a real feast,
something to tell their mother about.

Yet the children’s real joy that day came not so much from the trip up
the mountain and the good food as from the attention Turgen paid them.
They were not used to this. Their mother, they knew, loved them, but
she was always so busy looking after them that she had little time to
play with them. Here was Turgen ready to devote a whole evening and day
to them.

And this was not all. They would hear the story of the rams.

Their stomachs so full that it seemed they must burst, Tim and Aksa
waited while Turgen cleared away the meal. He then went to the door and
stood looking out. They understood that he was hoping for a glimpse of
his rams.

“Can’t see a thing,” he said finally, turning back to the room and
closing the door against the cold air. “What do you say to some more
logs on the fire?”

The children nodded.

Soon flames were dancing in the komelek, the room was snug and warm.
Turgen lit his pipe and smiled at his guests, well pleased with them
and the day. He was content now to sit in silence and enjoy the
comfort. But not Aksa.

“Turgen, is it true that you are old?” she wanted to know. Then, seeing
him smile, she hastened to add, “Mama says that only your hair is
old--that you are strong and walk the earth as lightly as a mountain
ram.”

Turgen’s face showed his pleasure. “A clever girl,” he thought, and was
not surprised by her next question: “You haven’t forgotten your promise
to tell us about yourself and the rams?”

He shook his head. “How could I forget? It is all so close to my heart.”

With that he began to talk. He started with the time long ago when he
had been young and happy, told of his struggles and adventures and
marriage. When he came to the death of his wife and son, Aksa and Tim
shed tears for him in his loneliness. The next moment they were all
smiles again as he described finding the rams who brought new meaning
to his life. But most exciting was the account of his remarkable
dreams. Here Aksa began to fidget on the bench by the fire and pressed
close to Tim, who sat motionless with his mouth open, his unblinking
eyes fixed on Turgen.

To them it was not a dream that Turgen had visited the Great Spirit and
later entertained him as a mysterious wanderer. They accepted it all
as something which had really happened and their admiration for Turgen
was unbounded.

“As I see it,” Turgen declared in conclusion, “the Great Spirit gave
me a love for these rams as a gift for my old age. Then, pleased that
I cared for them according to His bidding, He blessed me with a fine
family.”

The children jumped up, ran to Turgen and embraced him. Their eyes were
full of love, their heads full of questions.

“Now, together, we can protect our herd,” Turgen said with satisfaction.

“But how?” asked Tim.

“Quite simply,” Turgen replied. “We have a custom which says that only
one hunter is permitted in a district. As I live and hunt here, and do
not molest the rams, they are safe.”

“But if you do not come close to them,” Tim persisted, “how can you be
sure they are the same rams you knew long ago?”

Turgen hesitated. “That I can’t know for certain, my boy, but a bird
can be followed by its flight, and an animal by its tracks. I saw their
tracks more than once. The same family? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing I
know well, that rams love to return to their native haunts. Naturally,
they avoided me, for how could they know I was their friend? Their life
was very difficult.”

Aksa’s eyes asked a question.

“Why? Food is scarce and the rams have many enemies: people the most
dangerous of all. They can fight a wolf, run away from a bear, but
a hunter’s bullet is faster than their legs. So they hide among the
mountain cliffs. And what kind of food is there? In summer, a little
grass and a few thin shrubs--in winter, nothing but half-frozen twigs
and old dry moss. Not very nourishing. It is no wonder the poor
creatures die out.”

Tim, who had been listening intently, now blurted out: “I think they
must be stupid to live in such places. All they have to do is come to
lower ground where there is plenty of food.”

“On the contrary,” Turgen told him, “they are smart. Where they live
there is sand and gravel and loose stones to warn them of the approach
of an enemy. Have you ever tried to walk quietly on gravel?... Well!
The rams had their choice--to live in terror of their lives below where
there is food, or to go hungry and free. The dead need nothing. They
chose to live and be free. In their independence they remind me of my
own people--the Lamuts. We too are dying out, but we are free.”

“The poor rams,” Aksa commented. “During a snow storm we keep a fire
burning day and night, but they have no way to warm themselves.”

“Yes,” Tim agreed. “And even with fire and food we do not have an easy
time of it in winter.”

Pleased to have aroused the sympathy of his young guests, Turgen
replied, “It is impossible not to pity these fine savages. Fortunately,
God has provided them with some things to help them in their struggle.
They are strong, have great endurance, and towards winter their wool
becomes thick and long. Moreover they are intelligent. You see how I
built my yurta between cliffs. In winter everything is so covered with
snow that there is not a chink for the wind to enter in. And wind is
far more dangerous than frost. The rams know this, so they seek for
themselves caves in the mountains where they too will be protected from
the wind. Their great misfortune is hunger.”

Tim considered a moment. “Is there no way to help them?”

“If we would, yes,” Turgen answered. “I have heard that in other
countries rare animals are protected by law. It is forbidden to hunt
them. But we have no such law, even for animals as rare and harmless as
these.”

“We could tame them and use them,” Tim offered. “One of our neighbors
has sheep and I have heard that mountain rams are wild sheep.”

Turgen shook his head. “So are dogs related to wolves. But there is
a proverb: No matter how much you feed a wolf, he will still long for
the woods. I have never seen or heard of a tame wolf. Wild rams are not
wolves, but it is impossible to tame them.”

“What about Lad? You tamed him,” Aksa interrupted.

“That is right. But Lad was very young, and at the time I got him he
was helpless. For a time he was satisfied to stay with me, but you
should have seen how eagerly he rushed to his father the instant he
heard his voice! When I called he turned his head and looked at me.
That was all.”

“Ah, how ungrateful!” Aksa exclaimed.

“It is not a question of gratitude at all. Imagine that you were lost
in the woods and hurt yourself. Someone found you and took care of you.
Then suddenly you saw your mother.... Wouldn’t you run to her?”

Aksa’s eyes opened wide. “But Mother and I are people,” she objected.

“So,” Turgen nodded, smiling. “But animals too have a feeling for their
own kind.”

Tim now came to his sister’s defense. “I think Lad should have stayed
with you. Then he would have been warm and well fed.”

Turgen answered with a question: “Would you leave your mother who is
poor to live in the yurta of a rich neighbor?”

“Oh, no, no!”

“I didn’t expect any other answer,” Turgen told the boy. “Our own
family always comes first. And sooner or later, looking at the
mountains, Lad would have been seized with longing to be there with the
other mountain rams. Only by force could I have kept him. Then, maybe,
by the second or the third generation....”

“Why didn’t you?” Tim wanted to know.

“Keep him by force? No. Better he should live in freedom.” Turgen
paused, and added, “Besides, I was afraid.”

“Afraid!” Aksa exclaimed in disbelief. “What were you afraid of?”

“The Great Spirit might have been angry,” Turgen explained, “had I not
given the lamb back to his family. I feared too that the people from
below might come and kill. If they could believe he was a devil in
disguise, they could do anything. There in the mountains he is safer.
It is where he belongs.”

Turgen rose. “Now come. It is time to sleep if you want to see my rams
in the morning. They come to gather on that near cliff at sunrise.”

After a day of such excitements, with the hope of more to come,
the children had hardly time to cover themselves with blankets and
quickly say a prayer than they were asleep. Turgen did not follow them
immediately but sat smoking by the fire. His face reflected joy in his
new fortune. In his heart too was a prayer.

“I thank Thee for the gift of this fine family, and for your goodness
to my rams who are also dear to me. Teach people to let them live in
peace. For nothing is impossible to Thee.”




CHAPTER 25

[Illustration]


Turgen was wakened next morning by the cold rushing in through the
chimney of the now dead komelek. He jumped out of bed, revived the
fire, put water to boil for tea and then stepped out of the yurta.

Before him were the mountains enveloped in a thick white-gray fog. He
peered in the direction of the cliff where he expected the rams, but
could see nothing. Anxiously he waited. They must come! The fog must
lift! He had promised the children.

When the rising sun sent its first golden threadlike rays into the sky,
slowly, slowly the fog moved up the mountains. Fearing to miss a moment
Turgen shouted from the door of the yurta: “Tim! Aksa! Get up! It is
time!”

The children scrambled from their beds and still in their bare feet
rushed to join Turgen. With eyes opened wide to miss nothing of the
spectacle, they saw for the first time day break over the mountains.
It was a dazzling sight. And as the mist gave way before the power of
the sun, there were the rams--shadowy silhouettes, then the whole herd
seen sharp and clear.

[Illustration]

The leader was standing in front by himself, with the others ranged
around him. They were posed as for a show.

“Look,” Turgen was saying. “There beside the old fellow is my Lad. See,
he is looking straight at us. I am certain he has told them about us.”

“Oh, they are beautiful!” Aksa exclaimed.

To her, their beauty was enough. But Tim’s thoughts went farther. “I
hope they will always come to this mountain,” he said.

“They will if we care for them and love them,” Turgen assured him.

The three stood without moving, watching as the leader ram signalled to
the herd and led them down the mountain out of sight. Even then they
were reluctant to let the moment go. The rams and the mountain against
the red-gold sky was something to keep forever.

Tim broke the silence, and his voice was a little sad: “Eh, Turgen, I
do want them to live in health so that we can enjoy them if only from
a distance. God save them from hunger and cold and wild beasts and
hunters.”

“So long as I live,” Turgen answered, “they will eat well and be safe
from hunters. But what will become of them after I die? This is my
worry.”

Impulsively Tim caught Turgen by the arm. “Then I will feed and
protect them. I promise you.”

“And I, and I, too!” Aksa exclaimed.

Turgen put his arm around the children. “Wonderful!” he said. “You make
me very happy. Feed the rams, love and protect them. The Good Spirit
will reward you for it, as He has rewarded me.”

Indeed, at that moment Turgen felt himself to be the happiest of men.




CHAPTER 26

[Illustration]


Wings of happiness lifted Turgen’s spirit in the days immediately
following his understanding with Marfa, until it seemed that the
world was a new and more beautiful place. He looked at the sky, the
mountains and the forest around him with eyes that appeared to see them
for the first time. Even his yurta, so dark and cramped, was larger
and brighter, though its solitary window was still covered with snow.
In the silence surrounding him he caught sounds of life filled with
excitement and promise.

“Is not all this a dream?” he asked himself. Then his common sense
answered: “No, it is not a dream, or there would be fear in my heart
that it would vanish. And my heart does not fear.”

He was very gay as he climbed the mountain to the clearing with food
for his rams. The herd kept out of sight, but he felt their presence
close by in the shelter of the cliffs.

“Hey there, my friends,” he shouted, “don’t hide yourselves!” And then,
because he had to confide his news to someone: “Life has now turned
her face to us and everything is going to be well. We are no longer
orphans. I will have a family, and it will be your family, too. Already
Tim and Aksa love you. And they have made me a promise. As for their
mother! Oh, that is a woman with a heart. The Great Spirit has blessed
us indeed.”

Turgen delivered his message with full confidence that the rams heard
and understood all that he said, and rejoiced in his good fortune. He
knew the proverb, “Every man forges his own happiness,” but his case
seemed to be an exception. For what had he done, he asked himself, that
he should be so blessed? Was it all, perhaps, a sign from the stranger
who came to him in his dream?

For three days his thoughts were rose-colored. But no mood will last
forever. Gradually doubts crept back into his mind and by feeding on
solitude grew into monsters.

“What kind of an old fool am I to be thinking of marriage at my age?”
they went. “How do I dare take on the responsibility of a family? Not
that I am unable to provide for them. But why should innocent people
have to share with me the ill-will of the Yakuts in the valley?”

Marfa was a fine brave woman. She and the children scoffed at the idea
that he was a sorcerer. But they didn’t know what it meant to have
their neighbors against them.

What was he to do? How could he explain all this to Marfa and make her
understand that his fears were for her and not himself?

That was the whole problem--to convince Marfa. It would require wisdom.
And where was he to find wisdom of the kind needed? Oh, what a muddle
it was, and all because of his pity for the mountain rams. How was it
possible that so much evil could come from good?

While his mind worried itself in this fashion Turgen went about his
daily chores hoping that the Great Spirit would grant him still another
sign, and save him before the final moment of decision. There was much
work to be done. There were the fishing nets in the lake to watch.
There was game to be hunted, and snares to be examined from time to
time. Also he had promised to sew new moccasin boots for Tim and Aksa.
Then on the following Sunday he would return to Marfa’s, when she
expected to decide upon the day for the wedding.

What this wedding would be like Turgen did not know. He remembered very
well his first marriage, which had taken place early in the autumn.
Several couples gathered outside the chapel and were united by one
ceremony. There was a small table holding a cross and a bowl of water.
A person called a monk read a prayer, sprinkled holy water over them,
and invited them to kiss the cross. Then a man wearing glasses wrote
down their names--and that was all. This had been long ago--so long
ago. How would it be now if Marfa was not persuaded by his reasoning?

It was good to be busy, for then he could not think too much.




CHAPTER 27

[Illustration]


Early Saturday morning Kamov was due to call with provisions. Turgen
knew that he had a credit with the merchant amounting to more than
three hundred roubles. Add to this the value of the pelts he had on
hand, and the sum would be about five hundred roubles. A lot of money.
It would buy not only necessary supplies but dress goods for Marfa and
the children.

“It might be well also,” he thought, “to get another cow and a good
horse.” For though he reasoned with himself against the marriage, he
could not give up hope. The merchant was a man to be trusted. He would
ask his advice.

That night Turgen tossed in his sleep and his dreams were troubled. He
dozed, wakened, dozed again and heard himself mutter: “But I cannot let
the poor creatures starve in order to convince stupid people that I am
not a friend of the devil. What kind of happiness would I have? No and
no!”

And then to his surprise he saw Lad at the door of the yurta, looking
at him with affection and saying in a human voice: “Why don’t you
sleep, Turgen? You know that I and my parents, and indeed the entire
herd, are praying for you. Sleep. All will be well.”

Turgen sprang from his bed, rubbed his eyes and looked around the
yurta. No one was there. Logs crackled in the komelek, the room was
warm and snug. Stepping outside the door he looked at the moon and
stars, worlds away, making bright patterns in the night-black sky. A
wonder, but distant from his thoughts just now. “Merciful God,” he
whispered as he turned back, “what is wrong with me? Am I ill that such
strange things haunt me?”

Suddenly something came over him, a feeling of peace and well-being
which seemed to promise that though he could not know the answers to
all his questioning, they would be revealed in good time. The Great
Spirit was on guard and would see to it. So, reassured, he fell asleep.

When Kamov arrived in the morning, Turgen greeted him cordially and
set about preparing refreshments. Outwardly he was calm but he had
difficulty keeping mind on what the merchant was saying. Once he caught
himself hanging an empty kettle over the fire, and nothing he wanted
was in its usual place.

Kamov could not help noticing Turgen’s distraction. Perhaps the man was
ill--worried. To live too much alone was bad. The merchant respected
the Lamut and liked him. He remembered with gratitude how once Turgen
had cured him of acute stomach pains, and he would return the favor if
he could. But it is not the habit of northern people to pry. There is a
right and a wrong time to ask questions.

So the two men ate while they exchanged news of no importance.
Afterwards they settled back to enjoy their pipes. From behind a cloud
of smoke Kamov spoke.

“You know, Turgen, you have a considerable sum of money with me.
Hundreds of roubles. Why don’t you spend some of it?”

“Yes ... Well ... I have everything I need....” Turgen stopped, not
knowing how to tell the merchant what was in his mind. “However, I have
been thinking of making quite a large purchase.”

Kamov saw that the conversation was taking an important turn.
Cautiously feeling his way, he said:

“I mention this because we are living at God’s mercy. If I should
die, no one would know how much I owe you. For I carry everything in
my head. You know yourself that most of the hunters are in my debt.
And your case is special. I should not like to go before God owing
you so much. It happens that I have brought with me a great deal of
merchandise. Friend, take as much as you like.”

“Why talk of death?” Turgen answered. “May God grant you many summers
and winters of life in good health. It is already more than thirty
winters that I have been dealing with you and I am not complaining.
Besides, who of us knows whose turn will come first?”

Kamov sighed, “Nor am I complaining. My health and business are very
good. I won’t hide it from you. I make a fair profit, and without
cheating. Maybe that is why God has blessed me with a comfortable
living and a fine family. I am surprised that you go on living alone.
It must be hard--ay?”

It was this question that Turgen needed to unlock his thoughts. He
took a long pull at his pipe before he replied: “It is difficult, very
difficult. But a change is about to take place in my life....”

Carefully he told the merchant all about Marfa and the children, and
how happy he would be to have a family except that he feared the
ill-will of the Yakuts in the valley would spoil everything.

“You know yourself,” he concluded, “that I am not a sorcerer. I
believe in God. I had thought to purchase quite a lot of your wares,
also to ask where I could get a good horse and cow. Then my household
would be complete. But what about this feeling about me? What was bad
before will be doubly bad if I have a family. I want to explain all
this to Marfa, but I don’t know how. God forbid, she might think me a
coward and afraid of responsibility. You are a wise man ... what do you
advise?”

Kamov leisurely emptied the ashes from his pipe, was silent a moment
and then said:

“You ask for advice? I’ll give it gladly. But this matter isn’t as
simple as it seems. It needs explaining. Yes, I’ve heard the gossip
about you--such lies I wonder anyone can believe them. You should have
spoken to me before. Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Turgen admitted. “But a man is ashamed to be thought a
partner of the devil.”

Kamov scratched the back of his head as he considered this.

“It is and it isn’t a matter for laughing. When I was young and a
hunter, a bear once rumpled me badly. But the wounds healed long ago
and now I feel no pain at all. Yet human tongues speaking evil can
inflict wounds no medicines will heal....”

He paused, filled his pipe and lit it. Suddenly a smile broke over his
face. “My friend, I have found a way out for you! Why didn’t I think of
it before? It is so very simple.”

Excited, Turgen jumped to his feet. “Then tell me. Help me.”

“Of course ... of course,” Kamov said reassuringly.

He rose, paced back and forth for a minute, and stroked his forehead as
if gathering his thoughts together.

“Turgen, you know that the Yakuts are like children. It is easy to lead
them astray with lying words. But no one can doubt that they believe
in God and fear the devil. No one. They are all Christians even though
many of them still run to the shamanists. It was the shamanist who did
you the greatest harm--because he was jealous of you. The people came
to you for advice and to be cured and you helped them without charge.
This took business away from him.”

“Maybe,” Turgen admitted.

“Believe me, it was so,” Kamov said positively. “And for that reason
the shamanist spread foolish tales about you--how with the devil’s help
you were able to make friends with the mountain rams. The simple people
could believe such nonsense because rams are known to hate the scent
of human beings--so why would they eat the food you brought?... No, the
Yakuts are stupid no doubt, but not evil. They just believed the first
thing they heard. Now--”

Kamov paused dramatically.

“My idea is this. The Yakuts are Christians. They believe in God. You
and Marfa are Christians. That being so, you must be married in the
Christian manner. You see how simple it is. Once you are joined in
God’s temple by a priest, who will sprinkle you with holy water and
give you the Gospel and the Cross to touch, not a soul will dare to say
that you are a friend of the devil. Believe me, faith and prayer--they
are the best answer to slander. Do you understand?”

Turgen nodded. “I feel that you speak the truth, Kamov. Tell me, what
must I do? Go to a priest? That will be about sixty miles, but I can do
it easily on my skis. What shall I say to him? I have never in my life
had anything to do with a priest. And this is a delicate subject....
Teach me, my friend!”

Kamov patted Turgen on the shoulder, pleased to have his advice so
well received. “Don’t excite yourself. You need do nothing. I will see
to everything myself. The priest is a friend of mine. You will make
a donation to the church and pay the trifling expenses--that is all.
Thank God you are not a poor man.... And now we must set a day for
the wedding. What would you say to Sunday, two weeks from now? Time is
needed for preparations, and I want to spread news of the wedding among
the valley people. Father Peter, as you know, is greatly respected. I
shall tell the Yakuts, too,” Kamov added with a sly wink, “that I will
be your best man. Popov can give the bride away. Everyone looks up to
him, and besides he lives close to the chapel. Do you agree?”

“I agree to everything. Thank you. Thank you,” said Turgen gratefully.

“Well, then, all is settled. Just don’t say anything to Marfa. I will
see Popov at once, and arrange for a party at his house after the
wedding. He’s a good man and I do a lot of business with him. He won’t
refuse. About the cow--we will buy that from Popov. One hand washes the
other, you know.” Here Kamov winked at Turgen again. “As for the horse,
that will be my present, as best man, to you. But there is one thing I
ask of you.”

“Yes, yes,” Turgen interrupted. “Anything.”

“I know that you are not a drinking man, Turgen. Perhaps you do not
approve of others drinking. But the Yakuts will not think it possible
to celebrate an occasion as important as a wedding without both prayer
and vodka. Nothing too gay because you aren’t young any more. Just
enough to wet their throats and lighten their hearts.”

Turgen smiled. “Why not? I have no objection. I do not drink because
many years ago I took a little too much of the poison, and when
returning home I lost my way, fell into a hole and almost froze to
death. That experience taught me a lesson, and I promised my wife that
never again would I touch a drop of the stuff. However, it is not for
me to sit in judgment upon others. Our guests must be free to do as
they please.”

“Good!” Kamov exclaimed. “That’s a sensible and just way to look at it.”

Kamov remembered at this point that his horses had not been fed or
watered.

“It’s a pull up the mountain, too,” he explained, “though fortunately
the snow is not deep. Come help me bring the merchandise indoors where
you can examine it. If I don’t have everything you want with me, I’ll
get it from my store and send it direct to Marfa.”

As Turgen selected from Kamov’s stores all the things he wanted for
Marfa and the children and the new home they would have together there
was joy in his heart. Thinking of the pleasure his purchases would
bring, he considered that he was performing one of the most important
acts of his lifetime. And this feeling of exaltation stayed with him
long after Kamov had left.

“No, the world is not lacking in kind people,” he reflected. “How good
it is to open one’s heart to a friend.” Truly it was a miracle that
the Great Spirit had sent Lad in the night with the promise that all
would be well. And how comforting to know that he, Turgen, did not bear
his responsibility alone, but that Someone greater and wiser than he
commanded his life.

He did his chores that evening as if wings lent lightness to his feet.
After emptying the nets and snares of game, he rushed to feed his rams.
“Eh, my darlings, if you could only know how happy I am!” he called.
But the herd did not show itself.

Then before re-entering his yurta, he stopped by the grave of his wife
and son. “Long ago you went away from me, but still you are close,” he
addressed them, and his words were a prayer. “This is the place above
all places where I find peace. I have come to you often with my grief,
so now let me come to you with my joy. Give me your blessing, that I am
to be alone no longer. What have I done to deserve this I do not know,
but who does know the Great Spirit or the extent of His generosity? May
His grace be with us all, forever.”

Such a day must be concluded in a fitting manner, so Turgen got out
his reed and played and played until it seemed the walls of the yurta
could not contain so much melody. He sang of hope and joy and beauty
and peace of soul. And finally he slept dreamlessly, hearing still the
music of his own creation.




CHAPTER 28

[Illustration]


The next two weeks sped by. There were visits to Marfa and the
children, plans to be made and discussed. And several times Kamov
called to report cheerfully that everything he had undertaken to do was
progressing splendidly.

According to him, the people of the valley were at first completely
overwhelmed by his news. “Have you heard? Turgen is going to marry the
poor widow Marfa.” The word spread like fire. What seemed to occasion
surprise was not that Marfa was marrying a Lamut, but that Turgen was
taking upon himself the burden of providing for her and the children.

Once that fact was accepted, everyone--men and women--had something
to say about the wedding. A real wedding, in their own small chapel,
with a service performed by Father Peter himself. And after the
ceremony--greatest marvel of all--there was to be a feast in the yurta
of the Bailiff Popov, with the doors open to rich and poor, young and
old. The people of the valley boiled with excitement and amazement.
“Just think of it, Father Peter himself will marry them! What a
blessing! The Father will travel sixty miles just for that! Such an
event does not occur every day.”

Gradually, in the eyes of the people, Turgen was becoming a highly
respected man, and Marfa a fortunate woman to get him for her husband.
She was younger than he, but that was considered no obstacle so long as
a man was strong and not bad looking. Moreover, Turgen was well-to-do.
The woman who got him, said the wives sagely, would not have to work
hard.

Public opinion was so strongly in Turgen’s favor that when someone
mentioned carelessly his friendship with the devil, the gossiper was
hissed into silence. “Keep your mouth shut,” bystanders ordered him.
“Would the priest have consented to give his blessing if what you say
were true? No. How is it possible that a sorcerer could cross the
threshold of a chapel? No and No. People were just talking nonsense.”

Only the shamanist failed to express an opinion. Those who tried to
seek him out and question him were put off by the woman Stepa who
announced with authority, “The great shamanist is ill and unable to
talk.” But she gave it as a fact that he had nothing against the
marriage.

This was enough to convince the shamanist’s ardent supporters that they
were free to approve Turgen’s action and attend the wedding. Their
approval was strengthened daily by rumors of important Yakuts who would
be among the guests. And outweighing all else was the fact that Kamov
would be best man. The merchant was held in such excellent regard that
any project he supported must surely be above suspicion.

“As long as Kamov is his friend, who dares to be Turgen’s enemy?” the
Yakuts asked of one another. And so the word was passed along and the
day of the wedding arrived.




CHAPTER 29

[Illustration]


From early morning a large crowd of men, women, and children gathered
near the chapel. At the hour set for the ceremony a sigh of approval
went up as ten sleighs appeared drawn by white horses whose tails and
manes were braided with multicolored ribbons. Around the animals’ necks
tinkling bells were hung, and their harnesses were dazzling.

“Not a bishop or a governor would be ashamed of such horses,” said one
watcher to another.

In the first sleigh, driven by the eminent Popov, rode the priest with
his psalmist, at sight of whom the men uncovered their heads and the
women bowed low. Behind the priest rode Turgen with Kamov. Then came
Marfa with the children and the wife of Popov. And behind them notables
of the district with their wives.

It was a real procession, grand enough to satisfy the most critical.
Even nature rejoiced. The sun was out and the snow sparkled under its
rays.

The priest descending blessed the people, the chapel’s single bell
boomed out, and the guests crossed themselves as they knelt.

With difficulty everyone crowded into the small chapel, for no one
wanted to miss this most unusual event. There was a feeling of
expectation and awe.

Blessing the people again, the priest began to pray:

“Brothers, sisters, let us pray to the Lord God for all our people and
for the prosperity of our great land.”

It was a brief prayer, and after that the wedding service started.

Turgen felt himself to be in a trance. Never before in his life had
he been the center of so much attention. The burning candles and the
singing moved him to wonder: “Is it possible that all this is for me, a
poor Lamut? What have I done to deserve such grace from God?”

He was in fear of making an awkward movement that would mar the
service. But the priest lent him support with his kind, understanding
eyes, and from time to time when the questions were incomprehensible,
Kamov came to his assistance. Marfa beside him was solemn and composed
as she whispered what seemed to be a prayer, but when their glances
met her face lighted with a smile of quiet happiness.

To the children it was all part of an enchanting fairy tale. This was
what their mother meant when she said that Turgen would become their
father! It was no more than fitting, of course, that he should be paid
such honor. For was not Turgen the greatest of storytellers and the
kindest of men? So thinking, they crossed themselves fervently.

Still in a daze, unable either to think or to pray in such magnificent
surroundings, Turgen got through the ceremony, made a sign opposite his
name in a big book, and was taken to the home of the Popovs, where the
tables groaned under mountains of food. There was frozen and smoked
fish, steaming hot soup, slabs of venison and other meats, and finally
delicious cloudberry with frozen cream.

After a few tumblers of vodka, the place was filled with friends who
slapped him on the back and showered him with good wishes. Fortunately,
Kamov noted his embarrassment and saved him from the noisiest guests,
while at the same time he saw to it that the supply of vodka was
limited. There was enough for gayety--and no more. The presence of the
priest also was a sobering influence.

It was much later and time for the party to end when Kamov rose and
called for silence.

“Friends,” he said, “let us wish Turgen, Marfa and the children a
long and happy life. There is a custom among us to give gifts to the
newlyweds, and for my part I am giving them a fine horse, with harness
and sleigh. I hope they will do me the honor to travel to their home in
it this night.”

He was about to say something more, hesitated and then exclaimed: “Hail
to the new family!”

The company broke into enthusiastic applause. “Fine, fine! Okse! Okse!”
It was an excellent speech, everyone agreed. No one could have done
better.

Not to be outdone by the merchant, Popov now got to his feet: “And I am
making the new family a present of one of my best milk cows.”

Others, stirred to generosity by the prevailing good will, shouted
above the hubbub declaring their gifts. Afterwards all trooped out to
the yard to see Turgen off, on the invitation of Kamov who longed to
hear the horse and sleigh admired.

After seeing that Marfa and the children were made comfortable for the
ride, Turgen took his seat and to the accompaniment of gay, friendly
voices urged the horse into motion. Soon the voices were left behind.
The forest closed in on either side and there was nothing to be heard
but the pounding hoofs, the creak of runners, and the cheerful tinkle
of a bell around the horse’s neck.

Marfa touched Turgen’s arm. “It is like a dream,” she said. “Such kind
people.”

There were many things Turgen might have said in answer. But why
remember evil? So he only looked at his wife and smiled.

Aksa, who had been unusually silent, now spoke up: “Turgen--Tim and I
have decided to call you Father. May we?”

“Indeed you may,” Turgen responded heartily. “And just when did you
decide this?”

“Oh, as soon as we left the church.”

Turgen nodded. “I see. So that is settled and I suppose,” he added
slyly, “you have no other problems.”

“Yes, I have,” she retorted. “I want to know what we are going to call
this horse.”

Turgen deliberated.

“Would Friend be a good name?”

“Yes, very good!” the girl exclaimed.

Tim, impatient with his bold, talkative sister, could hold in no
longer. “It seems to me we have a great many animals. But to whom will
the mountain rams belong?”

[Illustration]

Turgen felt a surge of love for the boy. Half-jokingly and
half-seriously he answered: “Yes, we have the beginning of a fine
household. But the rams belong to God, and they will always be His. You
and I can only guard and care for them. You remember you promised.”

Then, his heart so full of happiness that he did not trust his voice
to express it, he grasped the reins and shouted to the horse: “Come
Friend. Hurry! We are going home.”

The horse quickened its pace, the children shrieked in pleasure, Marfa
and Turgen looked at each other and smiled. Not one of them doubted
that they were rushing full speed toward a new and a good life.




CHAPTER 30

[Illustration]


Since that day many years have passed. Turgen and Marfa saw the
children grow up, and as the children grew their own well-being
increased. Wealth was never theirs, but they had enough for their
wants, and any visitor was assured of a welcome place by their fire.

The Yakuts, conscious of their guilt before Turgen, did their best
to make up for their past behavior and show their respect. Even the
shamanist, now very old, came one day to beg forgiveness. When Turgen
said to him, “We’ll forget the past. Come and be my guest,” the
shamanist was so touched that he told everyone “Turgen is one of the
kindest of men. There is more wisdom in his little finger than in my
old head.”

So the old injustice was buried.

Gradually others came to settle near Marfa’s yurta, until a large
settlement sprang up around the lake. As they planned, Turgen and his
family lived in the valley during the winter and in the mountains
during the summer. Though a great change had come into his life, he did
not forget his rams but cared for them as before. When age made him
feebler, he had a fine assistant in Tim who was young and strong.

Turgen lived to see his Lad the leader of a herd of his own. Then one
day, not long after Tim was married, he departed quietly for the other
world where Marfa had already gone.

“Do not forget my poor rams and God will be merciful to you,” were the
last words he spoke.

Tim and Aksa were faithful to their promise. In time there were four
herds in the mountains instead of one. And the rams no longer fled
pell-mell at the sight of human beings. Perhaps, as Turgen believed,
this was because of Lad and the things he had learned during the period
of his accident. Whatever the explanation, the rams of this region
lived in peace and flourished, while the people too knew comfort and
abundance. Surely the Great Spirit, who saw all, had given His blessing.

       *       *       *       *       *

_So it was that I, a visitor by accident to Turgen’s mountain country,
found proof that my teacher spoke truly when he said: “Everywhere there
is life and everywhere there are warm human hearts.”_




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

  New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
    public domain.

  Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77051 ***