That day was Brother and Sister’s last day in the ail. Things happened that I had never seen before: Father sawed a comb out of a billy-goat’s horn. Sister Torlaa was to use it to comb the shock of hair that covered her parting and hung down over her forehead. Then he carved two little sticks from willow wood, hollowed them out with a piece of red-hot wire, and poured molten lead into the holes. This is how pencils were made.

The next morning was strange. A feeling crept upon me that with each new piece of clothing they slipped into, Brother and Sister increasingly stopped being who they had been for me until then. Finally both of them stood, cowed dumb, in their new clothes in front of the grown-ups. The relatives had gathered in front of our yurt to sniff and kiss the children before they left.

They sat together on one horse, Sister Torlaa in the saddle and Brother Galkaan behind her on the bag with the sheep skins and tons. They sat speechless and acquiescent; their horse would follow an outrider.

The crowd of children rode alongside the departing riders as they headed toward the ford. Brother Galkaan, who had remained silent all this time, staring at his sister’s back in embarrassment, suddenly called out: “Dshurukuwaa, go home!”

We had not yet reached the ford, but I obeyed and stopped. The other children galloped on, not wanting to turn back until they got to the river. When they finally came back, I had long been making my way home. They caught up with me, and I let them pass.

That morning, rain came down from the mountains in the north. It lashed the yurts, the meadows, and the river, and then left as hastily as it had arrived. Immediately afterward the sun came out, and the day turned out warm and long. That autumn was mild and lasted a long time. Much happened. But to me, the warm, long, eventful autumn seemed to be all in vain and to waste itself to no avail.

Farewell

FAREWELL

Finally winter arrived. I was glad that it did and that our yurt could be moved back into its comfortable solitude. Maybe I was also glad because lately everybody had been telling me that I was a big boy and that the time had come to show whether I could guard my flock by myself.

Sure, I thought when they told me, sure I can guard my flock and look after Grandma. But I would need a yurt of my own, a big white yurt with many pretty furnishings—a palace yurt!

The hendshe fell to me. It consisted of lambs born late in the year or out of season, and of grown animals that, for one reason or another, could not follow the big flock to the distant pasture.