Andre Martin

Страна : Россия

Я – школьный учитель. Начал писать для детей по их же просьбе 10 лет назад. За это время написано 7 статей в журнал о музыке и музыкантах, несколько сказок и несколько рассказов, три повести, два романа, трилогия основанная на мифах и легендах народа ненцы. В члены российского союза писателей принят в 2020 г.

Country : Russia

I am a school teacher. I have been teaching my students English since 2009. Since 2010 I have written 7 articles about music and musicians for a magazine about music, several stories and several tales, three big stories, two novels and a trilogy (a tale within a tale) based on myths and legends of Nenets. I have been a member of the Russian Union of writers since 2020.

Отрывок из сказки трилогии “Етхи“

Keep up, Khadko, we have to get back to the camp before sundown!” called the father to his six-year-old son. He pulled their small flat-bottomed ngano out of the water, tied it to the stake driven into the bank, and began to carefully stack the fish they’d caught onto the khana large take of muksun, broad-nosed whitefish, and white salmon: the best that rivers and lakes of this Upper End of the World can yield to reindeer herders. He then sat down on the left side of the khan and grabbed the reins and the khorei, ready to go. 

The boy was still on the bank, expertly skipping stones across the water. He didn’t want to leave and go back to the camp. It didn’t often happen that Dad took him fishing or hunting: he was still too young. The day was quiet, with no wind at all, and the orange-colored autumn sun was bright in the vast blue sky.

“You’ll make the spirit of the water angry,” his father called out, when he saw what the boy was doing. “You mustn’t throw anything into the river!”

I mustn’t?” responded Khadko, more in surprise than wanting to know more, and dropped the remaining stones onto the ground.

“Come on, son, let’s go,” his father called again. “Ah, dinner will be great tonight,” he added with a satisfied smile when they finally got going. “Muksun is all large and fat this year.”                                                           

Khadko sat on the right side of the sledge, holding on tight to the edges, watching his father’s skillful movements. He was an observant child.

The sledge was flying over the tundra, and the handsome, powerful reindeer, like huge fairytale birds, were carrying little Khadko back home, to the camp.

“Vydu’tana is here!” suddenly cried his father, half-rising for a moment when they darted out from behind another tall hill and could finally see their camp with its three teepees. He turned around to the boy, calling loudly again, “Vydu’tana is here, Khadko!” 

The boy half-rose on the sledge too, peering into the distance and trying to make out the man his father was talking about.

“How does Dad know that someone has come?” he wondered. “We’re still so far away. I can’t see anyone!”

His father looked at him again, grinned, and artfully guiding the sledge, added in a loud voice: 

“You can’t miss the large reindeer and the beautiful sledge of the tadebya! Look at how the fur and the hides shine in the sun!”

And indeed, the gorgeous white and gold sledge would be hard to miss even at a distance. It was hand-carved, hand-painted, covered with snow-white deer hides, and pulled by a massive, strongly-built nyaravei with huge white branching antlers, his sleek gilt harness glittering in the bright autumn sun.

Khadko’s father got up on the sledge and was now driving his team of strong, swift and obedient padvy standing up. He had to yell to make himself heard over the loud swishing of the air, but his voice sounded happy:

“You know, son, Vydu’tana only visits those who are kind and hard-working.”

The boy knitted his eyebrows slightly and looked pensive. He had once overheard old men talking about a wise teacher who lived on the top of a high mountain in the north of the Urals and sometimes rode around the tundra, stopping at people’s camps to tell children and grown-ups his wonderful stories.

As swift as a khalei diving for its catch, the sledge pulled up to the first tepee at the edge of the camp, made a sharp turn, and stopped almost instantly. Khadko quickly jumped off and ran over the mossy ground straight to the campfire already circled by children. No wonder! The great wise teacher had come to visit them!

Near the camp’s main tepee, a tall, sturdily-built man was talking to the reindeer herders. He was wearing a clean, white malitsa which in the sunshine seemed to shimmer with all the colors of the rainbow. His long white beard was neatly tucked under a multicolored belt with gleaming bear and wolf fangs hanging from it. There was also a large, slightly curved knife with a horn handle, in a richly decorated sheath inlaid with small gemstones that gleamed and glowed in the evening sun. The guest’s malitsa and kisy were covered with intricate, beautifully embroidered patterns, sparkling with even more gemstones of various shapes and sizes. The laces on the white kisy boots were woven out of several multicolored straps of leather, adorned on the ends with small wooden figurines of some unknown creatures.

In the Far North, days were already beginning to grow shorter. Summer was coming to its end, though winter was still a long way away. Ngherm hadn’t yet unleashed his biting frosts and piercing icy winds on the camps, and it wasn’t yet time for Yamal Iri to get started on his journey.

In honor of their great guest, the herders made a huge bonfire and, after a festive dinner, everyone gathered around the fire, sitting on the sledges put together in a circle.

“It was a long time ago,” the white-haired old man finally said, starting his story. 

His chin rested on his right hand, his elbow on his knee. He was stroking his beard with his left hand and staring into the fire as if looking through and beyond the flames into some unknown depths.

“How long ago, Irike?” asked Khadko, rosy-cheeked and curious, his hair sticking out in funny tufts.

“A ve-e-ery long time ago, Son,” intoned the wise Vydu’tana gravely, shaking his head with a long sigh. “A very long time ago,” he repeated. “The great-grandfather of my great-grandfather’s great-grandfather used to tell this story,” he added. “Back when I was the same age as you are now,” he said, hiding his smile.

 The reindeer herders knew that the wise shaman was joking, and exchanged amused glances.

“Wow!” the boy shook his head in wonder. “So, how old are you now, then?” he asked.

The old man sat silent, still stroking his long white beard.

“Well, I was still very small when the wise teacher visited our camp,” said one of the khasava. He was one of the men who helped Khadko’s father to move his herd of reindeer from camp to camp. 

“I remember your visit as well,” another herder added from the other side of the bonfire.

The teacher lifted his grave eyes from the bright flames and slowly looked at each of the children who were patiently waiting for his story.

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