Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

The archeologist, absorbed in his own thoughts, continued muttering something under his breath long after Artem had stopped listening to him. Artem was beaming with satisfaction: he had managed to solve the mystery, his mind was free from a nagging riddle; everything had fallen into place. But was everything really clear now?…

Meanwhile they had reached a kibitka , which was much bigger than the other ones. It was standing a little apart, resting on a six-wheeled wagon. There was a huge representation of an eagle with wings spread wide on top of it. The fabric of the tent was dyed red; the flaps were turned back.

“This must be where the chieftain lives,” the archeologist said, sounding very interested. “Aha, this really is the place!”

The chieftain dismounted with the bent young Scythian’s assistance. Before he entered the kibitka, he once again invited the strangers to follow him with sweeping gesture of his hand. Then he disappeared into the kibitka, his companions filing in after him. Only the misshapen Scythian remained behind. He bowed before the strangers, bending his head respectfully, and said something solemnly. As he was doing this, he looked at Lida from the corner of his eye. A smile, like a shadow, passed over his lips so fleetingly, that only Artem noticed it.

“I don’t like him,” the young man said in a low voice.

“Neither do I,” replied Lida.

“Now, my friends, we must go in. To tell the truth, I’m dying to see with my own eyes what’s inside this big kibitka,” Dmitro Borisovich broke in. “Just think — we are going to get to know how the ancient Scythians lived! Only in a dream could one hope for such a thing!”

“But maybe we are dreaming, Dmitro Borisovich!” the geologist said, laughing. “How else could all this phantasmagoria we’re going through be explained?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the archeologist replied drily. “All I can say is that I’d be very glad if I could go on dreaming like this for as long as possible to see as much as we can!”

Ivan Semenovich glanced at Lida and Artem archly and shrugged in surrender: it was impossible to win an argument against Dmitro Borisovich when it concerned the ancient Scythians.

They entered the kibitka single file.

Inside, it was round and conical, with the light coming in through a big opening overhead. The floor was covered with thick, richly-decorated multi-colored carpets; small cushions were strewn along the walls. The same type of cushions were lying on top of the two large chests secured with large bronze studs and bound in wide bronze strips.

The chieftain was already seated on a soft rug. Without his gold helmet he appeared less stern than before. Or maybe his severity had gone because now he was smiling; his movements were light and devoid of the solemnity and marked dignity he had displayed when he was riding at the head of his warriors.

A younger Scythian with a small curly beard was standing by his side. It was the man with the single gold badge on his helmet to whom the chieftain had talked in a gentle voice. Artem felt at once that he shared the chieftain’s liking for this man. The open, energetic face with a small dark mustache and beard, clear eyes and a tall forehead — all his features inspired affinity. Artem stole a glance at Lida: what was her reaction toward this man? But Lida was occupied with herself.

Seeing a small shiny bronze plate with ornaments all around it attached to a pole standing in the center of the kibitka and extending into the hole above, she was quick to realize what purpose it served. It was clear that this piece of polished bronze was used as a mirror. And Lida was taking advantage of the opportunity to fix her hair.

“Oh, you’re beautiful enough without all that fuss,” Artem said a little mockingly. “Don’t you think so?”

Lida flushed. The chieftain also noticed that the girl was sprucing herself up before the bronze mirror. He laughed and said a few words to the young Scythian. This embarrassed Lida totally, and she stepped aside, closer to the explorers.

The chieftain, still keeping his genial smile, invited his guests to sit down on the carpet. They lowered themselves onto the carpet obediently and gladly as the fatigue caused by all the events of the extraordinary day had begun to tell.

“Good. At least we’ll have some rest,” Ivan Semenovich said contentedly, making himself comfortable. “But how are we going to communicate? To use only signs would be very inconvenient. Dmitro Borisovich, what if you try your nncient Greek on them?”

“My ancient Greek has grown so rusty…”

“But give it a try nevertheless. It may turn out to be very helpful.”

Dmitro Borisovich, painfully searching for words, slowly made up his first phrase. Despite its very awkward — in the archeologist’s opinion — construction, the chieftain and the younger Scythian opened their eyes wide in surprise. They bent forward, listening with the greatest attention. Dmitro Borisovich repeated his phrase. The eyes of the younger Scythian shone with the joy of understanding.

“Oh, they do understand!” Artem cried out triumphantly.

The younger Scythian replied, then Dmitro Borisovich said something else and the conversation was under way. It was not an easy conversation, for it was interrupted whenever Dmitro Borisovich lacked the words to express himself and had to use gestures and signs, but it was a real exchange nevertheless. After a while, the archeologist, wiping the profuse perspiration from his brow, told his friends:

“The old chieftain’s name is Skolot. This attractive man is Varkan. They both like us and are very interested to know more about us.”

Hearing their names, the Scythians nodded their heads one alter the other. Then the chieftain clapped his hands. Shortly a big bronze bowl and several smaller ones were brought in. The chieftain solemnly pointed to the bowl, inviting the guests to try its contents.

“He’s inviting us to drink some of what’s inside,” Dmitro Borisovich said. “I wonder what kind of beverage it is. Could it be…”

He stopped short as though reluctant to say something that would be out of place but without taking his eyes off the bowl.

“It must be some kind of alcoholic drink,” Artem volunteered his opinion. “What else would one offer his guests?”

Once again the young man proved to be right. The bowl did contain some intoxicating drink, sweetish, thick, fragrant and milky in color; it was neither wine nor any other familiar liquor.

Dmitro Borisovich sipped at it, swallowing it in tiny gulps, trying to determine what it was made of. Ivan Semenovich, guessing what was on the archeologist’s mind, said with conviction:

“There’s one thing I can say for sure — it’s not made of grapes.”

’ Of course not, but that was clear right from the start,” Artem responded immediately. “Who ever saw wine made of such whitish grapes? Besides, would vines grow here?”

“Young man, keep quiet,” the archeologist said stiffly. “I think… I think it’s… nothing else but… Yes, it must be oksugala …”

“Oks what?”

“ Oksugala … How depressing it is to talk with young people who are so ignorant of even the most basic facts of history and archeology! What a shame!”

“I’m sorry, Dmitro Borisovich,” Artem said, resignedly bending his head, but at the same time glancing archly at Lida.

“As I said it must be the oksugala mentioned by the ancient historians who stated that in addition to meat, the usual nourishment of the ancient Scythians was milk and all kinds of dairy products. That’s why the Scythians were often referred to as ‘milk-drinkers’ or ‘mare’s milk users’.”