Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 48

“There’s more to it than just being real brothers. I can’t say for sure what it entails; I don’t remember all the details. You’ll have to ask Dmitro Borisovich. He’ll gladly explain everything.”

Meanwhile, Varkan was standing there holding the bowl and listening to the exchange of incomprehensible words. Artem still had his doubts:

“What if I refuse to participate in this… err… blood drinking ceremony? What happens then?”

“I don’t know, but I think it’d be a great offense for Varkan. Just think the situation over carefully: Varkan is so filled with gratitude to you that offers to become your blood brother — how can you reject his offer? I think it’s impossible. Go ahead, Artem and do what’s expected of you.”

“Oh, well, all right. But do we really have to have all this blood?…” Artem protested feebly, but he had already.realized that Varkan would take his refusal as a grave offense, so he simply had to accept the offer. He gave his hand to Varkan, but not without reservations.

The Scythian made a quick cut in Artem’s forefinger. Artem made a wry face — a rather disgusting custom to his mind.

Several drops of Artem’s blood fell into the bowl and were mixed with the blood of the Scythian. Varkan raised the bowl solemnly. The old Scythian poured some of the oksugala into the bowl. Varkan pulled out his sword, sat down beside Artem, and offered him the bowl. Lida, who had been watching the scene intently, urged Artem on, a smile on her lips:

“Take your sword out of the sheath, too, Artem. That must be how they do it. Then drink from the bowl. I hope you’ll tell me how it tasted!”

“Stop teasing,” Artem said with annoyance. But he pulled put his sword, took the bowl from Varkan with his free hand, and then without any further hesitation, pressed his lips to the edge of the bowl. Varkan, still holding the sword in one hand, put the other hand across Artem’s shoulders, leaned forward and carefully put his lips to the edge of bowl.

“Go ahead, drink! You should do it together, at the same time!” Lida exclaimed.

The oksugala was thick and fragrant, and Artem failed to detect any unpleasant flavor. But it would hardly have been possible to taste the few drops of blood in the whole bowlful of oksugala. Then Varkan put the empty bowl aside, embraced Artem, and kissed him on the mouth, his brown curly beard tickling Artem’s chin.

“How does it feel, blood-sucker?” Lida said archly, giving Artem a piquant look.

“Not too bad. Quite tasty, this oksugala. It’s even better than what we had with Skolot. And I didn’t taste the blood at all. Ha-ha.”

Artem felt that the oksugala had gone into his head. How much of it had he drunk? No less than a quart… And all at once… Had some new faces appeared in the kibitka? Many warriors… or hunters? It made no difference… some women… all of them must have entered while he was drinking the oksugala… A great thing, incidentally, oksugala, just grrrreat! So, now, they were blood brothers, he and Varkan, right? Verrry interesting… a fine custom too, verrry fine custom!

To Artem, everything looked slightly out of focus; he liked all the faces around him. Everyone was looking at him in such a brotherly fashion, smiling at him so amiably… See, now, they’re nice, but that morning by the altar, they had shouted threats and imprecations… But was it really worth remembering all that? They’d just been hoodwinked by Dorbatay… In fact, all the Scythians were very nice people, really. What a shame he couldn’t speak Scythian; he’d tell them all how nice they were… But why were they making so much incomprehensible noise?

Varkan was once again telling the story of the hunt, this time to the Scythians who had gathered in the kibitka. As he talked, he repeatedly pointed to Lida, then to Artem. Once, he even jumped, evidently illustrating how Artem had leaped down from the tree and struck the boar with his sword. The Scythians expressed their approval of the young stranger’s courageous behavior with cheers. They regarded Artem with new respect, giving him friendly smiles.

Artem was already past the stage of the initial embarrassment, probably, due to the oksugala he had drunk, and felt quite at ease now, taking all the respect offered him in stride, and, in his turn, watching the Scythians.

Among them was a tall, bearded Scythian wearing a leather helmet, a sword at his side. Artem was sure he had seen this man before at close quarters, especially when he noticed two sword cuts on the helmet that were crudely stitched together. But where had he seen this Scythian before? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. There had been so many faces, so many things he had seen, so many adventures he had lived through in the last two days. Was the old Scythian who had brought the meat and milk, and then the oksugala, and was now listening so attentively to Varkan by any chance Varkan’s father? Their faces definitely bore some resemblance — the high forehead and aquiline nose. And if one looked behind the wrinkles of old age… There were several young Scythian women present who were listening to Varkan with absorbed interest, their chins resting on their hands, exactly as so many women of so many other cultures and epochs would have done!

New voices could be heard outside. A moment later, the felt flap was thrust aside and Artem saw Dmitro Borisovich walk in briskly. The moment he was inside, he began reproaching Artem and Lida:

“Look at them, sprawled on the carpets! And we’re waiting for them at Skolot’s, worrying sick about what might have happened to them, the young rascals! But they don’t seem to care at all! Now, get up quick and let’s go! Oh, you’re quite drunk, Artem! How do you account for this state of intoxication? What have you been celebrating?” Artem felt greatly discomfitted, and Lida said teasingly: “He’s been celebrating his blood brotherhood with Varkan. They drank oksugala mixed with blood together. And there was a lot of oksugala too!”

“Not that much!” Artem said sulkily.

“Blood brothers indeed! Really? Without my being present? Artem, that was very inconsiderate of you! You shoudn’t have performed this ceremony in my absence! It’s such an interesting custom, and isn’t it a shame I’ve missed it! That was selfish of you to leave me out of this! Egoistical even, I would say! Ignoring the necessity of scientific observation!”

“I couldn’t help it, Dmitro Borisovich! Varkan insisted on expressing his gratitude. And Lida also said that I should…”

“What gratitude? For what? Don’t tell me now! Let’s go! You can tell me everything on our way to Skolot’s, but you must give me a very full account, without omitting even the tiniest of details. By the looks of things, this custom corresponds well to the stage of development of these Scythians. You may begin now, my friend, I’m all ears.” The archeologist said a few words to Varkan, and they left the kibitka, accompanied by the Scythian.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Skolot holds a feast and drinks from a gold bowl; the blind Ormad recites the story of Darius, the Persian king, and his invading army which received special gifts from the Scythians; Ivan Semenovich is beset by worries and Dorbatay arrives to ruin the mood of everyone at the feast.

There was an open space in front of the huge kibitka of Skolot, trampled smooth by innumerable feet and covered with carpets and hemp mats. Big wagons and kibitkas, mailer than Skolot’s, circled this open space in an almost continuous wall, with only a few narrow passages left between them; the area thus enclosed looked like an amphitheater.

In the center of it, on a dais, with multi-colored carpets all over it, sat Skolot. Next to him reclined the most honored guest, Ivan Semenovich. The geologist maintained a very lively intercourse with Skolot consisting entirely of gestures. What the two of them could make out of such a conversation remained a secret to everyone except the participants, and they seemed quite satisfied with the results.

Hartak, sitting close to Skolot, too, had put on sumptuous clothes for the occasion. But there seemed to be nothing that could adorn this man, and not because he was a cripple! His deformities were the least of the reasons; it was his wicked face with its constant expression of disgusted displeasure, twisted in a disdainful grimace of mistrust that made him so repulsive that no garments, regardless of how fine they were, could alter the impression. He never looked anyone straight in the eye, but avoided meeting even a chance gaze. His lips were dry, and tightly pursed; his small, uneven teeth could be occasionally glimpsed when he talked; the forced smiles would at times appear on his greenish-gray face only to slide into the usual grimace.

The elders who had distinguished themselves in battle and hunt sat around the dais. They wore tall leather helmets, adorned with gold decorations, their white stringy hair hanging in long strands. These old warriors and hunters with long mustaches and gray beards had won the right to be sitting close to the chieftain by their bold deeds.

A little further away sat influential members of the tribe and wealthy Scythians of high rank. They kept their distance from the distinguished old warriors and hunters and, naturally, from those of lower rank. These people looked dignified and haughty, hardly noticing anything around them, and talking only among themselves in low voices.