Dyatlov Pass: Based on the true story that haunted Russia by Alan K. Baker

Author:Alan K. Baker [Baker, Alan K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2020-09-01T22:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

VIKTOR

WEDNESDAY 3 FEBRUARY 2009

When the visitors had finished their meal in Bakhtyarov’s house, he invited them to attend a calling-song, to be sung in their honour by the shaman, Prokopy Anyamov. Viktor could see that Konstantinov was surprised and delighted at this, and as they left the headman’s house, he asked Vadim what it meant. He told Viktor that such songs were intended to call the Mansi spirits and deities to Earth, and to ask for their protection.

Bakhtyarov led them to another house, a little larger than his. As he entered, Viktor saw that the place was already full of people – he guessed the entire village – who were sitting patiently on the floor, clearly awaiting their arrival. Everyone smiled at them – especially the children, whose eyes were large and full of curiosity, and they smiled back, and seated themselves in the vacant spaces that had been saved for them.

One of the villagers stood up and moved to the centre of the room, and Viktor saw that it was the old man with the face like ancient stone whom he had seen when they first arrived. The old man began to sing a song in a powerful voice whose reedy strains rose above the wind which had begun to sigh loudly through the trees surrounding the village. He sang in Russian, and Konstantinov told the others that this was an additional honour.

The shaman sang, and Viktor felt his mind falling into the words, seduced by them, willingly ensnared in the strange pictures they created:

*

Grown in the morning

on the headland grown by golden lawn

grown in the evening

on the headland grown by golden lawn;

on hills covered with the feathers of spring grouse rooster,

on hills covered with the feathers of autumn grouse rooster;

in the height of a running cloud,

in the height of a striding cloud,

my sacred house in moon colours,

my sacred house in sun colours

on a golden chain’s dear end

hangs there,

on a golden silver’s dear end

it hangs there.

When from the southern throat a throatly wind

starts to blow,

with the clinking sound of a little silver,

towards the dear waters of the northern Ob

it moves there.

When from the northern throat a throatly wind

starts to blow,

with the banging sound of a big silver,

towards the dear waters of the southern Ob

it moves there.

In the inside

of the sacred house of moon colours,

of the sacred house in sun colours,

close by

the hoofly table with golden hooves,

upon

the hoofly table with golden hooves

into the sacred book of spring squirrel hide,

into the sacred book of autumn squirrel hide

seven golden letters

the master is writing,

six golden letters

he is writing there.

*

When Prokopy Anyamov had finished the song, Viktor told Konstantinov that it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. ‘I’m not certain what it means, though,’ he added.

‘It was a song addressed to Tari-pes’-nimala-s’av, a deity whose name translates as World Surveyor Man,’ Konstantinov replied in a hushed tone. ‘It describes his abode near the River Ob. The shaman is asking World Surveyor Man to protect us.’

Bakhtyarov said something in Mansi

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