Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 50

The boar was placed in front of Skolot. Apparently the Scythians considered it a special treat, because now the gray-haired warriors and hunters moved closer to the boar, appraising it carefully with the eyes of connoisseurs.

Skolot gave a signal to Varkan. The young Scythian pulled a short, wide knife from its sheath and began carving the meat, deftly as usual, separating the big pieces. The servants took the carved meat to the guests. But they still waited for some signal to begin eating. It was only when Skolot himself picked up a piece of meat and bit into it that the rest began eating; evidently, it was the host, the chieftain who was to open the feast. The Scythians gobbled up the meat, tearing it with their fingers or cutting pieces off with knives. The hot juice ran down their hands, arms and faces, staining their clothes and the carpets. But nobody seemed to notice or care; everyone was too occupied with the food. Even the rich Scythians who up till then had preserved a haughty and dignified demeanor, discarded it and gobbled up the meat exactly like the others.

The servants continued scurrying back and forth now, bringing wineskins with oksugala and placing them before the guests. Oksugala was poured into the bronze bowls and much clinking was heard as the toasting began. The voices of the Scythians grew louder.

Suddenly Skolot raised kis hand and a servant handed him two gold cups bound together.

“This must have some special significance,” Dmitro Borisovich whispered. “A ceremony of some sort shoud follow shortly!”

Another servant began filling the gold cups with oksugala; the chieftain stopped him with a nod, as if to say “enough,” and raised the cups in a gesture of greeting, turning to the strangers.

“He’s going to drink our health, isn’t he,” Lida said to Artem in a low voice.

“Let him drink,” he answered, also under his breath. “I only hope they won’t go pushing that oksugala on me, because I can’t stand the sight of it just now…”

The chieftain put the cups slowly and ceremoniously to his lips and emptied them in one long draft, stopping only pnce to move his lips from one cup to the other. Then he flung them to the ground. Then followed cheers from the Scythians, who hurriedly raised their cups and bowls and drained them. The women began singing a solemn, moody song.

Meanwhile, Varkan had handed Skolot another big golden bowl, and a servant, holding a wineskin full of oksugala, with two hands, filled the bowl. The oldest and most distinguished of the hunters approached the chieftain and received the bowl from Skolot’s hands. Moving carefully, he bowed, stood up straight, and drank the oksugala. The Scythians evidently considered it a great honor to receive a bowl of oksugala straight from the chieftain’s hands. This honor was extended only to those guests who had proven themselves worthy of the chieftain’s respect. The oldest hunter was followed by the other old Scythians, all of whom received the golden bowl, constantly refilled, from Skolot’s hands.

Neither did the rest of the Scythians lag behind in consumption of oksugala. Their bronze bowls began ringing louder as they were filled and refilled. The confused murmur gained in strength and rose to a hubbub as the guests exploded in laughter every so often.

“It’s frightening… what’ll happen when they all get drunk?” Lida said, moving closer to the archeologist. But he assured her:

“You don’t have to worry, my dear girl. As I recall, ancient people knew when to stop, unlike so many of our ‘civilized’ contemporaries. Everything’ll be all right!”

“Look, the next act in the show is beginning,” Artem said in a low voice.

“Yes, look over there! There’s a very old man walking to the dais!” Lida exclaimed, forgetting her fears.

And indeed, a man, very advanced in years, was approaching the dais, supported on either side by two youngsters. The chieftain raised his hand in greeting. It grew a lot quieter as the Scythians evidently held the old man in great respect.

Wearing a long white robe and a white fur hat, he walked slowly and silently, his eyes staring unmovingly upwards, his withered hands resting on the shoulders of the two young men. Wherever he passed loud laughter and talking died away, and heads were bowed as people hurriedly made way for the old man. His progress was slow; he seemed hardly able to move his feet; it was surprising that he had any.strength left in him to move at all!

“But he’s blind!” Lida said in a mild shock.

The old man’s blank eyes were still turned upward when he at last arrived at the dais; Skolot greeted him deferentially. The old man replied, and his voice sounded surprisingly strong and deep, as though it belonged to a robust middle- aged man rather than to one so old.

He was helped to lower himself onto one of the carpets covering the dais. His eyes kept staring blindly upwards and his lips were moving, but no sounds came out. There was a sudden splash of tambourine music that died a few moments after it began only to be followed by the sounds of bone fifes which also lasted a few moments and reminded the explorers of a military call. An absolute silence descended over the place — all talking and laughter ceased. All the Scythians were now looking at the old man sitting on the dais. The old man continued moving his lips silently as though he were saying a prayer known only to himself.

Dmitro Borisovich leaned toward Varkan:

“Who’s that old man?”

“He’s the oldest and most respected of the Scythians,” Varkan replied, never taking his reverential gaze off the old man. “His name is Ormad. He was born so long ago that nobody remembers when. But he remembers our fathers and grandfathers as children. Ormad is said to have been so great a warrior and hunter that no one had ever risked a contest with him. Now he lives in his kibitka and is held in great esteem. He appears in public only on the most important occasions to tell people the stories of the glorious events of the past.”

“Is he going to tell one of his stories, now?” the archeologist asked, his eyes shining with anticipation.

Varkan nodded his head:

“The tambourines and fifes gave the signal that old Ormad would come out soon to recite a story. Now everybody’s ready to listen,” and Varkan embraced the audience in an all-encompassing gesture.

“Varkan, good man, I beseech you to begin translating everything the old man says as soon as he starts. Will you do it, please?” the archeologist said, his voice full of supplication. “You just can’t imagine how important it is for me!”

Varkan was quick to agree; so far he had done everything the strangers had asked him to do.

In a few words, Dmitro Borisovich related to his friends the essence of what Varkan had told him; they appeared no less interested than the archeologist himself.

“So, Varkan is going to interpret what the old man says… That’s good… But Dmitro Borisovich, will you do us a favor and translate everything for us immediately after Varkan’s interpretation?” Ivan Semenovich said in a voice that left no room for arguing. “You’ll do it, won’t you?”

But Dmitro Borisovich protested:

“It’s still rather difficult for me, you know. Besides if I do the interpreting I won’t be able to concentrate on the story itself, I just won’t be able to remember everything that’s been said… I won’t be able to write it down…”

“Don’t let that worry you, Dmitro Borisovich; we’ll all help you reconstruct the details. There’s even a marked advantage to having the story of Ormad lodged in four heads instead of only one,” the geologist said, clinching the argument convincingly, so Dmitro Borisovich had to give in.

The old man stopped moving his lips silently, passed his frail hand slowly over his tarnished mustache that was no longer white but had yellowed with age. Now the silence was absolute, and he began speaking solemnly at a well- measured pace. At the same time, the double translation began.

“Hearken ye to the story of Ormad. Give ear to what I shall tell you! Oh Skolots! Oh far-famed chieftain, Skolot, listen to my tale, and you, Hartak, the chieftain’s young son, don’t miss a word! All of you, old and young, warriors and hunters,rich and poor, listen to my tale! Everyone, listen! And you, strangers who have come to us from some mysterious land, listen as well! All of you must know that no one save old Ormad can tell you of the glorious deeds of the Skolot people in times long past! So listen! No one, except for old Ormad has the knowledge of what he has heard from his great grandfathers, tales passed from one generation to another! No one knows these stories except for old Ormad who does not have long to live among you!”

He stopped as though searching his memory, and Artem whispered hurriedly to the archeologist:

“Why does he keep calling the Scythians ‘Skolots?’ Anything to do with the chieftain Skolot?”

“No, rather the other way round. The Scythians called themselves ‘Skolots,’ or so we can assume. In fact, it was the Greeks who called them ‘Scythians,’ and we borrowed the name from the Greeks, but, naturally, Ormad would use the native word — ‘Skolots.’ But hush now! The old man has begun speaking again!”

“I’ll tell you today of the memorable war in which the Skolots fought the invading forces of the mighty Persian King Darius who had gathered thousands of troops to invade the Skolots’ lands. Listen to me, all of you! Old Ormad will speak of the glory and bravery of the Skolot warriors, of the wisdom of the Skolots!