The mare was worn out. And as for the one she had served, her time was coming, too, to go and to leave to someone else the space her life had filled. But that time had not quite arrived. Grandma was still alive, and she still crouched next to me. She watched me and took delight in seeing me thrive. I asked her a thousand questions a day, and she never tired of explaining to me all the things I came across and didn’t understand, just as she never tired of telling her stories. She had much to tell, had lived for a long time, and had maintained an open mind. She knew no haste and would dwell on some stories for days. If I asked, she told many of them over and over. Her memory was good, like a well-ordered bookcase. She never had to search but seemed to keep her stories handy, each bound like a book, titled, and likely numbered as well. With her, details mattered, as did every word.

Often I asked for the story of the Dökterbej Mother.

Th ugh I found it hard to believe, it must have been true since Grandma said so: She, too, had once been a child. One day, she was herding the flock of sheep. It was early summer, and each day was longer than the one before. That particular day seemed especially long and boring to her, so she decided to visit a yurt on the other side of the steppe. She left the flock to graze and rode off. Because the distance was considerable, she rode quite hard. As she approached her destination, the yurt’s dog ran out to meet her. She slowed her horse to a walk, and only then noticed that it had begun to sweat. She was horrifi d. What if the person who was about to step out of the yurt and restrain the dog was a grown-up? He would immediately see that a horse had been ridden into the ground when the rest period for fattening had already begun!

An old woman stepped out of the yurt. Grandma, or rather the child she then was, recognized her immediately and was even more horrifi d. The woman was dreaded: everybody called her the Black Hag, and some mothers used her name to scare their young children. Th se who felt kindly toward the old woman called her the Dökterbej Mother. Dökterbej was her son. Most of the stories that were told about her were terrible.

The old woman was indeed very black. Her face and her hands were smeared with soot, and her clothes were jet-black.

Out of habit, the mount went up to the yurt. Had it been up to the rider, they both would have fled. But there on the yurt’s sunny side the child now sat in her saddle, having ended up in front of the Black Hag, and the young Grandma was too scared even to say hello. The old woman looked at her, grimly it seemed, and said: “Your horse is sweating as if it’s been ridden by the devil himself, and you’re still sitting there above it as if you can’t even get off by yourself—now how’s that?” Her voice sounded hoarse and mocking but not, by and large, malicious.