“You’re not hungry?”
“The doctor fed me.”
Yuzuf calls Leibe “the doctor,” as does Zuleikha.
He unclasps his arms, releasing his mother. He’ll be eight soon, and he’s very tall, already taller than her shoulder, so if he keeps growing this fast, she’ll have to lengthen his jacket sleeves again, take apart his pants, and let down the hem. His hair is shaggy – Zuleikha doesn’t shave him bald, as people did in Yulbash, because his hair will keep him warm in winter, like a second hat – his nose is sharp, and his round eyes large. He’s taken after his father in height and build, but it’s immediately obvious his face is hers.
Yuzuf grandly takes her bag, grasping it with his hands, slinging it over his shoulder, and lugging it (he would have gladly carried his mother’s rifle, too, but Zuleikha doesn’t allow that); his fingers, the nails chewed off, are spotted with yellow and blue.
“Playing around in the paints again?”
He’s recently taken to visiting Ikonnikov at the settlement’s clubhouse, to draw. Remnants of plywood scribbled with charcoal and pieces of paper covered with fat pencil lines have started turning up at home. Yuzuf’s clothes are gradually becoming covered with smears and spatters of bright colors. The paints Ikonnikov uses to make his agitational art are durable and don’t yield to the Angara’s cold water, remaining instead to forever brighten Yuzuf’s pants and shirt, sewn from someone’s old dresses, and on the large men’s shoes inherited from some settlement resident or other. Zuleikha doesn’t approve of her son’s pursuits but doesn’t forbid them either, since it’s better that he dirty himself with paints than knock around the taiga alone. Yuzuf senses his mother’s stance and doesn’t talk much about the clubhouse.
“Tell me about Semrug, Mama.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times.”
“Then tell me a thousand and one.”
Zuleikha has shared with her son all the folk tales and legends she heard from her parents when she was a child: about shaggy, long-toed shurales, who tickle tardy forest wayfarers to death; about a certain unkempt water spirit called Su-anasy, who can’t untangle her mane of hair with a golden comb for a good hundred years; about the serpent Yuma, who turns into a beautiful girl by day to tempt young men and drinks their lifeblood at night; about fire-breathing azhdakha dragons that hide in the bottom of wells and devour women who come for water; about silly and greedy giant devs, who steal brides; about the powerful, narrowed-eyed Genghis Khan, who conquered half the world, casting the other half into fear and trepidation; and about his admirer and follower Timur the Lame, who completely destroyed a good hundred cities and built only one in return – the splendid Samarkand – over which huge golden stars shine from a sky eternally blue in any weather… The story of the magical bird Semrug is Yuzuf’s favorite.
“All right, listen,” Zuleikha agrees. “Once upon a time there lived in the world a bird. Not just any bird but a magical bird. Persians and Uzbeks called the bird Simurg, Kazakhs said Samuryk, and Tatars say Semrug.”
“The bird is named the same as our settlement?”
Yuzuf invariably asks that question and Zuleikha invariably answers, “No, ulym. The names are just similar. And this bird lived on top of the highest mountain.”
“Higher than our cliff?”
“A lot higher, Yuzuf. So much higher that wayfarers, whether on foot or on horseback, couldn’t reach its top, no matter how much they climbed. Nobody could see Semrug – not wild animals, nor birds, nor humans. They knew only that his plumage was more beautiful than all the worldly sunrises and sunsets combined. At one time, while flying over the faraway country of China, Semrug dropped one feather, clothing all of China in radiance, so the Chinese themselves turned into skillful picture painters. Semrug was not only splendidly beautiful but his wisdom was as boundless as the ocean.”
“Is the ocean wider than the Angara?”
“Wider, ulym… One time, all the birds on earth flew to a big celebration to revel together and rejoice at life. The festivities were spoiled, though, because the parrots started arguing with the magpies, the peacocks quarreled with the crows, the nightingales with the eagles…”
“What about the hazel grouse?” Yuzuf touches the round little bird head that’s dangling on his mother’s belt and looks like a colorful egg.
“With the ducks,” says Zuleikha, turning the dead drake’s green-tinted black head toward the hazel grouse: the birds’ motionless bills bump, as if they’re pecking each other.
Yuzuf’s laugh rings out melodiously.
“And from that great quarrel there arose in the world such a hullabaloo that all the leaves began falling off the trees and all the animals grew frightened and hid in their burrows. A wise hoopoe flapped his wings for three days, calming all the enraged birds. Finally, they settled down and let him speak.
“‘What is the use in spending our time and energy on factions and feuding,’ he told them. ‘We need to elect a shah bird among us to lead us and bring quarrels to an end with his authority.’ The birds agreed. But here was the question: who should be elected as their head? They began squabbling again and a scuffle nearly broke out, but the wise hoopoe already had a suggestion. ‘Let us fly to Semrug,’ he proposed, ‘and ask him to become our shah. Who, if not he, the most wonderful and most wise on earth, should be our sovereign?’ This speech went down so well that a large brigade of eager birds prepared right then and there to make the trip. The flock soared into the sky and set off for the highest mountain in the world, in search of his illustrious highness, Semrug.”
“A flock as vast and black as a cloud,” Yuzuf adds.
Yuzuf follows along attentively, not allowing even one detail to slip from his favorite story, and Zuleikha must retell it as she learned it from her father, word for word.
“Yes, that’s right,” she corrects herself. “A flock as vast and black as a cloud soared into the sky and set off for the highest mountain in the world, in search of his illustrious highness, Semrug. The birds flew day and night, not pausing to sleep or eat, until the last of their strength was all but gone, and finally they reached the foot of the mountain they had been seeking. There they had to abandon flight, as the path ahead could only be trodden on foot. For it was only through suffering that they could ascend to the top.
“The mountain trail led them first to the Valley of Quests, where birds who were not striving hard enough to reach the goal died. Then they crossed the Valley of Love, where those suffering from unrequited love remained and dropped down, lifeless. In the Valley of Insight, they lost those whose minds were not inquisitive and whose hearts were not open to new things.”
Yuzuf strides alongside Zuleikha, silent and puffing from exertion (the hare in the bag is heavy after feeding well during the summer). “How can the heart open itself to knowledge?” Zuleikha wonders aloud. “The heart is the house of feelings, not of reason.” She trails off for a moment, straightening the birds on her belt, and Yuzuf impatiently urges her on.
“In the treacherous Valley of Indifference… Come on, Mama!”
“In the treacherous Valley of Indifference,” Zuleikha continues, “there fell the most birds of all – those who could not make equal in their hearts grief and gladness, love and hatred, enemies and friends, living and dead.”