Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Val Votrin

I was born in one such house. My father never did manage to acquire an earthly name; soon after my birth, he was given his final name, in the skies. It was in that year that a man arrived from the Hosun of Shurshi who called himself Sbeg, who had given himself a name – who had ever heard of such a thing! He raised up his voice, proposing that we do not wait, that no such Trumpet will ever sound, because no one will blow it, and one more thing: that we were of no concern to anyone. A full-out hunt was instituted for that one: three begs, simultaneously, ordered that he be put to death for this, his offense against heaven. Sbeg himself, hiding from no one, went off into the steppe to herd his sheep. And there, he received an omen: The Great Spirits Chichkan and Zhuizholu came to him. And they asked him, and he answered – expressing his doubts about the “special mission” given the Magogs. In reply, the Great Spirits, having pondered over it, turned Sbeg to ashes. Thus, apparently, it was once again proven that the Magogs have been marked as a chosen, anointed people. All of us knew too well, this story of what had happened to Sbeg. How many times were we told it by our campfire hearths? Sbeg was a lousy sacrificial sheep, who had lost his way and become separated from the rest of the flock. Not one of us had ever doubted that the Magogs had a great future in store. We all awaited, impatiently. This living in expectation was our single defining characteristic. It manifested itself in different ways, but always expressed in the same question. When?

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