Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

A wide field of the same strange pinkish-yellow color stretched into the distance from the edge of the forest. There were long rows of kibitkas [1] kibitka — a wagon with a tent-like cover used by many of the Asian nomads in the past with covers of felt close to one another in one corner of the field; other big wagons, some of which had six wheels, could also be seen there.

Much further away, beyond the kibitkas, was a large herd of horses. And in the distance, encircling this most unusual of subterranean landscapes, steep, almost vertical mountains, similar to the cliff from which the explorers had started, were rising high into the air, seemingly without any ledges, to disappear in the low, dense, gray clouds. The place they vhad found themselves in was a sort of valley surrounded by high mountains; only it was much too wide.

But none of the four contemplated this picture for long, since their attention was riveted to something that was happening much closer to where they were hiding and which was of much greater importance to them at the moment.

Several hundred people were standing not far from the edge of the forest near a strange object made of branches and twigs. The several hundred men and women were wearing bizzare clothes, their uncommon appearance immediately catching the eye.

The men were wearing high conical felt hats; felted waistcoats of a sort, the backs of which were longer than the front; breeches, long or short, evidently of wool. The long, wide ones were tucked into the men’s boots; leather straps were wound around the legs in the manner of puttees. The men were also brandishing long spears and holding bows and quivers; some of the men had battle axes, the handles stuck into their belts. The men formed an agitated crowd, some shouting, some singing; all of them brandishing their arms, as though threatening someone.

The women were standing in a separate group from the men; they were wearing long linen dresses and were draped in long cloaks with wide folds; their headgear was very tall. Some had what looked to be shawls on their heads. Men and women alike were garbed mainly in linen, but there was also a lot of wool and leather to be seen. The women were singing the same song, but in a more subdued manner. And all of them were looking in the direction of a large procession which was approaching in a cloud of dust. It was difficult to make out any details of the procession through the dust, but it was clear that a big mounted party was approaching with a group of people moving haltingly and tiredly on foot.

Artem felt Lida grasping his hand. He turned to look at her. She was about to ask something, but at that moment, the voice of Dmitro Borisovich, brimming with excitement, could be heard:

“Scythians! My friends, these people are Scythians, real Scythians! What we see in front of,us is a temporary camp of the ancient nomadic Scythians!”

“Not so loud!” Ivan Semenovich cut him short.

For a moment Artem was distracted from the exotic sight. He turned his head to look at Dmitro Borisovich, trying to comprehend the words he had just heard. Scythians?… An ancient Scythian camp? Was Dmitro Borisovich making fun of them? Scythians living in this underground world in the 20th century?

One glance at the archeologist, though, was enough to convince anyone that the man meant what he had said: there was not a trace of frivolity in his demeanor; he had evidently been much taken by the things that were going on in the field. He was panting; his fingers kept nervously picking pieces of bark from the tree; his eyes were feasting on the singing people and the approaching procession. He kept adjusting the spectacles that slithered down his nose periodically.

Artem turned back to Lida. “Did you hear him?” he asked in a very low voice.

Lida nodded without saying anything.

“Scythians?… Can you make any sense of all this?”

Lida shrugged her shoulders: it was clear she understood as little as Artem.

Meanwhile, the procession was getting closer and closer. Apparently, the solemn song was in honor of the procession. It had-already been welcomed by a rain of arrows, shot upward into the gloomy gray sky, accompanied by frenzied shouts. The arrows were landing in the forest; it was probably one of the arrows from a previous volley that had strayed far enough to be picked up by the four explorers.

Several men stepped out of the crowd to meet the procession. They were evidently people of some rank, for their dress was embellished with gold ornaments, and they carried no weapons except for short swords and ceremonial axes. One of them, an old man with gray hair and a long beard wearing a robe very much like a woman’s dress, raised his hands and shouted something in a hoarse voice. The crowd and the procession responded immediately with similar shouts. Then the old man turned around, raised his hand in a salute before the peculiar object of twigs and branches the explorers had noticed earlier.

“It must be their sacrificial altar,” Artem whispered excitedly.

“Yes, it looks like the Scythian altar was made of twigs!” Dmitro Borisovich replied no less excitedly.

The procession was now quite close, and the first rows of riders could be seen in detail. They were well armed, carrying rectangular shields of hide and studded with ornamental bronze figures of animals. The higher ranking riders — which fact could be determined by their more elaborate clothing — carried round shields with an oval cut into the top for a face.

But Artem’s attention had already focused on the strikingly looking horseman.

He was a burly, dignified man with a long gray beard, sitting majestically on his elaborately festooned steed, holding the reins in one hand, the other resting on the golden hilt of his short sword. On his head was a round golden helmet; shining gold ornaments adorned his dress: a heavy pendant of plaited gold wire on his chest; a bracelet on the wrist of the hand holding the reins — everything pointed to his being a man of highest rank. Several younger riders moving right behind him were holding the shiny figures above his head. There were panthers, deer, leaping lions and eagles with their wings spread perched on long spears. The distinguished rider was looking straight ahead, sitting in great dignity and stateliness on his brown mount, not paying attention to anything or anyone around him.

“He must be the chieftain of the tribe… the supreme leader…” Artem heard the voice of Dmitro Borisovich, muffled with excitement. “He’s returning from a raid with his fellow Scythians. It’s incredible to be seeing such a thing with my own eyes!”

“Shh… Shh…” Ivan Semenovich again cut him short. “Be quiet!”

The old man who had earlier stepped out of the crowd, made a few more steps toward the riders, without lowering his raised arms. When there were only a few steps separating him and the chieftain, the latter stopped his horse with an almost imperceptible movement of his hand. All the other riders immediately stopped, too. Only those on foot continued moving, drawing nearer.

The old man with raised hands cried out something in a gutteral voice, probably, words of welcome. The riders responded with shouts of greeting. Axes and swords flashed in the air; the figures of lions, eagles and panthers stirred above the head of the chieftain. The only person who remained immobile and silent was the chieftain who, in the same detached and aloof manner sat astride horse, his hand on the hilt of the sword.

The old man, his arms still raised, cried out something once again, drawing discordant shouting in response from both the riders and the crowd. It was only then that the chieftain seemed to awaken; he made an imperious gesture with his hand as though beckoning someone to come up to him.