my established reputation
I shall stop it.’
For this purpose
He ordered that mittens be sewn
From the best wolf skin,
The size of a leather bag.
He hung them like a balloon
On his high peg
With three branches…
‘If the chilly draught of death comes
From the disastrous Middle World
I shall block it.’
For this purpose
He ordered that
A sable-skin coat be sewn,
And he hung it on a tree…
‘If hard frost blows in
From the awful Under World,
The world of the Ajarai kin,
I shall tread on it.’
For this purpose
He ordered that boots be sewn
From the best bear paws.
He spread them on his latticed shelf…
Thus, thirty-five tribes
Of Urankhai Sakha,
Front-faced, straight-nosed,
Cheerful and playful,
Settled in the steady Middle World…
Can an olonkho not be exaggerated?!
A few days later,
The child they created,
Mighty and strong
With a grey horse
And a bow in his hands,
Warrior Kun Jiribineh,
Was able to leave the house.
Fair-faced Tuyarima Kuo
With the chestnut ambler
Was able to use the scissors properly…
Before long
The head of their stout-hearted son
Was seen above
The low branch of a big larch:
Five-bylas large
His fine waist became,
Six-bylas large
His broad shoulders became,
His forearms and shins
Resembled a larch tree trunk
Stripped of its bark ...
Looking at the sun
He covers it with his back,
Looking at the moon
He screens it with his hand.
He became the best man,
The bravest warrior;
His eyes, round like a ring,
Looked full of hostility,
His piercing eyes
Became bloodshot.
He craved fighting,
He played stretching his muscles,
He strolled backwards and forwards
Deep in thought:
‘If only someone would come…
Have the tribes of the devil,
The kin of Ajarais,
Not heard of my famous name,
And the rumours about me yet?!
What a lust I have for fighting!
How eager I am!
How I wish
To grip and cut their thick skins!
How I wish
To knock them down and beat
Their backs until the tendons snap.
How I wish
To rip out their hearts
With my bloody hands!
When will the three-spiked
Strongest heroes from above,
When will the six-spiked
Bravest heroes from below
Come and cut my skin
And make me bleed
To quench my fury?!’
He cried out, looking up,
He bellowed, looking down.
Three days later,
As three beams of sunlight,
The sharp, shining fire
Of the radiant white sun,
Just started to rise,
As the low edge
Of the western double sky,
Glittering like glassy silver,
Just started to dawn,
Nine wild whirlwinds sprang up.
A bear fur with the paws
And the head
Was torn to pieces
By this whirlwind.
The storm sprang up,
Clouds
