Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 40

Some of the bigger kibitkas were adorned with various charms and decorations. Colored strips of cloth were fastened to the tops and entrances. Their purpose was to chase away evil spirits. Bronze decorations were sewn onto the felt, mostly around the entrance. There were many ornamental dishes, plates and vases of different sizes and purposes inside the kibitkas. The richer the owner was, the more elaborate were his possessions.

Close to one of the kibitkas, Artem saw something that puzzled him: on a string leather attached to two poles were hanging what seemed to be very tiny pelts of different hues — black, whitish and red. What kind of animals could have supplied such tiny pelts?

Artem even turned his horse to ride over to the poles to give the pelts a closer look. Varkan immediately joined him, ready as always to offer his help in whatever problem might arise. Quite forgetting that Varkan could not understand him, Artem asked, pointing to the strange pelts with his hand:

“What animal did those pelts come from?”

Varkan looked where Artem was pointing and smiled; then, nodding his head he drew Artem’s attention to the bridle of his horse. To his great surprise Artem saw similar pelts there too.

“Oh, yes, the same kind! What are they?”

The intelligent Scythian did not need any interpretation: he raised his hand to the top of his head, moved his hand swiftly and circularly around it, and then jerked the hand upward as though tearing something off the head. Artem stared silently, failing to comprehend the explanatory gestures. Varkan repeated them, this time around Artem’s head. He even tugged Artem’s hair slightly and then immediately pointed to the shrivelled pelts on his bridle. A wide genial grin extended his lips.

Only then did it begin to dawn upon Artem what in fact the strange pelts were. But no, it couldn’t be true… He glanced once again at Varkan and then at the pelts. Then he called Dmitro Borisovich.

“What is it, my friend?” the archeologist called back.

“I’m not sure I’ve understood Varkan correctly,” Artem said quickly. “I’m very curious about these pelts. Judging from Varkan gestures, they are scalps! But how could that be?”

“Not only could that be, but they are scalps,” the archeologist said quietly. “Of course, Varkan would use a different word, but whatever the word is in the Scythian they are scalps all right!”

“Oh, my, how awful!” Artem cried out involuntarily.

“From his point of view there’s nothing awful about it, but quite the contrary, an honorable distinction. American Indians are the best known case of this tradition. Of course, the Scythians should be given an absolute priority here, and there’s no need whatsoever to look for any connections. The thing is that the Scythians had a custom of scalping their slain enemies. The scalps, attached to the bridle, were the evidence of the warrior’s manliness, intrepidity and cunning in battle. We see that this custom has been preserved in our tribe, and Varkan is proudly displaying his scalps. He may even be surprised that you don’t have any. He holds you in high esteem. I’ll ask him now what he thinks of that.”

The archeologist spoke to Varkan and the Scythian was quick to reply. Then he detached one of the scalps from the bridle and handed it to Artem.

“Oh, why is he doing that?” Artem asked in genuine surprise.

Dmitro Borisovich burst into laughter.

“Isn’t it wonderful! Varkan wants to make you a gift of one… err… pelt.”

“Why should he?”

“He says he’s got many of them and his friend Artem has none. He says it would look nice on the bridle of your horse. Ha-ha! Isn’t it extraordinary! Mind you: to give you this gift is a very noble thing for Varkan to do. Varkan is parting with an enemy scalp — a thing of great value to him! — in order to please his guest!”

“I can’t say I’m too pleased!”

“From the point of view of Varkan you should be. Now, you must make up your mind whether you accept or refuse it.”

“What am I going to do with it, Dmitro Borisovich?” Artem said. “I understand that for Varkan, it’s a sign of distinction, but why should I have it? Besides, my stomach turns wherever I look at this… scalp. No, I won’t take it.”

“But, mind you, Artem, that Varkan might take offense,” the archeologist said, this time quite seriously. “You are refusing a gift that has been offered you with the best intentions from the bottom of his heart.”

But Artem had already found a way out of the awkward situation:

“Tell Varkan, Dmitro Borisovich, that in our country… or whatever you would call it in your interpretation — there’s no such custom of wearing… err… pelts. So, I thank him very much but plead with him to attach it back where it belongs. Will that be a good enough excuse?”

“Let’s hope it will. I’ll translate what you’ve said to him.”

The explorers continued on their way through the Scythian camp. The more they saw, the more Dmitro Borisovich’s archeological enthusiasm grew. Could he, for example, even have dreamt, under any other circumstances of seeing a real Scythian tooth-puller at work?

They stopped at a kibitka where many people were gathered. The Scythians made way for the equestrians, abiding by Scythian custom: those on foot must always make way for riders, because anyone who was mounted was both literally and figuratively higher. The people at the kibitka did so in silence and rather glumly, but recognizing Varkan among the riders, greeted him cheerfully. This made Artem wonder once again why Varkan enjoyed such popularity among the ordinary Scythians.

A bearded old Scythian was kneeling before the kibitka. His hat was pushed far back on his head, and tears rolled from his eyes but he held his mouth open with resolve, clutching convulsively at the felt of the kibitka. Another Scythian, probably related somehow to the soothsayers as he was wearing a long woman’s dress and a short cloak with small plates of bronze sewn to it, was stooping over the older Scythian yanking at something in the man’s mouth with a huge pair of pliers. The sawbones’ face was bathed in sweat, large drops of which accumulated on his forehead, wrinkled in concentration and effort. The operation must have been going on for quite some time already, judging from the condition of both patient and doctor.

The “patient,” who continued to kneel with resignation, groaned and howled, supporting his chin with his hand from time to time. The “doctor” told him sharply, even savagely to hold still, pushing his head backward from time to time with his hand.

“Oh, what a terrible way to treat a man!” Lida cried out in indignation.

“But, my dear girl, progress in dentistry has left some of the principle things unchanged,” Ivan Semenovich protested. “In our dental clinics, with all their sophisticated equipment, you’d still have your tooth pulled out barbarious- ly with pliers of improved design no doubt, but pliers all the same. As far as I’m concerned it doesn’t make a great deal of difference whether the patient is sitting in some dentist’s chair or kneeling, or whether the pliers are nickel- plated or not. The operation of extracting a tooth seems to have remained basically unchanged for thousands of years.”

But Dmitro Borisovich, evidently impressed, was watching every movement of the tooth-puller closely. At last he cried out excitedly:

“It’s extraordinary! It’s the scene from the electrum vase found in the barrow of Kul-Oba come to life! The vase is decorated with the scenes of Scythians practising dentistry! And now I’m witnessing it all for real!”

An electrum vase?” Artem said. “Are you sure you’ve used the right word? What does ‘electrum’ mean, Dmitro Borisovich? If you wanted to say ‘electric’ I don’t see how that could apply here either…”

“Of course I’m sure!” said the archeologist sharply. “Electrum — a natural alloy of silver and gold. Shame on you, a student of geology! You should know that, by the way!”

Artem only shrugged as if to say, he didn’t think he was supposed to know about electrum.

“This yanking of teeth you call ‘practising dentistry’?” Ivan Semenovich said sarcastically. “You express it much too delicately, my dear friend, even if we take into consideration your emotions concerning ‘electrum.’ I wonder how loud you’d screech if you were subjected to such a crude procedure…”

At that moment, something snapped inside the old man’s mouth, and the pliers produced a jagged piece of a tooth. Lida uttered a cry and turned away. The “doctor” examined the tooth fragment carefully and shook his head, evidently dissatisfied with the result, then pushed the patient who had already begun to rise, back to his knees, and once again thrust the pliers into the long-suffering “patient’s” mouth. The operation continued!

“I think I’ve had enough of this spectacle, my friends,” Ivan Semenovich exclaimed. “I’m quite fed up with it in fact. Let’s move on.”

He turned his horse around, looked into the distance and said:

“There’s something over there! Look at that party so blithely having their lunch!”

There were six Scythians sitting on the ground around a fire some distance away. They had taken off their leather and felt hats and put them on the ground and seemed quite oblivious to anything save their food. A large bronze cauldron was suspended over the fire; steam was rising from it. Every Scythian held a chunk of steaming boiled meat in his hand, and once in a while, tore off a large piece with his teeth, chewed with gusto, washing the meat down with oksugala drawn from a big vessel standing on the ground by the fire.