Читать книгу Siberian Hearts - James Anderson - Страница 3

From the air, if anyone were unfortunate enough to be so far off-course, the small Siberian village looked like a greasy spot on a white blanket. The north edge of the village was lined with tall pine and birch, in which dwelled evil spirits, or so the villagers believed. Southward, a narrow meandering path eventually morphed into an eastbound road leading to Yakutst, a large city which had begun as a river port a few centuries back. To the west rose foothills constantly covered by snow except for the rare years when ancient looking rocks pushed their way to the surface. The east gradually sloped downward for about a mile until it leveled off into a thick forest, or, as the Yakuts called it, the tiaga.

The village, which had many names, mainly contained families belonging to a single clan. They were a humble people, generous and sweet, mostly ignorant of what lay beyond their borders and happy to be so. Ignorance is bliss only to the ignorant; consequently, they were, for the most part, blissfully happy.

The majority of the village consisted of yurts, all of which were made from animal hides stretched over pine and birch poles, looking like some tired giant sat on a few American teepees until they became short and fat. As the more ambitious men returned from working in cities or serving in the Russian military, they tore down their yurts and built wooden houses with stone or brick stoves and windows and thick plank floors. A few of these wooden houses stood like older brothers supervising siblings.

The village was located some miles to the northwest of Yakutsk, the capitol of Sakha, a Siberian republic in the far Eastern regions of Russian Asia. Ten miles from the village’s eastern boundaries lay the mighty Lena River, four miles across from bank to bank, even though it was still nineteen hundred miles south of its final destination.

In the winter, the river froze solid enough for large trucks to travel on, bringing supplies to the suffering city of 250,000. And, every June, when the ice melted, the Lena became a vibrant waterway, carrying countless ships loaded with everything from Chinese vegetables to American movies.

On the western edge of the village, just before the downward slope to the taiga, Little Natalya Bombla left her cousin’s yurt and stepped into the sparkling darkness. The night was clear with a full moon and Natalya could easily see her way through snow reflecting the lunar light like neon playing off silk. It was February, 1987, in the heart of Siberia, and a thousand miles of snow and ice and trees lay in every direction, waiting to ambush any living thing, daring all creatures in a frozen sneer to try the cold’s supremacy.

Natalya, like all of her village, was Yakut, a hardy tribe of indigenous Siberians. For many years, Natalya’s village had been overseen by her uncle, the good and wise father of her cousin Wolf Eyes. No one knew the old man’s age but he was growing very weak with the chest sickness and would soon take his place among the spirits of their ancestors. She was comforted to know that his spirit would watch over her as she grew. She loved her uncle very much and he loved her.

It was so cold that her breath froze and fell to the snow, making a slight musical sound the Yakut called the tinkling of the stars. It was so cold that she could hear trees explode in the distance. Squatting outside of the yurt, the girl slipped on the snowshoes she had made from flexible branches laced with reindeer gut and walked quickly through the village to her own yurt. There was a thick layer of fresh snow on the ground but she moved quickly and surely, as if she were born to the snow and cold, for indeed she was.

She looked into the night sky and saw the bright curtains of light furl and unfurl across the starry expanse like some mystic king’s giant, luminescent banner fluttering in a celestial breeze. She watched for a moment. God’s Curtains, as the Yakut called the northern lights, were always so beautiful. Even she, no matter how many times she viewed the spectacle, stopped and gazed in awe. Some waves moved faster, some slower. Each was unique and breathtaking. She shifted her eyes to locate the North Star and looked for the movement of horses, a game she always played with herself. The Yakut believe that the North Star, the only immovable part of heaven, is the stake to which the gods tether their horses.

As she passed her cousin’s sled dogs, none of them moved. It was cold and, if they did not need to expose their faces to the air, they wouldn’t. As she walked, she passed a young man of nineteen, her cousin Stefan, who had been checking on his valuable dog team.

He spoke in Yakut, a Turkic language their people had brought with them from far to the south hundreds of years earlier. People who hear the language for the first time think it is beautiful and melodic, like a lilting, syncopated mixture of Gaelic and Italian.

“Little Bird,” he said with mild surprise, “What are you doing out here?” It was at least sixty degrees below zero. Who would be out unless there was a need?

Her smile reflected in her oriental eyes; and, if he could see through the heavy horsehair scarf which covered her mouth to protect her lungs from the frigid air, he would see teeth as white as the snow around her. Natalya held up the small package she was carrying and spoke with great excitement. “Wolf Eyes gave our Babushka and me some horsemeat to eat. We still have some vegetables and dried fish. We will have a feast!”

Stefan smiled. The girl’s sweetness and prettiness were always a source of pride for their clan. “Ah,” he said, “Wolf Eyes is a good cousin to all of us. Have a peaceful night, my pretty little cousin.”

“And you as well, my cousin. I hope the spirits are kind to you.”

To the Yakut, everything has a spirit - trees, rocks, rivers, streams, even human waste is said to be a ribald old man dressed in sleek, brown furs, boastful but secretly afraid of being eaten by dogs.

Natalya reached the small door of her yurt. Stepping inside, she removed her snowshoes and brushed the snow off of her bearskin clothes and out of her thick, jet-black hair and smiled at her babushka, her grandmother. She skipped to the center of their yurt and sat on her small, three legged stool made by one of her uncles. She was so excited that she almost kicked the urine bowl placed by the door. She lifted one of her grandmother’s toeless feet and began to rub. For one so young, she had very skilled hands. Her grandmother felt great love in the girl’s hands.

Her babushka had lost the toes of both feet to frostbite when she was in her early thirties. It was the time that Natalya’s grandfather, her papuska, was three days late from a five-day hunting trip. Natalya’s babushka, at the time seven months pregnant with her ninth child, left the children with the oldest girl, fourteen year old Anna, the mother of Natalya’s best friend and cousin, Ludmilla, and walked the four miles in the minus sixty-seven degree night to the next small group of yurts to see if there was any news. There was. The man her husband had gone hunting with came back just an hour before, his right arm and chest lacerated by a Siberian Tiger. Natalya’s papuska was dead, his throat torn opened. Everyone was sorry. But, what could one do? Their advice to her was, as soon as the baby was born, work hard to find another man. She was a handsome woman and was known to keep her husband content.

Natalya’s grandmother was so distraught that she became disorientated on the way back to her village and ended up spending too long in the freezing darkness. As a result, she lost her baby, her toes, and two fingers on her left hand. Her babushka felt that no man would want her after that so she never looked. She and her six living children, three boys and three girls, took care of themselves. The boys hunted and fished and the girls gathered what food they could. As was the Yakut custom, family members and neighbors often brought fresh meat and other food. It was the hardest life imaginable and one more child, a pretty girl with a sickly constitution, died before reaching adult hood.

Babushka’s youngest daughter, Natalya’s mother, was a Yakut beauty who married a Russian driller searching for oil in the same area where the village was located. Ten months later, Natalya’s mother had given birth to Natalya. The young wife was just sixteen and died in the process. After that, her father, a forty year old but still very handsome alcoholic, ran off with another woman, leaving the baby girl to the care of her sweet babushka. He was never heard from again.

Now Natalya was twelve years old, and grateful to give her babushka any comfort she could. Her babushka was the kindest and best person she knew, and today was the promised day. Today her babushka had promised Natalya that she would see the face of the man she would marry. After all, she was a woman now and would soon have a family of her own and give her babushka great grandchildren to hold and fuss over and keep her old bones warm.

Her babushka, because of the hard life she had lived, was granted a special gift by the wonderful spirits, the icci, which watched over their village and land around it. It was the gift of seeing with her soul; it was the gift of knowing what was to come; it was the gift of knowing the hidden good from the hidden evil.

Many years before, the Russians rounded up the shamans from all the tribes and herded them to the gulags, the Siberian prison work camps, where they died along with everyone else in the camps. Between three and four million people died in those camps - Siberian shamans were well represented.

Now, her babushka was the closest thing to a shaman the village had. She was not a real shaman; she didn’t have the heavy shaman’s coat with the hanging iron bones representing her own skeleton, nor the hanging bronze snakes representing knowledge of the other world levels; she didn’t have the shaman’s drum which, during a trance, became a horse to carry the shaman to other world levels. And her gift didn’t always work; no, she wasn’t a real shaman, but she understood fire and she understood bones. To the Yakut, bones represent the primal connection between generations. Natalya’s babushka taught her early to preserve the bones of animals and never break them. Many times, after she and her babushka ate an animal, Natalya would carefully gather the bones and bury them or place them in a tree in respect for the animal’s spirit.

Natalya’s babushka, furthermore, did not want to be a shaman. The Yakut people expected more from a woman shaman than a man shaman. The Yakut elders said that the first shamans were women and, even now, when a shaman approached the Master of the Forest, the Great Spirit living in the taiga, he donned a woman’s headdress and carried a woman’s weapon, the bow. Her babushka had always told Natalya that she did not want a shaman’s responsibility, which were varied and many; nevertheless, she was still greatly blessed by the icci, and what she did say always came true.

But the sight wasn’t always given to her. Sometimes it just didn’t come. When it didn’t, the old woman told whoever sought the knowledge that the sight wasn’t working that day. If they came back later, it might work then, or maybe the tree spirits were mad at the person for some reason. Did that person forget to tie a cloth or food to the spreading branches of the sacred trees, or ask permission of the tree spirits to pass? Who knows? A Yakut could offend the icci in a thousand different ways.

But tonight, her babushka had told Natalya she would see the vision for sure. The old woman had already seen Natalya’s husband and the girl would not be disappointed. He would not be what she expected, but she would not be sorry, and her’s would be a love and life which would inspire song stories to be sung for many years in countless yurts. Natalya asked again and again for some small hint of who he was and what he looked like but her babushka only smiled and told her to be patient.

But tonight was the night and Natalya was prepared. As soon as she saw her vision, Natalya would draw his face. She had a great talent for drawing, and drew every chance she got, as long as she had the materials, whatever they might be. She used everything from her own blood to charcoal and drew on paper, cloth, bark, stones, it didn’t matter - she had done it all.

As she rubbed her babushka’s feet, her dark eyes watched the old woman’s pupils dart around below her closed eyelids. Yakuts mostly resemble Japanese. No one in the village knew why, and very few people in the village had even seen a Japanese; but, they were told they resembled them and they believed it. The Yakut were a believing people.

The old woman’s sunken lips made unintelligible sounds. She hadn’t a tooth left in her head, and Natalya always chewed food for her and fed her like a bird. That’s why her clan called her Little Bird. That was fine. She would do anything for her babushka.

Siberian pine crackled in the open fireplace. Her uncles and cousins came often and cut wood for them, considering it their responsibility. It was just the two of them now living in the old yurt. Babushka’s children had their own yurts filled with growing families or had moved to work in Yakutsk where, most of the time, there was work for the Yakut, low paying and miserable, but work. There was mining, lumber, and hides to cure. And there was always the large boot factory just to the north of the city. The reindeer skin and felt boots produced there were world famous. Yes, if a Yakut worked until his bones ached and hands bled, there was usually enough to feed a family and maybe a ruble or two left over for some vodka.

But the true Yakut preferred the taiga, the never-ending pine and birch forests. The Yakut were called the “horse people,” and the wealth of a Yakut in the taiga was gauged by the number of horses he owned.

After rubbing for a few minutes, Natalya gently place the old woman’s foot in a comfortable position and quickly prepared the horsemeat and positioned it over the fire. She also warmed the dried fish and vegetables. She watched her babushka and listened to her chant prayers to their ancestors. Natalya did not interrupt her, knowing her babushka was preparing to show her the man she would marry. This task would take great spiritual energy and Natalya did not want to break her babushka’s concentration.

When the horsemeat was done, Natalya bit off some of the hot, savory meat and chewed it sufficiently for her babushka to swallow. Then she moved next to the old woman and, placing a hand over her babushka’s chin and one over her forehead, she parted the old woman’s mouth and, covering it with her own, pushed in the masticated meat with her tongue. The old Yakut’s eyes opened and she smiled at her granddaughter, tasting the wonderful meat and relishing its warmth.

Natalya repeated the process with more horsemeat, the dried fish, and the vegetables until her babushka raised her left hand indicating she was done. The girl then ate, taking small bites and tasting each morsel. Food was sometimes scarce in winter and the girl wanted the excellent taste to last as long as possible. If it were not for her family, Natalya knew that she and her babushka would starve to death.

When Natalya’s stomach was sufficiently full, she carefully wrapped the remaining food in scraped, chewed-to-softness hide to be eaten the next day. Then she took a cup of melted snow and placed it to her babushka’s lips. The old woman drank and smiled, letting the clear, clean water dribble down her chin onto her reindeer shirt. Then Natalya drank from the same cup, still listening to her babushka’s invocation to the spirits on her behalf.

The old woman suddenly stopped mumbling and opened her pitch-black and oh-so-penetrating eyes. “Hey, Little Bird, I see your pretty eyes. You grow more beautiful every day.”

Natalya smiled. “Thank you, Dear Heart. I am very happy that I please you.”

“Are you ready to look at your husband?”

Natalya’s eyes grew wide in anticipation. “Oh, yes. Many times yes. May I see him now, Dear Heart?”

“Yes, Little Bird, you may see him now.” Her babushka’s eyes narrowed slightly. “But, you must understand, he will not come into your life quickly. He is in a place as far from here as he can be, farther away than you can imagine. You must have faith in my words and marry no man until he finds you. Do you understand, Little Bird?”

Natalya was confused. “Yes, I understand. I must wait for a man from very far away. Will he be from Moscow?” Moscow seemed a million miles away.

The old woman cackled. “Oh, no, Little Bird, much farther than that. And when he speaks he will sound ridiculous and you must work very hard to understand him. It will not be easy but you must do this thing. Everyone in our village will be better because of this man.”

Natalya marveled. Farther than Moscow? How could that be? There was no world beyond Moscow.

“Will he come from the stars, Dear Heart? Like the old stories?”

The old woman was thoughtful for a moment. “No, I do not think that will be. He is from this world, but a part we know nothing about. That is why you must wait until he finds you. It will take a long time, Little Bird. But, do not lose faith in my words. He will come. I promise. Do you understand?”

Natalya nodded her head vigorously and thick black hair shook and shimmered in the firelight. Then she smiled in excitement. Her Yakut features from her mother and her father’s heritage blended nicely in her. She was small, but would be well proportioned and a great beauty. This made her grandmother smile.

“Are you ready, Little Bird?”

“Yes, Dear Heart. I am ready.”

The old woman grunted to her knees and poured some koumiss, or fermented mare’s milk, into the fire as an offering. The fire spirit was very important to the Yakut. He was a talkative gray-haired old man in perpetual motion and only shamans and newborn babies understood him. Trash or any other unclean things must never be thrown into the fire for fear of contaminating it and offending the old man. Also, women and young girls must never step over the fire because their menstrual blood was considered unclean and would defile the fire’s purity. At every meal, an offering of food or drink must always be given to the old man to make him happy so that he would give protection and good fortune to the family.

Natalya’s babushka, after offering sacrifice to the fire spirit, sprinkled some crushed hallucinogenic fly agaric mushroom into a wooden cup of koumiss and handed it to Natalya. The girl took it and drank. Then the old woman stood and hobbled to the bed of firs at one end of the yurt. She groaned as she lay down and pulled the reindeer hides over her. She motioned for Natalya to come. “Little Bird, lie here with me and you will see a wonderful thing.”

The girl quickly moved from the stool to her grandmother and snuggled against her. This was one of her favorite things, feeling her babushka by her and listening to her strong heartbeat and watching the fire light dance.

“Now, Little Bird, close your eyes and dream and you will be glad.”

Hours later, Natalya woke and heard her babushka snoring evenly. The fire was almost out and it was extremely cold. Natalya jumped up and rekindled the fire very quickly. She was very practiced at it because it had been her duty for as long as she could remember. When the fire was again blazing, beating back the cold and casting shadows on the walls and low ceiling of hides, Natalya quickly went to her small box to get the clean paper and short American pencil to draw what she had seen. The face in her dream was very different. But it was a kind face, a gentle face, and a strong face, but it was like no face she had ever seen before. She used her right hand for most things. But for drawing, she used her left. Her mind translated what it saw better to her left hand.

She was a very bright little girl - all of the people involved in her learning said so. Although she did not start speaking Russian until she began attending the tiny school on the edge of the village, she was already fluent. She continually did more than she needed to, and borrowed books constantly. She could read, write, and speak Yakut and Russian. She loved learning new things but her true love was art. She could already draw much better than all of her teachers. Some day she hoped she would learn from a real art teacher.

She took a long time with her drawing, being careful not to make a mistake. She only had a little eraser and that was greasy and would smudge the paper. She hated that. She started with the shape of the jaw and thin lips like some Russians she had seen. Maybe he was a Russian. Then she drew his nose and cheekbones. Very different. Not high and wide like a Russian’s, but more like the pictures she had seen in old American and English magazines at school. Could he be an American or an Englishman? No. How could that be? She drew his hair - brown, not black. She liked that. Then she drew his forehead. It was not wide like the men she had seen. But the most interesting part was the eyes. They were very manly but light blue like the summer sky. They were very kind but mysterious and piercing. She was glad to see that there was much courage behind the eyes. She sensed he would protect her. It was good to have a husband who protected you.

After a long time, she finished. She sat the paper down and stared at it, memorizing every part of it. She glanced at her babushka and saw she was awake. Natalya smiled.

“Thank you, Dear Heart. I am very pleased.”

“As we all will be, Little Bird.”