In the old days, in the mountains of Assyria, people lived for a long time and did not think about dying. The old people were cheerful, hardworking and brave. They worked all day, but despite this, their good spirits never left them. The Assyrians lived in separate principalities. And these principalities were separated by high mountains and deep gorges.
The tops of the blue mountains were covered with snow, and green meadows spread at the foot. Large herds of wild goats and sheep grazed here, which were hunted by panthers. The king birds, the eagles, circled high in the sky and tracked their prey with their keen eyes. Turbulent, high-water rivers flowed through the gorges, breaking everything in their path. The winter here was harsh and the summer cool; the air was clean and transparent.
People lived a long time, and when old age came, they could no longer work. Their strength was exhausted, but they did not die. Their souls seemed to never want to part with their bodies.
The Assyrian mountaineers in those days had a cruel custom, which even now remains in the memory of very old people. The eldest son took his elderly father on his shoulders, climbed a high rock, and from there the old man himself jumped into a deep, dark abyss, where the remains of his mountaineer fathers and ancestors rested.
The mountain village of Zumi in the Galia d'Margi valley, like a swallow's nest, stuck to the foot of the mountain. A long time ago, an ancient old man named Khnanyshu lived in this village with his son, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. In winter he warmed himself near the fire all day, and in summer he sat in the sun. For the seventh year now he could not do anything. Life among the mountaineers was very difficult; it was impossible to keep extra food. And naturally, the day was approaching when grandfather Khnanysh had to part with his home. The eldest son Ovdyshu kept putting off this day, but his wife Sharbi did not give him rest day and night, buzzing all over his ears that she was tired of caring for the old man, feeding, washing and cleaning up after him, and endlessly said that it was time for the old man to go to his ancestors and that they could not wait for his arrival.
The eldest son Ovdysh, willy-nilly, had to submit to his wife’s demands. But everyone in the village loved Khnanysha very much. He knew and skillfully told many fairy tales, short stories and epics. However, lately he had no time for fairy tales. He lost a lot of weight, his cheeks and eyes were sunken, his hands were shaking, and he completely lost his appetite. All winter he lay near the fireplace, and in warm weather he sat in the sun, not noticing anyone or anything, as if he was sleeping.
Spring has come. As soon as the sun began to warm up warmer and more tenderly caress the tops of the mountains, forests and valleys, nature shook off its winter coat and put on the outfit of a spring bride. The streams began to gurgle, the meadows turned green, the buds blossomed on the trees, and the first nightingales began to sing in the gardens and forests. Wild bees circled over the mountain flowers. And people’s souls became more cheerful and free. But only one thing continued to bother them - the fate of Khnanyshu.
Everyone only talked about grandfather and regretted that they would soon have to say goodbye to him. Feeling this, he woke up very early on that last day and asked to be taken out into the sun. He sat for a long time and looked into the distance, not noticing anyone, only his lips moved barely noticeably. It was clear that he was reading a prayer. Soon the entire population of the village gathered around him. The youngest daughter-in-law came first. She washed his face and hands, combed his hair, fed him and gave him something to drink. Then Shamasha Kuryakus approached, waddling like an old hen. He, puffing like a cauldron, read a prayer in the ancient Assyrian language and, blessing KhenaNysha, stepped aside. After the prayer, first his relatives, and then all the village residents, began to come up to say goodbye to him. They kissed his gray head and touched his cheek with their cheeks. When the ceremony was over, the eldest son Ovdyshu deftly lifted him onto his shoulders and carried him on his final journey. Then everyone started crying, the children screamed. It seemed that mortal danger was looming over the village.
Ovdyshu slowly walked towards the chamcham. He had to climb the mountain along a narrow path, go through a small oak forest, from where, after about one stop on the way, he could already see a stone on which he needed to sit down for a few minutes, rest and say his last goodbye. At a distance of more than a hundred cubits, a black, gloomy and bare rock rose - the “rock of death.”
It had to be climbed using a ladder carved into the rock. At the top of the rock there was a platform three cubits wide and five cubits long. The son must bring his father there, put him on his feet, and, without waiting for the old man to jump into the abyss, leave. The old man stood facing the east, read a prayer, crossed himself, took a few steps forward and threw himself down into the bottomless chamchama, where he disappeared forever and ever, and his soul flew away to the seventh heaven.
When Ovdyshu sat down to rest and sat his father next to him, he suddenly heard his grandfather sobbing. Tears, like spring rain, rolled down his cheeks. The son was very surprised. “How is it so,” he thought, “the father who was a hero of several wars, was the best and bravest hunter of wild boars, panthers and bears, the father who lived the longest, the father who was tired of leading such a life, is crying!” “Father,” asked the son, “are you really afraid of death?” The father raised his head, hugged his son and said in a trembling voice: “No, son, I’m crying not because I feel sorry for myself and because I’m afraid of death, but because I feel sorry for you.” The son was even more surprised and said: “Father, I am completely healthy and still feel well and can go after a bear alone, why do you feel sorry for me?” “I feel sorry for you because someday the day will come when you grow old and no one needs you, then your son will take you on his shoulders and carry you along this path and throw you into the abyss. That’s why I’m crying, dear son.”
He wiped his tears with his sleeve and said: “Well, now it’s time to go.”
Hearing such words, Ovdyshu could not come to his senses for a long time, and when he woke up and looked at his father, he felt so sorry for the old man that, without allowing him to utter a word, he picked him up and carried him back to the village.
When the son appeared in the village with his father in his arms, everyone there was still crying and wailing. Everyone was very surprised and thought that some kind of disaster had happened. Then the son came forward and explained everything. Everyone decided that they should leave the old man alone and let him live out his life in peace.
From that day on, Khnanyshu became happier and began to tell fairy tales and epics again.
So the wise Khnanyshu convinced his fellow countrymen that they were treating their old people unfairly.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru