... and nothing new happens under the sun. E-Book

E. T. Post

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 297

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Marcos Kedalion knows amazing things, reports what he experienced and learned as a friend of Poserich, reports on the influence of unknown powers on human destinies, on the limits of human will, on the transformation of the earth, a mysterious people, primeval dramas and tragedies, secrets in the wilderness of Siberia, bloody wars, but also of love and happiness, and an offer to live among the stars for an unlimited time. And he shows how everything, to this day, is always repeated, albeit with nuances due to the omnipresent power of time. But essentially, nothing new happens under the sun...

Leseprobe

Dedication

my son Benedikt, the silent servant of the Lord

... and nothing new happens under the sun

Now that I, Marcos Kedalion, old and frail, am coming to the end of my journey, I want to fulfill the request of an inquisitive friend and write down what I have learned and partly witnessed of a mysterious, mythical fate. The fate of a hunter and sometimes hunted, the fate of my friend Poserich Ohrionn. It is astonishing, something I had never heard before. I sensed the influence of providence, recognized the constant repetition of what has already happened throughout all eras of humanity and the merciless power of time. As it says in a book written after the creation of the world: "The Being who has no beginning and no end, who always was and always will be, who created everything, measured out time for everything and everyone." People soon sensed its merciless impregnability and cried out pleadingly: "Must this really be?" From the infinite depths of space came the answer: "Yes, it must!" And in another old book it says: "To every thing there is a season, and to every thing there is a time". So I write before my last hour approaches, write so that what I know survives.

Poserich came from an old hunting family and hunting was a passion for both of us. In a small circle of friends, it was an inexhaustible reservoir for passionate discussions and fascinating stories. But when I sat alone with him in his cozy home, he told me about his life and his family. It was these evenings that interwove me with his fate. Now I sit at his desk and write my experiences and memories. It all started way back in the days before time. But I want to start with Poserich's birth.

His father had to become a soldier in the second great European war, fought in France, was wounded and came home to recover . As a well-known hunter, he was obliged to hunt by the local party functionaries after he got a little better. His reward was the small "hunting right", the offal. Most of the time, he would take the porter, belly loins, ribs and sometimes even the loins with him unnoticed, valuable food for his family in those times of famine.

On a gray November day, the local authorities had ordered him to shoot a deer again. He drove his old, "decommissioned" car to a high seat in a forest meadow, but saw a man sitting there from afar, grumbled "poachers, people are hungry", turned off and drove deep into the forest to a covered ladder by a clear-cut. With an aching wound, he climbed the seat with difficulty, settled in and waited for game. The wind picked up and the cold crept into his clothes. Shivering, he searched the fallow land again and again, but saw nothing apart from a fox scowling. Time passed, nothing moved, until suddenly a blackbird flew out of a thicket next to him, clamouring and protesting loudly as it crossed the fallow land. "A sign of game?" Sure enough, a doe emerged from the spruce trees next to him, took a long rest and then moved leisurely across the area to the brambles. He wanted to be sure she wasn't leading a fawn, so he waited to take the shot. It was slowly getting dark. In the last light of the rifle, a deer came out of the forest opposite. A fawn, probably that of the doe. When it stood wide, he shot . It was gone, as if swallowed up by the ground. The doe made a few escapes, hoped, secured herself, approached the shot, pulling back and forth. Atterich knew that the fawn was lying there and that he had a chance of getting a lot of meat if he shot the doe but only delivered the fawn. He shot! The doe collapsed. He dragged it into the thicket, broke it open, roughly shredded it and hid the meat in the trunk under the fawn. On the way back, he saw the poacher crouching over a sack and nodded: "It's all right, just don't get caught!" He delivered the fawn to the party headquarters without saying a word and drove home smiling with satisfaction.

He heard a baby crying in the hallway, hastily put his gun and rucksack in a cupboard, ran into the bedroom and saw his wife. She was holding a crying baby in her arms, pale but smiling contentedly. Next to her stood his son and a fat woman with a blood-stained apron. She pointed at the child: "A boy!" He pushed her aside, kissed his wife, took the baby, beaming with joy, and pressed it carefully against his stubble-bearded face. The child fell silent, groping for his wet, weathered coat. His grandmother had told him that he had behaved towards his father and that his father had behaved towards his grandfather in the same way. His first-born had continued to cry. As he placed the child back in his wife's arms, he proudly announced: "It's going to be a great hunter!" The mother sighed: "I knew it." He looked at the boy for a long time. Then he decided: "Poserich - yes, Poserich - that's what he should be called." His wife knew that such decisions were final and the name was probably part of his family legend.

After the midwife had left, Atterich put the venison to bed. Long after midnight, he hid the meat in the cellar and marveled at his wife's winter supplies: preserved fruit, pots of jam and jars of sugar beet syrup stood on a shelf. Potatoes lay in a corner on tamped earth next to a small pile of carrots covered in soil. Heads of white cabbage were stacked in crates, and slices of dried mushrooms hung from strings. There were still large clay pots everywhere, well sealed, and of course mousetraps. What was missing was a sufficient supply of wood. Back in the kitchen, he fried the loins and brought them into the bedroom with bread. The baby slept peacefully in the old painted wooden cradle in which he and his father had already lain. He pushed a pillow under his wife's back and gave her the plate. Hesitantly at first, then hungrily, she ate while he, bent over the cradle, carefully stroked the baby's little hand. When the child took hold of his finger, he murmured emotionally: "God bless you! Much has been placed in your cradle."

Atterich was able to help his wife for another two weeks and also "organize" the wood supply. Then he had to rejoin his unit. Following an intuition, he sent the valuable hunting rifle he had inherited from his father to relatives in the West. He received a commendation from the regiment and was transferred to the eastern front. The following winter was bitterly cold. His family got through it reasonably well, hardly freezing or starving. It was a "good" winter of war for them, but not for Atterich.

The army group to which Atterich's regiment belonged had advanced far into Russian territory, had to retreat again, but was supposed to hold off advancing Russian units and dug itself into a seemingly endless steppe. Inadequately equipped against the bitterly cold Russian winter, Atterich fell ill. The cold turned into pneumonia. His life was fading. A senior medical officer, who had been transferred to their position, tried to help him, but was unsuccessful without adequate medication and accommodation. When the doctor visited the sick man again before continuing his journey, Atterich, in a fever, fantasized about hunting in Masuria, his homeland. The officer, also a hunter, had also hunted there a lot and successfully, felt a bond with the sick hunter, ordered him to be transferred to a military hospital by virtue of his rank and took him warmly wrapped up in his car. They got out of the embattled area happily, Atterich to a military hospital and back to the front after his recovery.

Over the next year, the German armies were pushed back further. Atterich fought on the front line in the costly retreat battles, now fighting for his homeland. He and most of his comrades no longer believed in victory. Nevertheless, severely decimated, they put up a desperate resistance. During a night-time counter-attack, Atterich was separated from his troop and had to pass a Soviet guard on his way back, who was sitting on a bank as if asleep. When he was close to the man, he, wide awake, pulled Atterich to the ground and tried to kill him with his bayonet. Poserich's father fought back desperately. An ancient ancestral amulet slipped out of his shirt. The man spontaneously paused, stared at the stylized scorpion, let go of Atterich and dropped the bayonet. Both remained motionless for seconds. The soldier cautiously pointed at the amulet: "You Yamai, get out, quickly!" The hunter scurried away.

The following winter, the German soldiers starved and froze miserably. The front lines collapsed. The armies were smashed and thrown back. The war was lost. Nevertheless, the regime continued to report successes and fanatics continued to chant slogans of perseverance. Atterich returned home with the remnants of the former invasion army, sick, exhausted, ragged and hopeless. He wanted to see his family, wanted to hold the little "big hunter" in his arms once more. He was granted a few hours because of his decorations. Poserich saw his father coming down the hall with a wooden horse on a string. It stood on a board with wheels, was spotted white and black and had a tail made of hemp fibers. His father gave him the string, took him in his arms and hugged him. He never forgot the smell that Poserich felt back then. He smelled snow, iron and a dull, sweet smell, which he later encountered again as an altar boy in the last rites rooms. The beloved wooden horse was left behind when he fled. Later, he saw a similar toy in an "alternative" store and bought it. "It's a gift," he said somewhat embarrassed, but it was for him.

At the end of the short visit, Atterich implored his wife: "The Russians will come. They are merciless! You must flee! Flee! Flee, as quickly as possible, flee to the west!" Poserich's mother wanted to leave immediately, she had heard about a ship that was supposed to take women and children to safety. But she didn't know how to get to the distant port with her small children . All she had left was a bicycle. Atterich's old car had been "confiscated" and streetcars and buses had long since stopped running. Flee? Yes, but how? Nevertheless, she packed her husband's large, pigskin suitcase, put warm clothes, some provisions, her jewelry and Atterich's hunting pistol in it. He had advised her to shoot herself before the Russians got hold of her. Finally, she picked up a thick, old book. On their wedding day, Atterich had demanded with great seriousness: "This book must never be lost! Never! It doesn't belong to me or my family. It was entrusted to us many hundreds of years ago and will be reclaimed at some point." Atterich guarded the book like a shrine and, when Poserich was one year old, demanded: "After my death, the little hunter should get the book and guard it as I did. Whatever happens, keep it for him." With trembling hands, she closed the suitcase, tied it to the bicycle, took the children and ran wherever other women ran. But there was no way to escape. The ship was out of reach and the children would not survive a march across the frozen sea. Distraught, exhausted and hopeless, she returned to her house. Days passed. The wood supply was used up. The cold spread. Desperate, she sat next to her sleeping children at night. Then suddenly her husband stood in the room, drew the curtains and whispered: "I snuck out. If anyone notices, I'll be shot." He embraced her: "I know of one way to escape, probably the last. Tomorrow morning, at three o'clock, a train leaves for the west, the last one, far too small for everyone. There will be a brutal fight at the main station to get on. You don't stand a chance there with the kids, but at the freight station. That's where the train is put together, you have to be there by two o'clock tonight at the latest. Ask for Fritz Mutat. He's a shunter and my friend. He'll put you on the train." He also demanded: "Don't leave your seat on the train until you're behind enemy lines." At terich kissed his wife and disappeared. At night, around one o'clock, she left. She had put the younger boy on the suitcase strapped to the luggage rack and the older boy on the saddle. Shivering with cold and fear, she pushed the bike through ankle-high powder snow to the goods station. After a glance at the children, the guards let her pass and she found Fritz Mutat at a signal box. A long, lean man with a moustache and warm, kind eyes. He was missing his right arm. Mutat took her to a compartment. It was freezing cold, but they were out of the sharp wind. She pushed her suitcase under the seat. Poserich took it on his lap and put his brother between him and the window. The bicycle had been thrown onto a luggage trolley. She didn't think she would ever get it back. One by one, more women with children and a few old people were brought onto the train. At half past two, it shunted briefly and headed for the main station. On the platform, the adjacent tracks and even behind it, crowds of people thronged in sparse lighting. Even before the train had stopped, they stormed the carriages, pushing and pulling each other off the footboards and doors. Men, mostly old or crippled, shouted, women shrieked, children screamed in panic. Poserich's mother stared fearfully through the window. Suddenly shots rang out. The raging crowd froze for a moment. An officer shouted into the silence: "Women with children first, anyone who resists will be shot." Commands rang out. Soldiers made their way through the crowds with rifle butts and stood next to the carriage doors. This had an effect, but not for long and the tugging and jostling began again. When the aisles and platforms of the train were also overcrowded, the soldiers forcibly pulled people off the footboards and locked the doors. However, the train did not leave immediately. The soldiers remained at the doors or patrolled alongside the train. Those left behind gradually resigned themselves. In the overcrowded compartment, the woman held her children close to her. When she involuntarily looked out of the window, she saw her husband's eyes. He was standing close to the train, trying to smile, pressing a palm to the train window and pointing at Poserich. She lifted him up to the window, he braced his little fists against it and laughed brightly. Now his father was smiling too. When Poserich stopped laughing, her husband had disappeared. She pressed her face against the window, looking for him, but saw only strange faces, anxious, angry, apathetic. The train started moving, bumping and screeching. The faces passed by faster and faster, became fewer and fewer and the platform was over. She had seen her husband and Poserich his father for the last time. The windows froze over in the unheated train. People remained silent and motionless in the oppressive darkness. Fear prevailed, fear of artillery and airplanes; fear of death. But they got away; Atterich did not.

Poserich's father lay on the outskirts of the city - dead. An icy wind blew snow over his mangled body. His removal from the troops had been betrayed. A court martial had ordered him to be shot immediately. His company commander tried to prevent it, ordering him off on a reporting trip immediately after the verdict. It was a tiny chance, but the only one. Everyone knew about it, including Atterich. After the war, the lieutenant told Poserich's mother: "I watched your husband as he drove along the enemy lines. He was shot at and probably injured. Then a shell hit next to him, knocked him off his motorcycle and threw him onto the road. At night, I tried to retrieve his body. As I was pulling him away, I felt something in his hand, his amulet. I knew how valuable it was to him. At the same moment I was shot at and had to flee." The lieutenant said comfortingly: "He bled to death; you hardly feel any pain." Poserich's mother whispered introspectively: "He saw his death in a dream, just as you describe it. Only the end was different. He got up from the road and walked to the shore of a lake in his home town. In the starlight, a large stag came out of the water, turned into a mighty scorpion and said: 'Come, you will be taken with me. I will take you to your own.' He climbed onto the animal's back and glided with it to the stars." The lieutenant murmured: "I saw an animal like that when your husband died. Back then I thought I was seeing ghosts." He took the amulet out of his coat pocket, placed it on the table, gave her hand a long squeeze and left.

When Poserich was 16, his mother gave him the amulet: "This little object was very important to your father and was his most valuable possession next to the old book. Hunters of his clan have kept it for hundreds of years and hunters of the clan should continue to keep it. That's the way it's meant to be, he said. He was convinced that you would become a hunter and bequeathed the amulet to you, just like the old book. He believed it would be as valuable to you as it was to him." She handed him the little "lucky charm" and sank into her thoughts. After a while, she looked at him so seriously and inquiringly that he was startled: "You will become a hunter, guard the amulet as he did, and give it to your son at the end of your journey - the one who will become a hunter. Promise!" He promised.

Our small hunting community met regularly, arranged hunts, exchanged news and experiences. Poserich was not only the most successful hunter among us, but also the most brilliant storyteller. His reports became movies in our heads. We often encouraged him to tell us about his experiences. When he did, he captivated us with visually stunning descriptions and transported us into the hunting action as if we were right there with him. I believed him - almost - everything. With some overly adventurous or unusual experiences, I thought there was a flash of mischief in his eyes or a mischievous smile flitting across his face. A bit of "hunter's Latin"? Perhaps? After all, he was full of imagination, full of life, usually cheerful, ready to joke, but always sensitive and empathetic. All this stood in startling contrast to another, rather frightening trait. He could slip into an uncontrollable passion. The more harmless part of this was an exuberant enthusiasm, which, in combination with his occasionally effervescent temperament, could turn into a "staggering desire with infinite longing". This is how he himself described the exuberance of his feelings and spoke ironically of his ecstatic soul. We experienced these states with amazement. They usually disappeared quickly, always harmlessly, without consequences. But then it was different. Suddenly he was spellbound by a distant land, by the taiga and tundra between the Sea of Okhotsk and the Laptev Sea, by the people who lived there, the game, the mountains, lakes and rivers. He talked about it at every opportunity. He once told me, almost fearfully, that he didn't know how this desire arose in him. It had suddenly taken possession of him. It seemed even more sinister to him than it did to us. He resisted it. But an irresistible compulsion drew him there. "There" meant, as he suddenly localized, the East Siberian mountains, the Verkhoyansk Mountains or what lay beyond. All his thoughts and aspirations were now focused there. He was no longer even interested in hunting. We were dismayed and decided that he had to be freed from this obsession, so we put our money together and bought him a plane ticket to Yakutsk. We gave it to him as a present in June. We had done something for him. He no longer had to make a decision. We had abruptly brought about what would have happened anyway. He became balanced again, even cheerful. He left in the summer and only returned almost two years later. But it was no longer "our" Poserich, no longer the one we knew.

Before the journey, he was an impressive figure, slim and wiry, lively and agile, light on his feet, with gliding movements. Movements that were sometimes reminiscent of the slow-motion gaits of the stone deer or the creeping steps of the big cats - fascinating! At meetings, whether in the city or in the forest, he often startled me with his sudden presence. Suddenly he was there, how and where did he come from? No idea! It was unsettling that I never knew how long he had been standing behind or next to me. It was reassuring that others felt the same way. When I felt like I was being watched, I often looked at his bored face. A face with an even brownish color, high, somewhat broad cheekbones, an aquiline nose and narrow, almost black, usually cheerful eyes. When we met him, one of us scolded him half angrily, half admiringly: "He's like a cat." That became his nickname. From then on, he was known as "The Cat".

"Die Katz" was not "rich", but had a small fortune that allowed him to lead a comfortable, independent life. As a qualified mineralogist, he also earned a regular income on the side. With his modest needs and his modest lifestyle, he could actually afford everything. And when he had accumulated "liquid assets" again, he would treat himself to a lot. From my perspective, which was influenced by a stressful job, he led a comfortable, mostly happy life. But only most of the time. Because I also sensed that sometimes he wasn't missing something, but someone. Someone who created more than comfort and order, like his cheerful housekeeper. He was missing a partner, a lover - a woman who would bring him warmth and love in a close human relationship, who would awaken his emotions. Someone he could trust, someone he could show his intimate feelings and passions to. A woman who "understands" him. But he no longer wanted such a deep bond. In his early youth, he had a tender, shy, childlike love affair with a girl of the same age. That was probably his only happy relationship with the opposite sex. As a young man, he lived in the mountains and was passionately in love with a local girl who died in an avalanche shortly before their wedding. He then became lonely. Many years later, he suffered a profound disappointment, a brutal disillusionment that shaped his future behavior towards the female sex. He had fallen for an older, spirited actress in a romantically transfigured, devoted love be. She took advantage of him, squandered his money, then made him look like a fool in public and was amused when he was ridiculed. Deeply disappointed, he avoided any emotional attachment to women ever since, almost fearfully. He was reserved, even aloof, towards those who showed more than just a friendly interest in him. He was and remained alone. His mother had died years ago, his brother was also dead. He had no other relatives. But he had us. With us, he was a cheerful, sometimes mischievous and sharp-tongued, but always loyal, helpful and generous companion. Sometimes, when his ecstatic soul broke through, he could become really wasteful. We then had to put the brakes on his generosity, if only because we didn't know how to return the favor - which he didn't expect and didn't want, but which depressed us. He could certainly have afforded the plane ticket himself if he had wanted to. But this "want" wasn't there at the time. He didn't really want to go on bigger trips, like a trip to Siberia. It was too "costly" for him, as he put it. His hunting trips did not extend beyond Europe. He didn't want to be at the mercy of an interpreter, tour guide, hunting guide or any kind of schedule. I think he avoided anything that made him dependent, even for a short time. With our gift, we accelerated the inevitable and overcame the conflict of his feelings. That didn't make us happy.

In a small village close to the city, he had a pretty little house with a cottage garden and a hunter's fence, in which a spacious, dreamy room was the center of the house. A wide window looked out past an old cherry tree onto a large meadow in front of a coniferous forest. In the evenings, deer would come out and graze there, creating a peaceful, romantic picture of unspoiled nature. In the middle of the room, there were two comfortable armchairs at a coffee table, a cozy, fine leather wing chair in a corner under an arc lamp and a graceful rocking chair next to a table. Facing the window was his massive desk with a worn "executive chair". Thick carpets lay on the softly creaking floorboards and the walls were lined with shelves filled with an exquisite, valuable collection of books. Behind the books, he kept his most valuable possession, his father's old book and amulet, in a small safe. When he showed them to me once, he told me how they came to him. The book was fascinating, thick and heavy with a worn, leather cover. The pages were made of handmade paper, parchment, papyrus and materials I didn't know. Some pages were covered with Stone Age drawings, others with Cappadocian or ancient Assyrian cuneiform script, still others with Hittite, Luwian or Egyptian hieroglyphics. Runes, ancient Greek or Cyrillic characters could also be seen. More recent records were written in Latin and Old High German. Only the painted or written characters showed a chronological order. In the case of the other sheets, it was not possible to assign a dominant content or chronological order. Some of them had probably been copied several times onto new carrier materials and then inserted somewhere. When Poserich handed me the book, he said seriously, almost reverently: "This should be the chronicle of my clan and my fate should also be written in it. But unfortunately I can only decipher a little. Scholars will have to do that for me one day." Not only this chronicle, but the entire library was a fascinating treasure trove for me, always a reason to "drop in" on him. My spontaneous visits often lasted from the afternoon until after midnight. Over many a bottle of red wine, we would discuss "God and the world", history and the present, ponder profound problems and share cheerful stories and experiences. It was a time full of thoughtfulness and wit, a time of books and wine. I learned a lot about his life back then.

After his return from Siberia, Poserich changed. He became spongy and developed a belly. His formerly black, thick hair turned gray and fell out. What remained were the movements to which he owed his nickname, and sometimes he still went hunting with us - without passion. Before his journey, he was a great hunter. He was the best and most accurate hunter I knew, patient and persistent. He could follow a particular piece of game for days in sweaty stalks and frozen nights. When he finally had the game in front of his rifle, he could spare it if it was perhaps too young or still had a reproductive cycle to go through or because the stealthy bourgeois was already a few centimetres "too high up". He was still pleased. "The hunt," he then said, "it's the hunt and not the prey that counts." His descriptions of what had happened, right up to the bagless conclusion, then became another of his exciting and lively stories with "ifs" and "buts", bringing in his own experiences and what he had heard from others. After such evenings, we were sometimes as exhausted as if we had just returned home from a long hunt.

Then came his "Halali" - hunt over. The great hunter Poserich was not "struck down by a wild boar's tooth". No, his death was undramatic - but mysterious. Lost in memories, tired of his existence, he disappeared from our world nd. We had seen it coming, wanted to prevent it, sometimes dragged him to a meal, sometimes to the regulars' table or even to a hunt. When he did go along, which happened less and less often, it was for our sake. All he really wanted was to be undisturbed with his memories and dreams. I knew that. He had told me what he was experiencing. I didn't believe it at first, I suspected it was one of his not-so-true stories. It was so mysterious. But something had actually happened to him during two long winters and a summer in the wild north-east of Russia that had held on to him relentlessly, never letting go. The passion that had drawn him to this remote region gave him much that he thought he would never get again: Love, devotion, tenderness, moments of deepest contentment and all-embracing happiness. But he also experienced agonizing misfortune and cruel suffering there. He told me about all this as his time drew to a close:

I got as far as Yakutsk with your ticket, then took an old supply ship on a leisurely trip down the Lena to Zhigansk. There I was to meet my guide, who had been arranged for me by an old Yakut who turned up as ordered from some Russian-German friends. The man was to pick me up at the hotel. This accommodation was a simple wooden building with basic facilities and an acceptable restaurant. I waited for him for three days. When he finally appeared and I pointed out that he was late, he explained somewhat grimly that appointments were a nuisance to him. He didn't have a watch and didn't want one. It would only "steal time" from him. I think he knew the calendar, but I don't think he was using it as a guide. He said it didn't really matter whether we set off today or in a week's time. We would get there.

My future companion was a special, somewhat peculiar man. He looked like a mixture of Sioux and Inuit with a slight Mongolian touch, had narrow, night-dark eyes, was of medium build, slim and sinewy. His black, straight hair was parted in the middle and hung down behind his ears in plaits. His thin moustache reached over his chin. He was dressed in rough cloth trousers, a washed-out shirt and a soft leather jacket. He wore a long, almost hairless fur cape as a kind of coat. His feet were in lined rubber boots and in his hand he held a cap made of otter fur, similar to a helmet. My high-tech clothing, with membranes from the boots to the cap and lined with fleece, seemed rather exaggerated to me. But I wasn't a Siberian, I was "just" a Central European who wanted to spend the winter in the coldest corner of the northern hemisphere.

The man spoke German; a strange German, with a sentence structure that took some getting used to and a sometimes Swabian, sometimes East Prussian pronunciation. He had learned German from "poor" people who had been taken to Siberia during the Great War. When I asked him about his clothes, he told me that he was a Volganlar. His ancestors were nomads. His father and the whole clan had remained so, despite all the "conversion attempts" by the Russians. They were never able to "catch" them. In the end, his family moved far to the north-east. His mother was not a Volganlar. She belonged to a different people. When I asked him what kind of people they were, he was silent at first, then said I wouldn't understand, but spoke of Lukagirs. Most of them lived far to the east behind the great rivers. In a whisper, as if he didn't want anyone to know, he said that a group of them often lived closer, on the other side of the Verkhoyansk Mountains, even now. His mother could be with them. I looked at him in amazement, because I really didn't understand anything. He shook his head and tried again. His mother would be with them too, but not really. You never know exactly where she is, not even now, and whether she is still alive at all. She had come to his father's camp one day, healed his war wounds and stayed with him until "he" was there. I asked curiously: "Who?" "Yes, me, me," he replied. His mother had told his father that the boy was "needed". His father had told him that his mother was a shaman and the "boss". Before I could ask again, he explained: "Mother is - was - a colonel among her people." Volganlar and Lukagiren had known about these people for many generations, but no one had ever seen them. Now I was just amazed. He looked around proudly, but also somewhat irritated: "I don't know why I'm telling you everything." His people said that his mother had disappeared soon after he was born. He shook his head again: "It's all shamans. Mother great 'healer' and sister, half sister, too." "Why half sister?" I asked. "Because other father," came the reply. "Sister mighty great sorceress, more than mother," he murmured reverently and shook his head as if he wanted nothing to do with it.

We were silent for a while. Then he "got down to business" and wanted to know what I was up to and where I was going. I had been wondering the same thing for months, but still didn't know what I was actually looking for in eastern Siberia. My hesitation irritated him. Following an intuition, I quickly said: "To the Verkhoyansk Mountains and on to the Jana or the source of the Kolyma." He jumped up: "We'll go soon; not much time." Then he sat down again, smiling a little sheepishly, probably thinking I was pulling his leg. "Where do you want to go?" he asked again, this time very seriously. I understood. In order to get enough provisions and the right equipment, he needed a specific destination. Although I didn't have one, I at least tried to be a bit more specific. I didn't get much out of it, only that I wanted to stay in Siberia, in the East Siberian mountains, until the following summer. He looked at me appraisingly, then thoughtfully put his face in his hands and stayed like that. When he looked at me again, I thought: "He thinks you're crazy and will just leave." But he nodded. I looked at him questioningly.

"We're going to nurse, she can only help."

"The witch?" I thought, "Why her? Well, he'll know. And in this wilderness, a shaman is probably more helpful than a troop of mountain hunters or mountain rescuers." As it turned out later, my hunch was spot on. The Volganlar stood up: "Let's go!" I quickly put on my mountain boots and parkers, put on my fleece cap and rummaged around in the presents I had brought with me. I had been advised to always bring a present with me when I visited. Of course, I couldn't find anything suitable for a shaman. Only the scorpion amulet had a little affinity. Shaking my head, I pocketed it. Outside the hotel, my companion looked around suspiciously and then quickly pulled me into a narrow alley. "Nobody should know where you live," he whispered. We walked