An elderly woman in front of the crowd pushed her old man:
«Help me unhook her fingers. She's got three kids without a father at home! They can take her!»
Together, they went to Khartaganov's crying wife, dragging lifelessly after her sweet, most dear man in this world. The young shaman, realizing what could happen to the mother of his children, tried to tear off the hem of his clothes. He finally managed to grope and tear a weak spot along the seam of his malica, sewed in the evenings by his Khutline – the morning dawn of the young shaman. As he walked, he continued tearing off the wide hem of his clothes. Skilful stitches sewn with reindeer veins gave in with difficulty. Finally, he stepped over the torn part of the malica, leaving it in the hands of the one that was half of his soul, half of his heart. His beloved remained sobbing angrily at the earth.
«Heia!» The crowd was agitated. «Your husband won't come back. Don't you howl like that!»
«He tore his clothes alive. Bad sign.»
Long winters and frosts in the North established their conditions for the funeral rites that had appeared in distant times, when people got used to live among the eternal snows. It was believed that in the «lower world» the dead live an ordinary life, so they need all the necessary utensils, including clothes. Women were buried in a new yagooshka, and men were buried in their malica. During the funeral, all things were spoiled – torn or cut with a knife. With a hatchet they cut sleds into two halves.
Today, the shaman tore his clothes going on a long journey. He knew the customs, but the family was more important than the ancient customs.
Keeping his dignity, the man, not knowing what would await him ahead, without bowing his head, went to the barge. Without looking back, he walked to its middle.
Khashkurne, not seeing the grief of others, with a heart breaking in her chest looked only after her father and whispered:
«Come back home! You promised!»
The escort, having seated three shamans, ordered to move ahead – and the steamboat rattled again, firing a black column of smoke. Under the female cries, the cry of children, the barking of dogs, the vicious screams of the Ob big gulls «Chale, chale, chalev, chalev!», the steamboat headed to Salekhard, which was Obdorsk a couple of years ago. There were more shamans there that needed to be taken to jail.
«They will be taken to the south, to Tobolsk, or Omsk,» said an obsolete woman, «they say they put shamans in prisons.»
«And they brought us to the North. They are unaccustomed to heat, so are we to cold. This is the punishment, but for what?» her friend asked, not addressing anyone.
«No, we were torn from our native land, from our roots. Not only the plant dies without roots, but also people.»
«But man is not a tree. We still have a head and hands. Hopefully, we will not die of longing and hunger!»
«The main thing is that we were not sent to prison. We will live free.»
«Why are you standing here, kulaks? Settle down, prepare a place for dugouts. You will dig tomorrow. Otherwise, in the open air you will die before winter!» Shouted the fair-haired man in uniform.
«So we'll spend the winter here?» The woman said.
The crying Khanty slowly moved to their village.
«Lucky ones, they are free, free!» – the woman said enviously. «They go whatever they want.»
