They put kerchiefs round their faces at night, not to be bothered by the sandstorms. They travel eight or ten hours a day, and stop only once to relax. In the evening they put up rough woolen tents and sleep in small groups.

Caravan-guides are highly respected everywhere; Everyone knows how hard it is to cross the Karakum.

They rode camels till Chelekend, and they went back on foot, leading the loaded camels. It was extremely difficult. The way was not only tiring, but also very dangerous. The local inhabitants were too dangerous as well, especially the spider Kara Kurt.

As if startled by something, the grandpa opened his eyes. They were ready to set off. He glanced at his grandson:

“This journey is a trifle compared with the journey in the Karakum. I have gone to and fro some six-times at least. Now they take a different way to carry the salt; They go through Ashgabat and Bayram Ali. Everybody avoids the Karakum. They must be scared,” the old man giggled, “I never was. Once I crossed it all alone with the caravan of eight camels, and came back to Khiva alone, too. Nobody has ever dared to do it. But I did, thank Allah, great is his name! I mean it, kid; don’t think I’m simply boasting.”

“I can do it too, I’m not scared. You will see it! I’ll do it when I grow up”, Agsar said proudly, leading his grandpa’s donkey hastily.

“He takes after me! I wish his poor father were alive to see him,” the old man thought riding his donkey. In a moment he fell into a sweet slumber.

***

Time passed. Agsar’s grandfather died and Agsar had been in Khiva many a time already, but his first impression and the grandfather’s story of the Karakum were still unforgettable for him. He made several attempts to assure his friends from Tezebazaar or Beruna to go with him to the desert, but all in vain. Even his closest friends, Ali and Abdul, didn’t want to hear anything about the Karakum.

He often thought about his grandpa when he visited the tea-house. He even saw his smiling face and heard his voice telling him: “They are afraid of the Karakum, but I wasn’t.”

Agsar worked by the riverside, near his house. He had a small business of his own there. He made bricks. He lived alone. For some unknown reasons he couldn’t manage to marry anyone yet. He didn’t worry about not having a wife, but he wanted to have children very much.

Ramadan had just started and Agsar wasn’t working. He went to the tea-house and drank several cups of tea, listening to the men talking. When he got bored of their hollow talk, he left. He walked down the lane thoughtlessly. After a while he realized that he was heading to the mount Karatau. It wasn’t hard for him to climb it, but he did it more slowly than before. He looked in the direction of Tezebazaar and Berun. He gazed at the settlements for some time, but then he looked in the direction of the yellow mist, where the desert lay. Grandpa’s words were ringing in his ears: “The desert frightens them.”

Grandpa was right. Agsar was afraid of the Karakum.

That night he searched the whole house. He found the old man’s water-skins, put them into the water and kept them there for two days. The water-skins softened well enough to keep fresh water. He mended the old tent too.

When Ramadan was over, he built a caravan of six camels and left early in the morning. On his way he recollected the fragments of his grandpa’s story: “When we left the village, the sun was rising on the right, and it set on our left. Those who ignored this rule, had been lost in the Karakum forever.”

He was wearing the same clothes as his grandpa used to. At first it was very hard for him, but on the third day he got used to them. He felt neither hot nor cold, and he slept well at night too.

“We took a lot of kurti[8] with us. It gave us energy and killed our thirst. We drank water only in the evening or while we relaxed.” Grandpa was not laughing at him any more. He was giving pieces of advice with a very serious air.

After five days’ walk, his feet began to swallow. It was difficult for him to put on his paipaks. He couldn’t get used to walking in the sands. He often thought he was walking around the same places again and again. He lost the count of the days as well; he was not sure whether he had been walking for eight days or nine, but he already guessed that he had missed Darvaza.

In the morning, two of the camels couldn’t get up. He somehow managed to redistribute their load onto the rest of the animals and went on walking. The distance he could walk decreased every day. He was not able to take off his paipaks at night, and his spine hurt awfully while sleeping. It was a real torture to start walking in the morning. He walked with great difficulty, and the camels lay down to rest much more frequently. The only thing he could still manage properly was the direction of the sunset – the sun always set at his left hand side.

He lost the count of the days thoroughly. He had no idea how many days had passed. For several days he could not eat anything. But he drank water all the time – in the morning, while relaxing, while walking and at night.

One morning he heard a hissing sound in his ears. He could hear the same terrible sound even in his sleep. He went blind several times a day and he felt giddy. At such moments he stopped for a while, and then continued his way with an unsteady gait. Once he even fell down. He stopped putting up his tent at night. It was too much for him now. He simply lay down on his baggage. He couldn’t remember when he had taken off his gown; he simply noticed that he had lost his gown and hat somewhere.

He recalled Khiva, its bazaar and the unforgettable taste of the watermelon. He saw his grandpa, but he didn’t give him advice any more. One morning he discovered that his camels escaped at night. He walked all day long. He heard a terrible hiss in his ears. His mouth was dry. His body was hot and the skin on his hands had dried up.

The sun had set and it was nearly dark when he saw a light ahead. He couldn’t reach it; he fell on the sand face down.

***

It was a high morning when a terrible pain woke him up. He opened his eyes and saw some moving figures in the distance.

He felt that his hand hurt terribly. He looked at it and saw a huge Kara Kurt on it. He tried to recall what his grandpa said about its bite and its remedy, but he couldn’t remember anything. His legs felt dead. Neither could he feel his fingers. His eyelids became too heavy, too.

He fell asleep.

In his dream he saw his grandpa. It was hard for him to talk but he managed to utter a sentence:

“I have crossed the Karakum, grandpa, and I wasn’t afraid!”

2005.

ONCE UPON A TIME

“Give me some water,” Bakur said with great difficulty and rose on his elbows. His grandson put a bowl full of water to his lips. The old man took a sip and lay back pretty exhausted.

He touched the scar on his chin with a sinewy hand. It was a long scar, running from the cheekbone down to the chin. He had two more deep scars on the forehead.

Bakur was lying in a cool, half dark room. He was lying and waiting for death. His arms were feeble, his chest was lean and hollow, and he could hardly breathe. His aquiline nose now seemed crooked; his dark blue eyes were fallen, but they still expressed an incredible sternness, felt in his gaze. He was lying in a wooden bed. He was well over eighty, but he didn’t know for sure how old he was.

“I’m leaving my weapons to you. You should grease the swords and daggers well, and don’t forget to clean the flintlock gun as well, don’t let it rust,” he said, giving a challenging look at his grandson. He paused for a while and then went on: “You will be the only man in the family now. Nobody knows when your dad is going to come back from the war. You shouldn’t obey the women’s will. Be the decision-maker. Meet your kin and enemies as they deserve it. And look after the livestock. Take a special care of the horses; don’t let them get fat.