Oh yes, going into the salt! I already knew about that. Once we expected a baby to come to us. We had longed for it so badly but never got to see it. People eventually said that it had lost its way and gone into the salt instead of to us.

Salt was a rarity in those days. People went into the salt with their camels. It took them a long time to return, and when they finally did, they brought back a lot of salt. People also shared whatever salt they had. I often had to run to the neighbors to ask for a bowl of salt, and sometimes I came back with only half a bowl.

I never replied to questions about Grandma. Mother did it for me, or Father. They said that Grandma would return once I was a grown-up. Everybody agreed, even people who had teased me at first. It was strange, but the doubt that had reared up inside me and torn at their words would then die down, and I would be calmed again for the time being.

I had to stay calm and wait, although naturally my brain was not yet capable of this clear and complete thought in those days. Nevertheless, I must have had this insight in some shape or form, for I remained tame and calm, not only in light of what had already happened, but also in light of what was still to come. I remained resigned to fate—in complete contrast to my nature. But it was good that Arsylang and I were close again. We took care of the flock with each other and for each other. Diligently, we did our duty: Watching over our little flock gave meaning to our life.

It was also good to know that Brother and Sister would return. Not so good was the fact that they would have to leave again, and that they would always have to leave again. And that was not the end of it. I could feel myself growing more and more upset because before long it would be my turn to leave behind the flock, Arsylang, our home, Father and Mother, the Black Mountains—everything that had been part of me. With that thought came misgivings that led to further thoughts and left me afraid: Would Grandma find me if I were no longer at home? What would come of our flock, which meanwhile had become my flock? What of the yurt we would have to get somehow and in which I had planned to live with Grandma? Would I one day become a teacher or even a darga and live off a salary rather than livestock? In that case, would I live in a shack made from larch logs and smeared with clay, just like the elegant people in the sum center? Which meant, didn’t it, that I would never have a yurt of my own, would never put it up and take it down and move with it through the four seasons and across the four rivers, from the mountains into the steppe, over to the other mountains, to the lake, and back? And did this mean that I would have to leave behind, and would never be able to return to, all that I had had and held so far, and all that had been mine?