There lived three brothers, they were all married. The two youngest had children, but the eldest was childless. He really wanted to have children. He dreamed about this for twelve years.
But in his thirteenth year his wife gave birth to a son.
The father loved the boy very much.
The brothers had a herd, and they took turns tending it in the mountains.
One day, when the eldest’s turn came, he went to the mountains and took with him his son, who was already ten years old.
One evening, when it was already getting dark, the boy walked away from the hut. None of the shepherds noticed this.
The tall grass hid the boy's head. And as he walked, the grass swayed above his head. This scared the goats, and they rushed from side to side.
The father saw that something was bothering the herd and, taking a gun, left the hut.
“The wolf must be creeping up on the herd,” the father decided and shot at the place where the grass wavered. The stems became motionless.
The father went to pick up the loot and found only his dead son.
He brought his son, put him on the cloak and sank to the ground next to him.
His fellow shepherds stood around.
Father sat for a long time. Then he went and brought acharpin. He played a mournful melody and sang:
You can't cry.–
This is what the law of the mountains dictates.
And I couldn’t be happier.
This is life on earth.
At the thirteenth mile I found it, At the tenth mile I lost it. My boy, you haven't gone far! You haven't seen anything yet...
Your unhappy mother
It's on the road.
I prepared a clean shirt -
Waiting for you...
All night, quiet and starry, he sat next to his son, not taking his eyes off him. And at dawn he died, his father’s heart could not stand it.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru