Understandably, a guest who arrived in such a manner was offered a warm welcome. Still panting and shaking, the old woman was seated on the good felt mat, which usually stayed rolled up behind a stack of clothes and was brought out only for guests of honor or rare visitors. She was welcomed and pitied by the grown-ups and eyed with curiosity and wonder by the children. The children had come galloping, a whole horde, even before the visitor was helped off her saddle, while the grown-ups showed up one by one—the first one with her baby at her breast, the next one with the hide she was tanning, the third holding the piece of clothing she was sewing—each in turn repeating more or less what had already been said and asked. Grandma, too, replied to the questions and the gentle chiding with almost identical words—getting chided of course because she had been careless enough to get involved with a horse that wasn’t docile.

Grandma’s horse was a mare that used to have a dark gray coat but, getting older, now looked almost white. The mare was anything but wild, but had once been attacked and badly mangled by wolves. Ever since, she had been shy of dogs. She foaled each year but the late-winter snowstorms, the wolves, and Hööshek all taken together had managed to ensure the mare remained Grandma’s one and only mount.

On the stove, the best tea was being prepared. The best tea meant that in addition to milk and salt a very fatty, floury paste was added to the concentrated tea. The tea was the result of a communal effort. Each woman who had comfortably settled her girth between door and stove made herself useful. The curiosity of the horde of children grew with the smell of burning fat and flour. They could not wait to find out who this person was who had a man’s head and a woman’s voice. Because they were not allowed to enter the yurt like the grown-ups or even to stand in its doorway, they kept walking past the door to steal quick, inquisitive glances at the yurt’s inside. That almost made them ache.