Yes, the years go by, the gray centuries flow, and no one will ever stop their mighty run. As if recently my wrinkled hands were strong and young. The one lying in the Tyumen temple [Temple named after the Tyumen noyon] was also young.
Young and beautiful, like early spring, was Erle, daughter of Sangadzhi. And many hearts beat when they saw her, and her eyes, dark as night, were not forgotten.
Erle was beautiful, like the first glimmer of spring dawn. She spent sultry days in the tall grass near the thoughtful ilmen trees, cheerful, healthy, flexible. She imitated the cry of birds, jumped from hummock to hummock, lived the life of steppe swamps and knew their deepest secrets.
Erle grew up. And Sangadzhi wandered either near the wide Volga or along the quiet Akhtuba. Time flew, the herds multiplied. A lot of merchants came from Persia and India, and the rich Sangaji bought a lot of goods from them for his daughter.
Often long caravans of well-fed camels rested near his tent, and the hands of slaves continually passed expensive colored silks shimmering in the sun into Sangaji’s hands.
Noble matchmakers in rich, bright clothes dismounted from their horses fifteen steps away, threw themselves on the ground and crawled towards Sangaji.
The moonlit summer night breathed the vapors of the damp earth, covered with a thousand flowers, in the silence camels sighed, sheep coughed, mosquitoes sang, crickets chirped, harriers moaned, and some bird cried out sleepily. The sorceress-steppe lived and rejoiced, bringing wondrous maiden dreams to the beautiful Erla. Smiling, with her dark arms outstretched, she lay on expensive Bukhara carpets. And her mother, old Bulgun, sat at her head, with eyes full of tears, in deep grief.
“And why did the night sandpiper scream so loudly,” she thought, “why are the willows making such a sad noise over Erik, and what is Sangadzhi talking about in a low voice in the next wagon with a rich matchmaker?.. My dear Erle! When I carried you under my heart, I was happier than now, because no one could take you away from me.”
And at that time Sangaji said to the noble matchmaker:
“I don’t need anything for my Erle because she is more valuable than anything in the world.” Let me talk to the groom, I want to find out how reasonable he is, and let Erle herself tell him her terms.
The matchmaker was delighted, jumped into the saddle, galloped to the noyon Tyumen and told that, apparently, Erle would soon be laid across the saddle and brought to young Bemba.
Old Bulgun was crying at her daughter’s bedside. Sangaji sat with his legs crossed and looked sadly at Erle.
“And why did she grow up so quickly,” Sangadzhi whispered, “and why should some son of the Tyumen noyon take Erle from us, cheerful as a spring stream, like the first ray of the sun?”
Days passed, herds wandered through the lush grass of the Akhtuba Valley. Fat accumulated in camel humps and sheep tails. Mother and father were sad, only Erle was still having fun in the flowering steppe. In the evenings, the daughter wrapped her arms around her mother’s gray head and whispered affectionately that she would not soon leave her, that it was too early for her to leave the old people, and that she was not afraid of the wrath of the ferocious noyon Tyumen.
At the confluence of two rivers, the matchmakers of Noyon Tyumen and his son Bembe caught up.
Bembe did not dare to disturb Erle and ordered to pitch tents on the other side of the dry erik and spend the night.
Bembe did not sleep, and neither did Sangaji. Bulgun's eyes were red from tears.
The richly colored outfits of the matchmakers played like a rainbow in the morning sun. Riding ahead of everyone was Bembe, the son of the merciless, ferocious noyon of Tyumen, whose name made the entire steppe tremble.
“Let Erle herself tell you the conditions,” Sangaji said when Bembe declared that he needed Erle like a camel needed a rapeseed, like a duck needed elmen, like the earth needed the sun.
The steppe spoke louder and the waves in the river sang, the reeds raised their heads higher and the camels looked friendly when the beautiful Erle came out to the guests.
Bembe traveled from the great mountains to the valley of the Ili River and the deep Lake Balkhash, he saw thousands of beautiful women, but he never saw anyone like Erle.
“Ask for anything you want,” he told her, “just agree.”
She smiled at Erla and said:
- Bembe, son of a noble Noyon, I am glad to see you and will forever stay with you if you find me a flower, the most beautiful of which is not only in our steppe, but in the whole world. I will wait for him until next spring. You will find me in the same place, and if you bring a flower, I will become your wife. Goodbye.
Noyon Tyumen gathered noyons and clan elders and told them:
- Announce to all the people so that whoever knows about such a flower comes without fear and speaks about it for a great reward.
Tyumen's order flew around the steppe faster than the wind.
One night a dusty horseman rode up to the noyon's wagon. And when they let him into the tent, he said to the noyon:
“I know where the flower your beautiful Erla desires grows.”
And he talked about his wonderful country, which is called India and lies far beyond the high mountains. There is a flower there, people call it the sacred lotus and worship it as a god. If the noyon gives several people, he will bring a lotus, and the beautiful Erle will become Bembe's wife.
The next day, six horsemen set off.
It's boring to talk about how Sangaji lived in the cold winter. The northeast winds drove the cattle into the support [Supports - here: specially made pens], and he himself lay all day long and listened to the steppe storms singing sad songs behind the dugout. Even cheerful Erle yearned for the sun and waited for spring.
She thought little about the fact that the terrible Bembe would someday return. Meanwhile, six horsemen were heading east and had already reached the valley of the Ili River. They slept and ate in the saddle. Bembe hurried them, and they delayed only to hunt for food.
They had to endure many hardships until they reached mysterious India. Wild steppes, tall mountains and stormy rivers met them on the way, but the riders stubbornly rode forward.
Finally they arrived in India and saw a wonderful flower - the lotus. But no one dared to tear it down, everyone was afraid of incurring the wrath of the gods. Then the old priest came to their aid. He picked a lotus and gave it to Bemba, saying:
- Remember, man, you received a beautiful flower, but you will lose something even more beautiful.
Bembe did not listen to him, grabbed the lotus and ordered to immediately saddle the horses to set off on the return journey.
The fierce wind blew less and less often, and the sun remained in the sky longer and longer. Spring was approaching, and the pale, emaciated Erle was waiting for it.
In vain did the healers go to her father’s dugout, in vain did they give her various herbs to drink, every day Erle melted like snow under the sun. Bulgun could no longer cry. With crazy eyes she looked at her daughter, who was leaving her forever, and when the birds began to sing and the steppe began to bloom, Erle could no longer get up. With her thin hand she stroked her mother, distraught with grief, and her eyes still laughed quietly and affectionately.
If the birds could speak, they would tell Bemba to hurry up his horses, because soon, soon Erle’s heart will stop beating. But Bembe was in a hurry anyway. There was only a little way left. Tired horses, with bloodshot eyes, stumbled and almost fell from exhaustion.
Noble matchmakers rushed towards Bemba.
“Hurry, Bembe!” they shouted. “Your beautiful Erle is dying.”
And when Sangadji’s wagon appeared, everyone saw mother and father coming out of it, backing away. The riders realized that Erle had died. Bembe sadly lowered the reins. He didn’t see the living, beautiful Erle, and Erle didn’t see a flower as beautiful as herself...
They buried her on the banks of the Volga, and Erle built a temple in memory of Bembe.
On a dark night, Bembe went into the reed thickets of the mouth and planted a wonderful lotus there.
And this beautiful flower still grows there to this day.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru