Olonkho. P. A. Oyunsky

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СКАЧАТЬ am giving you my blessings!

      Urui-aikhal!

      For you to be the foremother

      Of many happy generations.

      I am stroking your thigh

      To relieve your pains,

      You will increase your wealth

      During the next nine centuries,

      You will make your home famous

      During eight centuries.

      Hush, my child,

      I have told you your future!

      Hush, I have blessed your life, urui-aikhal!’

      As soon as she had finished,

      The foremother of the Sakha,

      Sabyia Baai Khotun, cried out loud

      Like a fidgety snipe.

      As soon as she strained herself,

      Groaning and screaming,

      A boy with a strong and frightful temper

      Arrived quickly

      Out of her sacred thick womb.

      A boy quite contrary –

      One could not dream

      Even in one’s worst nightmare,

      Of such an amazingly alert baby.

      He was as big as a well-fed nine-year-old boy.

      His long and wavy hair

      Hung over his shoulders,

      The size of an eight-year-old boy

      Of a well-to-do couple,

      Obstinate that no one ever expected

      Hot-tempered like a foal,

      He plopped down on his back and began to cry.

      Afterwards, the dear baby

      Turned his head over

      Like a pike

      Flung upside down onto the ice,

      Fell loudly on the floor.

      Jumping hurriedly to his feet

      As hard as a lump of stone,

      Strode noisily to the door,

      About to run away…

      The stone crossbeams

      Of the eight-layered floor

      Of the large, spacious house

      Shook and bulged,

      The eighty posts that never trembled

      Moved and shuddered,

      The ninety supports that never vibrated

      Moved up and down,

      The high, thick ceiling

      Heaved apart by a distance of four fists,

      The smooth, strong floor

      Dropped by a distance of six fists.

      The sired father,

      Stood attentively,

      Grasped the boy

      Like a fierce, wild bear,

      Overpowering the boy with his weight,

      Wound the boy’s curly,

      Shoulder-length golden hair

      Round his strong hand,

      Wrapped up the boy

      As fidgety as a foal in the fell

      Of a six-year-old horse

      And tied him firmly

      With a horse-hair rope.

      ‘Am I the kind of man

      Who would let my baby run away?’

      He said to himself boastfully.

      Then he added:

      ‘Now I have become a Sakha.

      I have a son to inherit from me.

      I have become a father.’

      He stood, guarding and looking at his wife –

      Next to her there was such a sweet girl

      Of a never-before-seen beauty,

      With a vivid and hot temper,

      Who was flapping about,

      Crying loudly,

      As if saying that

      She had come into this world

      To bloom and flourish…

      Sabyia Baai Khotun,

      The foremother of Sakha,

      Having turned blue

      From the pain and despair,

      Opened her eyes,

      Recovered her breath,

      Then tenderly took

      Her crying girl

      In her soft silver hands…

      Ejen Ekhsit for young women,

      Akhtar Aiyyhyt for elderly women,

      Nelegeldjin Ekhsit, Nelbeng Aiyyhyt

      Walked up to her calmly,

      Her long hair fluttering in the air

      Like the mane

      Of a mare in the meadow,

      Her head raised high

      Like a mare’s in the field.

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