I. Pyotra’s Journey

Coming in to Petropavlovsk station,
Pyotra felt the train start slowing down.
The brakes’ decisive tug pulled at his body;
He looked out at the quiet Siberian town --
Jittery with elation,
Closer now to his long-awaited destination,
Kyrgyzstan -- still a thousand miles to the south.

That night in bed he made a list:
Provisions he would need to buy,
Supplies for the lonesome journey.

The next day he began
The journey south, along the river Isim
Into Aknola and Jezkazgan,
The long hot road to Turkestan
-- And finally he could see the peaks
Of the Alai mountains rising in the distance.

Once in Osh, he sought out Dan,
A journalist familiar with the region,
Whose name he had from his professor.
His goal was to find, among the nomads
Northeast of Osh, a young man learning
To recite the epic of Manas --
He stayed in Osh for several days,
Becoming more familiar with the language.

With Dan’s directions close at hand,
Pyotra rode deeper into the hills
To find the famous aqyn named Qulan
And his young apprentice, Azamat.

II. Codify the Living Text

The wise old man smiles;
His charismatic aura warms Pyotra.
Qulan’s trying to figure out what this Russian is after --
He can’t see the value of transcribing the epic.

The stories he recites are patterns
Woven in the fabric of his days --
As real to him as the sun’s rays
Beating down on the roof of his jurt,
Or the rain that falls outside his door.

The stories are living beings
Like the goats that graze in his brother’s garden --
Next to that, a leaf of paper
With characters he must strain to read
Seems cryptic indeed.

Pyotra knows the connection is lacking;
The cultural gap between himself and Qulan Is painfully apparent. Tomorrow evening
He will hear the student recite;
He hopes with all his heart
He will be able to understand.

III. Portrait of the Aqyn as a Young Man

The shadow cast from Azamat’s purple robe
Falls glancing on the Russian scribe,
Behind him the setting Kyrgyz sun
Paints the distant peaks a pearly red
And shines like a halo above the young man’s head.
Turning, grinning, lordly
Azamat shouts the death cry of Manas’ foes
And waves his vicarious sword;
He waters the steppes with their departing souls.

(His grandfather listens, proud;
A son’s son, voice raised loud,
Recites the victories and deeds of Manas,
Gives voice to the epic tale of Manas.)

Pyotra is watching, copying in shorthand
What Azamat’s young voice recounts;
But the stenographic symbols make no account
Of the apprentice’s passion in the telling,
Of the shadows his arms make as he turns again,
Of the glint in his eyes as he tells of the pain
Inflicted by Manas’ mighty sword
On the forces arrayed against the Kyrgyz,
On the Uighur, alien horde.

Azamat is a student yet, but already one can tell,
He feels the epic storyteller’s trance -- as he carries on this age-old dance;
But the sun sinks low.
The old manaschi faces him, bows,
And smiles -- the student has done well.

IV. Revelation

Late night, the sun long set behind the hills,
The stars shone down on the peaceful Earth.
Young Azamat, excited from his studies,
Lay quiet but still sleepless in Qulan’s jurt.
He gazed up at the ceiling, where he saw
Pictures of the morning’s lessons flicker.
He saw proud Manas, noble in his bearing,
Stand by his horse; could almost hear its nicker.
And beautiful Kanikei, Manas’ bride,
He saw her also, and their wedding feast;
He saw the Kalmyk warriors coming, riding from the East.

Above all this, his teacher stood, narrating
The stories he had heard so many times;
The manaschi’s voice was steady, never fading,
Melodic as he sang the ancient rhymes --
His variations of tradition’s lines.

The old, familiar rhythms were enchanting;
As Azamat nodded, he began to fall
Asleep -- but suddenly, as the lad was drifting
Off, he thought he heard his teacher call.
He jumped out of bed and, pushing aside the drape
That enclosed his room, the boy stepped out and said
“What do you need, teacher? For you called me.”
But Qulan only shook his wrinkled head.
“I did not call you, no; go back to bed.”

He went back to his bedroom, and lay down;
Now tired, he closed his eyes; his mind was clear.
That moment, when the boy began to doze,
He heard his teacher: “Azamat, come here.”
He shuffled out again, a little groggy,
And asked once more, “Yes, sir, what should I do?”
His teacher looked askance at him, and paused,
But just said “Go, lie down; I did not call you.”
So Azamat, puzzled, went back to his room.

He felt uneasy, troubled, in his bed;
He hardly knew if he was awake, or not.
He closed his eyes, lay still, and tried to sleep;
But then he heard, a third time, “Azamat!”
When he approached his teacher once again,
The old man knew whose voice had called the boy.
Jambul was calling him to be an aqyn --
Qulan’s heart leapt up in paternal joy.
“Go back to bed,” he told the boy;
“If someone calls you, do not arise,
But answer, ‘Speak, I’m listening;’
And you will learn much; you will become wise.”
Azamat went back to bed, and closed his eyes.

Asleep again, when soon he heard the voice,
He laid still, and he did as he’d been told.
He answered, “Speak, your servant listens.” Now,
A wondrous dream-world started to unfold.
Azamat was sitting in a meadow,
Beside a radiant angel, who gazed at him;
Unwavering, placid, clear-browed Jambul knelt,
Picked up his dombra and began to strum.
Jambul turned and looked, across the meadow,
And Azamat was quick to follow his glance.
Far off, he saw the forty Kyrgyz warriors
And Manas, who was leading this martial band,
Leading the Kyrgyz to their new homeland.