am giving you my blessings!
Urui-aikhal!
For you to be the foremother
Of many happy generations.
I am stroking your thigh
To relieve your pains,
You will increase your wealth
During the next nine centuries,
You will make your home famous
During eight centuries.
Hush, my child,
I have told you your future!
Hush, I have blessed your life, urui-aikhal!’
As soon as she had finished,
The foremother of the Sakha,
Sabyia Baai Khotun, cried out loud
Like a fidgety snipe.
As soon as she strained herself,
Groaning and screaming,
A boy with a strong and frightful temper
Arrived quickly
Out of her sacred thick womb.
A boy quite contrary –
One could not dream
Even in one’s worst nightmare,
Of such an amazingly alert baby.
He was as big as a well-fed nine-year-old boy.
His long and wavy hair
Hung over his shoulders,
The size of an eight-year-old boy
Of a well-to-do couple,
Obstinate that no one ever expected
Hot-tempered like a foal,
He plopped down on his back and began to cry.
Afterwards, the dear baby
Turned his head over
Like a pike
Flung upside down onto the ice,
Fell loudly on the floor.
Jumping hurriedly to his feet
As hard as a lump of stone,
Strode noisily to the door,
About to run away…
The stone crossbeams
Of the eight-layered floor
Of the large, spacious house
Shook and bulged,
The eighty posts that never trembled
Moved and shuddered,
The ninety supports that never vibrated
Moved up and down,
The high, thick ceiling
Heaved apart by a distance of four fists,
The smooth, strong floor
Dropped by a distance of six fists.
The sired father,
Stood attentively,
Grasped the boy
Like a fierce, wild bear,
Overpowering the boy with his weight,
Wound the boy’s curly,
Shoulder-length golden hair
Round his strong hand,
Wrapped up the boy
As fidgety as a foal in the fell
Of a six-year-old horse
And tied him firmly
With a horse-hair rope.
‘Am I the kind of man
Who would let my baby run away?’
He said to himself boastfully.
Then he added:
‘Now I have become a Sakha.
I have a son to inherit from me.
I have become a father.’
He stood, guarding and looking at his wife –
Next to her there was such a sweet girl
Of a never-before-seen beauty,
With a vivid and hot temper,
Who was flapping about,
Crying loudly,
As if saying that
She had come into this world
To bloom and flourish…
Sabyia Baai Khotun,
The foremother of Sakha,
Having turned blue
From the pain and despair,
Opened her eyes,
Recovered her breath,
Then tenderly took
Her crying girl
In her soft silver hands…
Ejen Ekhsit for young women,
Akhtar Aiyyhyt for elderly women,
Nelegeldjin Ekhsit, Nelbeng Aiyyhyt
Walked up to her calmly,
Her long hair fluttering in the air
Like the mane
Of a mare in the meadow,
Her head raised high
Like a mare’s in the field.
