The world we find familiar and understandable often turns out to be just an illusion. It is created by things. Remove them, eliminate civilization, and we find ourselves alone with nature. For most, such an encounter ends tragically—the connection with the primordial force has become weakened and devalued. However, in remote corners of the world, you can still encounter amazing people whose ancient knowledge grants power over the elements. I'm talking about shamans.
My grandfather Alexander had a friend, a hunter from the Nganasan people. These indigenous people of Taimyr prefer to call themselves "nya," meaning "friend" or "comrade." Even at that time, Isai was considered an elderly man. The locals treated him with respect, although they criticized him for his addiction to vodka. Even the Dolgans, who were hostile to the Nganasans, were wary of this drunkard. The thing is, he was the last great shaman, so to speak. I know that even today there are brave souls ready to claim to have embraced the power of their ancestors and the tradition of ancient rituals. But Isai never passed on his gift to anyone. He considered his younger tribesmen untalented, unworthy of the spirits' attention. But he welcomed my grandfather as a sworn brother and honored him with the shamans' cemetery, a hidden place where the mummies of his predecessors rest in gold-studded yarangas.
How did this unusual friendship begin?
My grandfather told me different things. They said they were both hunters and avid fishermen, and that's how they got along. However, it's not all that simple. Here's what I managed to find out...
Isai was known in the village, especially for his comical adventures. But they're unlikely to be of interest now. He lived with his wife in the outback and often disappeared into the tundra. The other Nganasans were a bit afraid of him—no one wanted to offend the shaman or anger the vengeful spirits. But for the Russians, especially the shift workers, he represented a sample of the unique taiga flavor, and nothing more. It's not every day you meet a guest from the Stone Age.
Few interacted with him as an equal. Some were wary, others laughed.
In winter, supplies were delivered to the village by helicopter. Often, due to inclement weather, the crews were forced to wait out the storm in the guest barracks. These were trailers where either bachelors or seasonal workers from the drilling rig lived.
Can you imagine this motley contingent and how the pilots whiled away the time? I'll give you a hint: they drank heavily. To the point of stupefaction. And Isai found himself in one such drinking bout.
The duty and burden of a shaman are closely intertwined with the customs of his people. The Nganasans believe that any important matter must be coordinated with the spirits. And only a knowledgeable person can assist in this. Dressed in a special robe, a "parka," the shaman beats a drum and sings a song in a special language; this ritual is called "kamlanie." The parka is richly decorated with feathers, beads, pieces of metal, stones, and fringe. This relic is carefully preserved for generations. Without it, the soul of the shaman cannot travel between worlds.
Isai was caught, as they say, "warm." He was returning from a remote camp, where he had performed one of his rituals the day before. Apparently, the ritual had been a great success. The grateful reindeer herders generously treated the old man to firewater.
Visiting men decided, as a joke, to get the poor fellow even more drunk.
It was a clear day, and the flight was not scheduled for the following morning.
The shaman was led to the barracks, seated at the table, and constantly replenished with alcohol.
Naturally, they quickly began taunting him, drunkenly, saying, "Show me your magic!" He refused for a long time, then winked and promised that until he took back his word, there would be a blizzard, a pitch-black snowstorm, and a fierce wind. Just to be sure, Isai pulled a rolled-up parka from his bag, so that everyone could see how serious he was.
The strangers found this outfit a curious and desirable trophy. But to take it "honestly," they had to get the Nganasan drunk to the point of unconsciousness.
The parka was supposedly traded for a couple of bottles of vodka, and the old man was carried out into the vestibule.
Not an hour had passed, and word came from the mainland that the weather was getting worse. And it was unclear when it would clear up. The pilots, undeterred, continued their carousing. The next day, the snow only increased. Life in the village came to a standstill.
Isai was offered a mug of booze every time he came to. How long this madness lasted is unknown. But soon my grandfather Alexander needed to deliver a package. Mail, like many other things, was sent by helicopter. So he decided to go and negotiate the delivery price with the crew commander. With great difficulty, he managed to reach the guest barracks. By then, it was the fourth day of bad weather.
When Alexander entered the lopsided trailer reeking of booze, he almost tripped over a body sprawled on the floor. Even in the darkness, it was clear that he was dealing with an indigenous people; the natives had a very distinctive smell.
And in the room, at least ten people lay huddled together on the bunks. Among the other junk, Alexander suddenly noticed a shaman's parka. Anyone who has ever seen this caftan, embroidered with bone beads and richly hung with iron, is unlikely to confuse it with anything else. It is obvious that the cut The smell in the vestibule and this thing had the same owner.
Alexander had heard of the miracles taiga sorcerers could perform, but he didn't really believe it. He rather respected their customs and experience. His motives can be interpreted in various ways, but I think he was ashamed that his fellow countrymen had treated both the relic and its owner so poorly.
While he was considering his actions, he heard a scuffle behind him.
Isai woke up and, on all fours, was trying to crawl into the room. The pitiful sight didn't leave Alexander indifferent. He lifted the old man and sat him down on a chair.
The shaman looked depressed and embittered. He muttered something incoherently in his own dialect and glanced sideways at the lost parka.
"What are you muttering there, you bastard?"
"They took the parka... ugh... they've angered the bear, now he'll break everything."
It's worth noting that the locals also use the word "bear" to refer to evil spirits. It just so happens that the cunning forest predator has become a symbol of dark forces for them.
Alexander shook one of the sleeping shift workers awake and asked sternly: who had the idea to take the shaman's item? But he didn't get a clear answer. So he pulled several large bills from his pocket and threw them on the table, taking the caftan. Isai watched the proceedings somewhat detachedly, but when he saw the artifact had ended up in my grandfather's hands, he began to wail even louder.
"Take your parka and go..."
"No," the shaman wailed, "you can't do it now, you have to pay. I'll pay. I'll return it later."
The package couldn't be delivered. In addition, he found a strange-looking fur coat that smelled like a deer in the rutting season. And the Nganasan didn't appreciate his noble gesture...
Alexander returned home with the parka. The household wasn't particularly pleased with it. It stank and seemed terrifying in itself.
Coincidence or not, the wind died down that same day. The blizzard ended.
The shaman soon disappeared. For almost a month, no one saw him in the village or heard any talk of him. Until one day, Isai showed up on the threshold of the barracks where Alexander lived.
He had changed. His face looked haggard, and his left eye was swollen shut.
"I paid the spirits. Give me back my parka, Sanya," the old man smiled, pointing to his blind eye.
After this incident, many other surprising and strange things happened. And how far this goes beyond the ordinary, is up to you to decide. As for me, I think the shaman got off easy for his mistake.
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