Olonkho. P. A. Oyunsky

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      Were settled following a great decision

      Of the highest deities

      To increase unbridled horses and white furs,

      To look after whole-hooved horses,

      With long bushy manes,

      Which graze on the meadows

      And along the rivers.

      Straight to the west if you go,

      Where the double yellow sky

      Like the comb-shaped clouds

      Hangs down sluggishly,

      Breathing out rain and snow,

      Where the rim of Mother Earth

      Becomes round

      Like the rim of a leather vessel,

      Where nine great violent rivers converge,

      Roaring,

      Eight mighty remote rivers join in,

      Swirling and bubbling,

      Seven rivers with green grass banks

      Meet together.

      A blacksmith was settled

      To forge the weapons

      For the thirty-five tribes:

      Hard, bloodthirsty edges

      Ready to attack thick flesh,

      Grinding and choking,

      Steely, fiery weaponry

      Ready to go after fresh blood,

      Yelling avidly,

      Violent, bloodthirsty blades

      Obsessed with fresh, red blood,

      Armour and an arsenal for warriors,

      Quivers and bows,

      Clothing for fortune-telling.

      The blacksmith’s name was

      The old man Kytai Bakhsylan⁵⁶

      With gloomy thoughts and an evil disposition

      He was settled to be the forefather

      Of three malicious tribes.

      At the passage to the three worlds

      On a hideous hill

      Icy Muus Sorun the mound ⁵⁷

      Of awful reputation

      With bumps in three places,

      And a hole on its top,

      As if from the Ajarai tribe of the Under World

      From its divided eight kins,

      A young mare of two years

      Was brought and slaughtered there

      As it was walking proudly

      On the white snow,

      And it fell on its side

      Its blood gushing

      Crimson red on the snow.

      The flames in the furnace of Kytai Bakhsylan

      Were dancing with red fire…

      The iron surface of his anvil

      Was as solid as the forehead

      Of a six-year-old bull

      Struck on its head as it was

      Staggering along the alaas

      And it fell on its knees…

      His gleaming anvil

      Was clanking and clinking

      From the hammer blows,

      The famous noisy and deadly bellows

      Of Ketteny blacksmith,⁵⁸

      Were made of the hairy skins

      Of forty-four stallions’ backs.

      His black bloodthirsty sledgehammer

      Was like a huge post

      Of a wealthy house,

      His pincers were shrieking,

      His file was squealing,

      Like his wife

      Fire-Uot Kyndyalana⁵⁹

      Of the tribe Uogan Khan,⁶⁰

      With whom he shared his bed,

      So they were settled at the far side

      Of the hazardous Middle World

      To be the source of the

      Three vengeful clans…

       Straight to the east if you go, Where the radiant white sky becomes as soft As suede and hangs down smoothly, Where the sky borders the earth…

      The master of humans,

      The best of the Upper World,

      The one who was of the wisest,

      Who had ink made of eagle blood,

      A pen made of an eagle feather,

      The one who had records made of stone

      From that very time

      When the Motherland was created,

      The bow-legged,

      One-kharis-bearded,⁶¹

      Old man Serken Sehen⁶²

      Was settled here to be a fortune-teller,

      To predict the future,

      To СКАЧАТЬ