The dog jumped up, turned his head toward the west, scanned it sharply, pricked up his ears—and remained in this position. I sensed that if I were to ask him again where Grandma was, or better still, if I were to call for her so that the rocks around us would echo my voice, En-eeej! En-eej! …, my four-legged companion would immediately squat on his behind, point his jaws at the sky, and fall into a drawn-out, terrifying howling. That was something I did not want to happen under any circumstances. I was afraid of Arsylang, afraid of myself, and afraid of whatever it was that had happened around us and that I would eventually hear about. I also sensed that if I were to run in the direction in which he was staring and were to call over and over, Tuh! Tuh! Tuh! …, he would come along, run a little ahead of me, and take me there. That was what I most feared.

I would have dearly loved to know what had happened to Grandma, but I was afraid to hear the truth, afraid to look eye to eye with a truth that was bound to be heavy, hard, and bitter. I suspected what might have happened to Grandma in spite of all that she had talked me into believing only yesterday, or the day before yesterday, or the day before that, day after day. Having a suspicion was agonizing, but I preferred living with uncertainty as it still meant a ray of hope.

When I returned with my flock to the hürde and the yurt in the evening, I learned who had taken care of the large flock: Galdarak, Dügürshep’s younger brother. He was drinking tea and eating meat, and telling what he had seen in the course of the day, where the wind had blown from, and how the flock had behaved. Then he rode off.

I was left alone with Father and Mother. For the first time ever our family was that small. I pretended to be busy, crushing a lot of ticks, and spent the evening with all my senses alert. But not a word was said about Grandma, who had lain on her bed and worked on the continuation of her stories just the evening before. Now we lived as if we had never had her, never known her.

While I bent over the lambs, combing their necks with my fingers for ticks and crushing a few more, I could still hear her soft, sonorous voice, and I could see the kindly, spider-web smile in her wrinkled face.

As time passed, the secret got more and more hazy. An occasional visitor would ask me teasingly where my grandma with the shaved head had gone. Or sometimes they would be even more direct and ask if I longed for my grandma, who had gone into the salt.