WACŁAW SIEROSZEWSKI
Close to where the river Sheroka issues from a rocky gorge into a broad valley, there is a wooden column, ornamented with carving. At this column, which stands in the middle of a small meadow near the water, the nomad Tungus assemble annually from the neighbouring mountains. Hundreds of reindeer in the midst of a crowd of human beings make a charming picture as the caravans travel thither together. When the merry crowd enters the valley the splash of the river is lost in a ringing echo of voices.
Their camp-fires, scattered in a semi-circle in the wood at the foot of the mountains, twinkle against the background of eternal shadows like a shining girdle, in which the delicate spring green and the grey diaphanous tissue of stems and branches are interlaced.
This is the most agreeable season in the mountain valleys; gnats and other insects have not yet begun to be worrying, the air is delightfully cool, everything is unfolding and blossoming, and only the winter snow on the summits of the mountains lies untouched by the warmth. The pale, transparent sky above the snow neither darkens at night nor glitters with stars, but shines with the Northern light which joins the sunset of the fading day to the sunrise of the next.
The people remain near the column in the clearing for a whole week. The family elders, grave old men, meet here and discuss their common needs, collect the tribute of hides, and settle all important matters.
But the young men use the time for love and merry-making, dancing and races. The valley rings with laughter and shouting, with the strokes of the hatchet and the echoes of songs; the ground trembles under the cloven hoofs of the furiously driven reindeer; the leather lassoes swish through the air as they are thrown on to the antlers of the animals destined for slaughter. And where work is most active, where life is at its fullest the jingle of the women's glass and silver ornaments is sure to be heard.
So it has been time out of mind. But one year it happened differently.
Numbers of people assembled in the valley, as usual, but the noise of their talking did not drown the roar of the river. The youths did not dance at the meeting place, no reindeer were to be seen racing. There was no laughter, no singing.
Nor did the counsels take place in common. The men assembled in small groups in separate tents, with a dull look on their sad faces. They talked without animation; jokes and laughter, so beloved by the Tungus, were checked by a general sense of depression, and only rarely indulged in.
However, they did not disperse, but waited impatiently for the coming of old Seltichan, without whom they would not have dared to have settled any important matters. But the old man did not arrive.