The Chukchi Bible by Yuri Rytkheu Page A

Kymykei replied, “but when there are lots of people, and it’s murky inside the Russian shaman’s yaranga, all Luoravetlan look the same to him. I have a feeling he can’t even distinguish between a Koryak and a Kaaramkyn. He might be able to recognize a Yakut, but only by his wide face.”
    As part of the group selected to participate in the Russian shaman’s ceremony and be baptized, Mlerintyn and his son, accompanied by Kymykei, went through a special gate in the wall and into the fortress.
    The Tangitan camp was very different from a Luoravetlan one. All the dwellings here were made of wood. There was a smoking pipe sticking up from each roof, and some roofs had two or three. There were openings set into the wooden walls to admit daylight, covered with an icy sort of material, which glinted in the sun.
    The Tangitans as well as some of the natives would stare at the cross atop the prayer-yaranga, then draw their right hand down their chest and then from shoulder to shoulder as they approached the building. The expression on their faces would change, as though they were nearing something
unearthly and uplifting. Tynemlen thought he saw their lips move in a soundless whisper.
    The sight made the young man recall how he and his father made dawn sacrifice to their own gods, bribing them with choice morsels of deer flesh and asking for good fortune in trading with the Tangitans.
    The crowd slowly seeped through the outflung doors of the shaman’s house, whose depths seemed to be flickering with the yellow candle light. It glimmered dully in the gilded ornaments and the ceremonial vestments of the priest and his assistant.
    Kymykei and his companions were led forward as honored guests. Tynemlen and his father found themselves directly before a gilt-framed picture of a long-haired, bearded man, rather thin, with enormous eyes that bulged like a flounder’s.
    â€œThis is the chief God of the Tangitans,” Kymykei whispered, with a nod at the picture, “Jesus Christ.”
    â€œBut why is he so thin?” Tynemlen asked quietly.
    â€œBecause he suffered,” Kymykei answered, before the Russian shaman cast a stern glance their way.
    Tynemlen found Kymykei’s explanation confusing in the extreme: how could an all-powerful god suffer? If you looked closely at his image you could perceive traces of bitter suffering and pain in his big, round eyes. Such an expression was appropriate for a human, not for a mighty god.
    Compared to the usual Tangitan talk, the Russian shaman’s speech was drawn out and plaintive, like a dog’s sad whine. Tynemlen caught a Russian word he knew – “bread,” a kind of food they made from white dust – in the stream of unfamiliar language.
    Meanwhile, the Chuvan interpreter translated into barely recognizable
Luoravetlan: “Our Father-God lives high in the sky. Let his name be widely known and let his kingdom come. Let him give us food, kavkav (a flatbread fried in fat) every day, and if we owe something, let him forgive us these debts . . .”
    Every so often, the Russian shaman glanced at a thing speckled with marks and propped open on a special stand. Tynemlen realized that this was the Holy Book where the Russian shaman got the necessary incantations. There were several Holy Books of a similar sort lying atop a table covered with a colorful cloth.
    The close air, monotone droning, and unfamiliar language made Tynemlen sleepy, and he struggled to repress a yawn. He perked up when a small choir began to sing. The singing was pleasant.
    The Russian shaman kept yowling and peering at the Holy Book, while also sending forth smoke by swinging a smallish metal vessel to and fro on a long chain.
    After all this, the Russian shaman finally addressed the crowd.
    Tynemlen suspected that the Chuvan was not translating so much as relating to his kinsmen what he himself had learned not so long ago.
    â€œThe Russians also have shamans