Grandma was still deep in thought, as one could tell by looking at her. It was not until everybody prepared for the night that she finally spoke up. “You should have talked this over with your wife first, Schynyk,” she said, and in the same breath turned to Mother, who had started to look around triumphantly upon hearing these words: “And as for you, Balsyng, you need to understand that it will be easier for your daughter if she knows her brother is close by. And remember, earlier is always better than later. Your husband has surely thought of such things.”

But earlier, before it came to this, everybody had spoken up against Father—and it goes without saying—behind his back. Uncle Sama called his older brother an old man whom age had made childish. Aunt Pürwü spoke of a difficult spring ahead, one that would demand great sacrifi es, especially in places where many people gathered. Aunt Galdarak thought that a child of seven was not capable of learning and would die from homesickness. Even among the Khalkh people, who certainly were smarter and more courageous than us, children started school only when they were eight.

Uncle Sargaj called Father, his wife’s older brother, a man who did not know how to live in the new era. He said the new era no longer called for things, but for the spirit. Words were more important than actions. Aunt Buja thought what everybody else was thinking, and what they said was fine with her; she was without a mind of her own. She simply carried words from one person to the next where they arrived as warm as the mouth they had come from. And what she carried in her mouth that day was directed against her older brother, of whom she was normally more afraid than is a child of its father.

Swarms of children gathered all over. Their conversation revolved around the leadless rider who, though not a darga, had been just about as elegant and as powerful as if he had been one. And since the rider was a teacher, they also talked about school and about what lay ahead for Brother and Sister, and for Gökbasch and Sambyy.

“They will go to school!” everybody repeated in shock, although nobody could imagine what it meant. The four children concerned were looked upon with both envy and pity. Each reacted differently. Sister Torlaa was neither able nor willing to hide her joy, and trumpeted: “I’ll become a teacher! But you, if you stay out here in the country without school, you will herd sheep and gather dung until you die.”

Brother Galkaan said nothing. Withdrawn into himself, he looked on silently. Nobody could tell what was hidden behind his silence. But I have known him almost better than I have known myself and believe to this day that he was not thinking anything and did not care what would happen.