“Give me a sheep. Just one. If you don’t, I’ll kill ten.”

“How can I give you a sheep? This flock isn’t mine. The master will kill me if there’s one sheep missing.”

The wolf thought for a minute, and then said:

“I’m terribly hungry. Go to your master and ask him to give me a sheep.”

Sarsembai went to his master and told him everything. The bei reasoned that ten sheep were more than one sheep, and one sheep cost less than ten. And so he told Sarsembai:

“Let him take one sheep. Only he must not choose. Blindfold him, and the sheep he grabs he can take.”

Sarsembai did as his master told him. The blindfolded wolf rushed into the thick of the flock, grabbed one sheep with his teeth. There is a saying: a stick thrown into the desert will anyway find some poor wretch to hit. And, true enough, it was Sarsembai’s promised lame sheep that the wolf grabbed. The boy burst into tears. The wolf felt sorry for him and said:

“It’s too bad, but that’s the kind of luck you have. Look, Ill leave you the sheep’s hide, so you can sell it to someone and make a little money.”

Sarsembai picked up the sheep’s hide from the ground, flung it over his shoulder, and drove on the flock.

Down the hill came the bei on a red pacer. Standing up on his stirrups he started counting the sheep. They were all there except for the lame sheep he had promised Sarsembai. Behind the flock came Sarsembai with a shepherd’s crook in his hand, a sheep’s hide flung over his shoulder, and tears pouring down his face.

The bei gave such a roar of laughter that his startled pacer lurched on his feet.

“Some shepherd I have! You couldn’t even watch your one sheep! You’ll lose my whole flock like that. Get out of my sight!”

And poor Sarsembai trudged across the steppe, following the shadow cast by his shepherd’s crook.

After some time he came to a strange town, and there found the bazaar. He hung about in the crowd for hours, but no one wanted to buy his sheep’s hide. It was late in the evening when at last he managed to sell it to someone for three coins.

“For the three coins I’ll buy three flat cakes, and they’ll last me three days. After that, come what may.”

He made for the bread stalls, but on the way he came upon a sick old man who was begging alms. Sarsembai gave him one coin, which left him with only two.

The old beggar nodded his thanks, then he bent down, scooped up some sand and held it out to the boy.

“Take this for your kindness,” he said.

Sarsembai thought the old beggar was not all there, but he did not want to hurt his feelings and so accepted the sand and poured it into his pocket.

Night fell. It grew quite dark. Sarsembai went to the caravanserai and asked the owner to let him stay the night. The owner would not let him stay for free, and demanded payment. And so Sarsembai had to give him one of his two remaining coins.

The owner laid down carpets and felts for his lodgers to sleep on, but as for Sarsembai, he told him to lie down on the bare ground. The ground was cold and hard, Sarsembai was hungry, and when he did fall asleep he had bad dreams.

At daybreak the caravanserai came awake, the merchants who had stayed the night started loading their bags of goods on to their camels out in the yard, and Sarsembai heard them talking as they moved about their business.

“I had a wonderful dream,” one of the merchants said. “I dreamt that I was lying like a khan on a gorgeous divan, the bright sun was leaning over me, and a young silver moon was playing on my chest.”

Sarsembal went up to the merchant and said:

“I’ve never had a good dream in my whole life. Please, sell me your dream, and let it be mine.”

“Sell my dream?” the merchant asked, laughing. “Very well. What will you pay me?”

“I have one coin. Here it is.”

“Hand it over!” cried the merchant. “My dream is yours now, little fellow.”

The merchant roared with laughter, and everyone who had watched the scene joined in. And Sarsembai, delighted with his purchase, left the caravanserai, hopping as he went.

Sarsembai walked near and far, he came to many villages, but nowhere was there work for him, no one offered him shelter or a bowl of soup.

Winter came. One dark, cold night Sarsembai was plodding across the steppe, blowing on his frozen fingers. He swayed like a reed in the vicious wind, and the blizzard made him go round in circles. Sarsembai was crying, and his tears froze on his cheeks. Too weak to go on, he fell on a snowdrift and cried in despair:

“Better fall prey to the wolves than suffer this misery any longer!”

The moment he had spoken those words, a huge wolf appeared from the darkness, his eyes burning and the fur bristling on his neck.

“Some food at last!” he wailed. “Won’t my cubs be happy!”

“Kill me, wolf. Let your cubs be happy,” Sarsembai said in a weak voice. “I’d rather die than live…”

The wolf made no move. He stood peering at the boy, and then he said: |

“Is it you, Sarsembai, who once let me take a sheep? I’ve recognised you. Don’t be afraid, I shan’t touch you, and maybe I’ll save your life too. Climb on to my back and hold tight!”

Sarsembai climbed on to the wolf’s back, and the wolf carried him across the snow-drifted steppe. He brought him to the edge of a dense forest and said:

“See that little light, Sarsembai? It’s a bonfire. A band of robbers had been camping there. They have now ridden on their way and won’t be back soon. Go and warm yourself at their fire. And perhaps it won’t be so cold tomorrow… Goodbye!”

The wolf vanished, and Sarsembai ran to the fire. He warmed himself and even appeased his: hunger a little by gnawing the bones the robbers had left on the ground near the fire. He felt so happy that he could sing. It doesn’t take much to cheer up a poor beggar, does it?

The sky paled, and the fire went out. When the coals had turned black, Sarsembai thrust his hands into the warm cinders. It was lovely and warm! And as he pushed his hands deeper and deeper, his fingers came upon some hard object. Sarsembai pulled it out and gasped! It was a golden casket. His heart hammered excitedly.

He raised the lid, and in that very moment the first sunray fell right on it. Sarsembai cried out and shut his dazzled eyes: the casket was filled with diamonds!

He clutched his treasure to his chest and ran into the forest as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Oh, to reach people quickly!” he was thinking. “I’ll live like a bei now! These riches will be enough for a hundred people.”

The forest was growing denser and denser. It was a creepy place, and Sarsembai was afraid he’d never find his way out of the impenetrable thickets.

“What am I going to do with my treasures in this dark, terrible forest?” .

Suddenly, the pale sky showed between the trees, and Sarsembai came out of the forest into a wide glade. In the middle of the glade, near a stream that never froze, stood a handsome yurt covered with white felts.

“What kind of people live here, I wonder?” Sarsembai was thinking. “Will they be good or mean to a ragged beggar boy?”

He hid his casket in the hollow of an ancient oak tree, and went into the yurt.

“Good morming,” he said.

A fire was burning in the yurt, and crouching before it sat a little girl, deep in thought. At the sound of the stranger’s voice she sprang up and stared at Sarsembai in fright and amazement.

“Who are you, what brings you here?” the girl asked at last.

Sarsembai gazed at the girl and could not utter a word, for he had never seen anyone so beautiful, a lovely princess only the bards sing of in their legends. But her eyes were sad, her pretty face was whiter than snow: some terrible grief must have befallen her.

Sarsembai pulled himself together and told her:

“I am Sarsembai, an orphan. I’ve been wandering about the land in search of work, food and a roof over my head, but I lost my way in the forest and happened upon this yurt. And who are you?”

The girl stepped close to him and, trembling all over, spoke:

“My name is Altyn-kyz, and there isn’t an unhappier girl in the whole world. But why should you worry about me, Sarsembai, when you yourself are in terrible danger… Run for your life from here, run if you can find your way out of this horrible forest. Do you know where your misfortune has brought you? This is the yurt of the bloodthirsty Zhalmawiz-Kempir. She’ll be back any minute. You won’t have a chance… Run then, before it’s too late!”

A loud thudding, crackling and snapping came from outside. The little girl turned paler still.

“It is too late!” she whispered in horror and, grabbing Sarsembai by the hand, pulled him away from the hearth and hid him under some felts.

Through a slit between the felts Sarsembai saw the door flung wide open and the frightening Zhalmawiz-Kempir stomping into the yurt. This monster of a witch had thick red lips, a beak of a nose, and fangs like a she-wolf. She swept the yurt with her mean little purblind eyes, squatted in front of the fire and stretched her bony black fingers to the flames. She sat like that for some time, wheezing heavily, while the little girl stood out of her reach, numbed by fear.

When the witch had warmed her bones enough, she snarled:

“Altyn-kyz, come here.”

Trembling like a leaf, the little girl made a small step and stopped, but the old witch grabbed her with her claw-like fingers and drew her close.

Altyn-kyz moaned with pain. Sarsembai clenched his fists and would have pounced on the mean old witch, but just then she pushed the girl away and screamed at her:

“Nasty brat! Growing paler and skinnier with every day! Don’t you know what I’m keeping you in my yurt for? I should have eaten you long ago, but I keep putting it off, waiting for you to come to your senses and start putting on flesh. Mark my words: if when I return tomorrow I find you as skinny as you are now, I’ll fry you alive on this fire here!”

The old witch flopped on her bed and started snoring. Poor Altyn-kyz cried all night long, crouching in front of the fire.

In the morning, the witch repeated her threat to the girl, took her crook and left the yurt. There was a great noise outside, a thudding, crackling and snapping, and then with the witch’s departure everything grew quiet again.

Sarsembai crawled out from under the felts and asked the girl to tell him how she had fallen into the clutches of the witch.

“I lived in my home village with my father and mother in happiness and in plenty,” Altyn-kyz began. “Once, my parents went away to visit friends, and my father said to me in parting: ‘Be a good girl, Altyn-kyz, don’t go outside and don’t let any strangers in.’ It was dull staying indoors all by myself, and so I went outside. A crowd of my girl-friends were off to the steppe to pick flowers, and they asked me to come with them. And I did go, stupid me. There I was picking flowers when a very old woman came towards me, leaning on her crook. ‘My, what a lovely girl, my, what a beauty!’ she said to me. ‘Is your home far?’ And I replied: ‘No, it’s very near, there’s our yurt over there.’ And she said: ‘Take me home with you and give me a drink of fresh water, child.’ I didn’t think there was anything wrong, and so I took her home and gave her some water. But she just sat there, gazing and gazing at me. ‘My, what a lovely girl, my, what a beauty! Come, let me comb your hair for you.’ I laid my head on her knee, she took out a golden comb and started combing out my hair. And all of a sudden I felt so sleepy. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep. I don’t know how long I slept, only I came awake in this yurt. It was many days ago. Since then I haven’t seen anyone except this Zhalmawiz-Kempir, my torturer. And every day I think is my last.”

When she had finished her story, she again implored Sarsembai to escape while the going was good, begging him with tears.

But Sarsembai only smiled gently in response, then he put his arms round Altyn-kyz like a big brother, and said:

“I’ll never abandon you, Altyn-kyz. We shall run away together.”

“Oh, thank.you, Sarsembai, for your kind words, but it is not to be. If we run away, Zhalmawiz-Kempir will overtake us, and if she doesn’t overtake us we’ll die anyway, freezing to death in the snow.”

“We’ll wait till spring and then run away…” said Sarsembai.

Altyn-kyz sighed sadly. “The brave are often reckless,” she said. “You must have forgotten that I’m to be fried alive today.”

“No, Altyn-kyz, you won’t be!” the boy cried hotly. “I’ve thought it all out. The witch may be cunning, but we’ll try to outwit her. It’s dark inside the yurt, Ill put on your dress and let the witch feel me instead of you. I’m bigger and fatter than you. Maybe she’ll be taken in, and we’ll survive until it gets warmer.”

Altyn-kyz would not hear of the risk which Sarsembai wanted to run for her, but he stood his ground.

“If you don’t listen to reason, I’ll attack the old witch this very evening and be the first of us to die when she sinks her sharp fangs into me!” he told Altyn-kyz.

She had to give in then. They changed clothes, Altyn- kyz hid under the felts, and Sarsembai sat down in front of the hearth in her usual place.

Again there was a great noise outside—a thudding, a crackling, and a snapping—and the red-lipped monster stomped into the yurt.

She warmed her hands at the fire, and then snarled:

“Altyn-kyz, come here.”

Sarsembai stepped forward bravely. She looked him up and down with her mean little purblind eyes, and mumbled:

“You do seem to have grown a bit.”

She felt him all over, pinched him, and said with a nasty snicker:

“Aren’t you a sly thing! I’ve long guessed that you were making a fool of me. I only had to give you a proper scare, for you to change at once. Oh well, if that’s how it is, you can live a little longer, fattening up…”

Time flowed on—days and nights full of fear for the boy and girl.

Spring came at last. The stream began to babble merrily, the birds began to twitter, and the flowers to open out.

“Dear Altyn-kyz, we must get ready to run,” Sarsembai said to the girl. “I’ve noticed that the witch has grown fiercer than ever: could she have guessed that you’re planning to escape? If she finds out about me, then it’ll be the end for both of us. I’ll make a bow and arrow, go into the forest, bag game enough to last us the journey, I’ll return in three days’ time and then we’ll run away.”

“Do what you think best, Sarsembai, you know best,” Altyn-kyz replied with tears in her eyes. “Only be careful, and come back safe and sound.”

“Don’t cry, Altyn-kyz, don’t worry about me,” Sarsembai said to her. “When you feel lonely, go to the stream and look at the water: if you see goose feathers floating along then you’ll know that all’s well with me and I am sending you my greetings from afar.”

Altyn-kyz walked with him a little way, and then hurried back in case the witch returmed before her usual time and found the yurt empty.

Sarsembai followed the stream, going farther and farther away.

That first day he shot three wild geese. He plucked them and sent the feathers floating along the stream. The second day he shot three wild geese again, and sent the feathers floating on the water.

On the third day he saw a baby deer standing in the middle of a glade with a flock of black ravens hovering over him with a noisy flapping of wings and a greedy croaking. The ravens wanted to pluck out the poor thing’s eyes. Sarsembai shooed away the ravens, frightening them off. And here the father deer came loping across the glade.

“Thank you, Sarsembai,” he said to the boy. “I’ll also do you a good turn one day.”

Sarsembai went on, and suddenly he heard a piteous bleating, and guessed that it came from a hole in the ground. He looked down, and there was a little lamb, bleating, thrashing about and vainly trying to climb out.

Sarsembai pulled out the poor thing, and there the old father ram came running.

“Thank you, Sarsembai,” he said. “I’ll also do you a good turn one day.”

On went Sarsembai. Suddenly he heard a tiny squeak almost under his feet. It was an eagle chick that had fallen out of the nest. The boy felt sorry for the poor thing, picked it up and put it back in the nest.

Here, the old father eagle flew down to him.

“Thank you, Sarsembai. I’ll also do you a good turn one day,” he told the boy.

That day Sarsembai did not bag any game, and the sun was already setting. His heart sank as he remembered that he had not thrown a single feather on the water yet, and what poor Altyn-kyz must be thinking. He turned and ran back to the witch’s yurt as fast as he could.

Altyn-kyz, missing him sorely and feeling very lonely, had been going to the stream every day, hurrying there as soon as the witch left on her business. She’d see the goose feathers floating on the water, and smile, knowing that all was well with Sarsembai.

On the third day, she came to the stream and there were no feathers floating on the water. Altyn-kyz stood there gazing at the stream and waiting for an hour, another hour, and yet another hour, and still there was not a feather to see. She fell down on the ground, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

“Sarsembai is no more! I’d have died a thousand deaths only so that he’d live and be happy… And now he’s dead, kind, brave, Sarsembai!”

She was sobbing her heart out, too overcome with grief to see that Zhalmawiz-Kempir was stealing up to her, shaking with rage. The old witch grabbed the girl by the shoulders and dragged her to the yurt.

“You thought you’d play a trick on me, did you!” she snarled. “I’ve found you out now. Run away, would you? You found someone to help you, did you! Forget it, girl: you won’t get away from me and no one will rescue you. Your end has come. I’ll eat you alive with my bare teeth!”

Suddenly, the door was thrown wide, and on the threshold stood Sarsembai. Altyn-kyz threw her arms round his neck, but the old witch still held her fast in her clutches.

“Listen, Zhalmawiz-Kempir,” shouted Sarsembai. “If you let Altyn-kyz go I’ll pay you a rich ransom for her.”

“A ransom? What ransom can you give me, you ragged beggar?”

Sarsembai fetched the casket from the hollow in the ancient oak, and raised the lid for the old witch to see. The sight of the diamonds made her howl from greed, her hands itched to seize them and she slackened her hold on the girl.

“Take her, take the girl, and hand over your stones!”

But Sarsembai was no simpleton, and he was not going to put the casket into the old witch’s hands.

“Here are the stones, pick them up, old witch!” he said, and scattered the diamonds all over the floor. As they rolled this way and that they sparkled like stars. Zhalmawiz-Kempir dropped down on all fours and started picking them up, and Sarsembai, taking his chance, caught Altyn-kyz’s hand and together they dashed out of the yurt.

They ran across the meadow, then they ran through the forest, afraid to pause for breath or look back. The branches whipped their faces, the dry twigs scratched them, and great old tree roots blocked their path. Altyn-kyz was at her last gasp, her poor feet were blistered and wounded by the stones and prickles, her braids had got undone, and sweat poured down her face.

Suddenly they heard a seas noise behind them: trees turned out by the root, the earth quaking. Zhalmawiz- Kempir hard in pursuit.

“We must run faster, Altyn-kyz,” Sarsembai begged her. “Our legs are our only hope.”

“I can’t go on, Sarsembai,” Altyn-kyz pleaded. “I feel dizzy, my knees are giving way. Go on without me. While Zhalmawiz-Kempir is eating me you’ll go a long way to safety…”

“What are you saying, Altyn-kyz! I’ll never abandon you. You’re all I have in the world.”

So on they ran together. And Zhalmawiz-Kempir was already gaining on them. They could already hear her voice, cursing them and threatening: “I’ll catch you anyway! Ill eat you alive anyway!”

Altyn-kyz’s legs gave way, she could hardly breathe and whispered:

“Goodbye, Sarsembai… Leave me, save your own life… There’s no help for me now…”

Sarsembai burst into tears.

“No, if we must die, we’ll die together.”

He picked up Altyn-kyz, hoisted her on his back, and ran on, gasping painfully.

Suddenly the old father deer appeared before them, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Climb on to my back and clutch my neck: the old witch will never outrun me.”

In minutes he brought them to a tall mountain and said:

“Zhalmawiz-Kempir won’t find you here.”

The children sat down on the ground, close to one another, but before they could get their breath back they saw the old witch coming straight at them, howling and shrieking, and raising great clouds of dust.

Sarsembai jumped to his feet, shielded Altyn-kyz with his body, picked up a sharp stone and prepared to fight for their lives.

And here the old father ram suddenly appeared from nowhere, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Get on my back, children, take hold of my horns, and I’ll take you out of the old witch’s reach.”

When Zhalmawiz-Kempir got to the mountain, the boy and the girl were already on the very top. Enraged, the old witch started gnawing at the mountain with her teeth and scraping at it with her claws. The mountain began to sway, and in a moment it would collapse.

And here the old father eagle came flying down to the children, and said:

“I haven’t forgotten my promise, Sarsembai. Quickly, climb on to my wings, and I’ll take you to safety.”

The children jumped on to his wings, and just as the eagle took off the mountain collapsed and buried the cruel witch under.

The eagle flew all that day and all that night. He flew under the clouds and above the clouds. At last he alighted in the middle of the steppe near a village.

Altyn-kyz stepped down, looked about her and cried in delight:

“Why, it’s my own home village!”

Her father and mother came running out of their yurt, they hugged and kissed their little daughter, asking her anxiously all the time:

“Where have you been, Altyn-kyz? Who had carried you off? Whom must we thank for your rescue?”

Altyn-kyz told them the whole story, and pointed to Sarsembai:

“This is my rescuer!”

Sarsembai was too embarrassed to raise his eyes. He stood before Altyn-kyz’s parents, a beggar boy in dirty rags, barefoot, and covered with scratches.

The parents took him by the arms, brought him into their yurt, made him change into good clothes, and seated him in the place of honour.

“Stay with us, dear Sarsembai, stay with us for good. We shall cherish you like a child and esteem you like a white-bearded sage.”

Sarsembai stayed in the village, and he and Altyn-kyz were always together. They shared everything—work, leisure, joys and sorrows. Years passed. In the whole steppe there was no djigit braver and worthier than Sarsembai, and in the whole world there was no girl lovelier and sweeter than Altyn-kyz. When they came of age, they married and became happier still. In time, a child was born to them, it was a son—the father’s pride, and the mother’s delight.

One day his work done, Sarsembai was lying on the fragrant steppe grass, beside him sat Altyn-kyz, and their baby son was playing on his chest. Sarsembai laughed happily and sald:

“My old dream has come true, the dream I once bought for a coin from a merchant at the caravanserai. People, come and look: here I’m lying on a gorgeous divan—the sacred soil of my motherland, the bright sun is smiling at me—that’s you, my beloved Altyn-kyz, and the young moon is playing on my chest, that’s our darling son, our firstborn… There isn’t a khan who wouldn’t envy me at this moment!”

Remembering his miserable childhood, Sarsembai said he’d like to take another look at the rags in which he left the bei, went wandering about the land, and met his Altyn-kyz in the yurt of the bloodthirsty old witch. His wife brought him the small, tattered coat. Sarsembai took it in his hands, and sighed: there was no counting the holes and the patches on it. There was a pocket too, and it wasn’t empty… There was something in it, but what? He thrust his hand in and felt sand. Now, he remembered the old beggar at the bazzar giving him that sand-in gratitude for his coin, and with a sigh he scattered the sand on the wind. The wind picked up the light grains of sand and strewed them over the steppe. And instantly all over the boundless steppe there appeared countless herds of cattle and horses, and flocks of sheep: the grains of sand turned into powerful camels, mettlesome horses, milch cows and fat sheep.

The villagers poured out of doors, exclaiming in wonder: “Whose herds are they? Whose fabulous riches are these?” And Sarsembai replied:

“They belong to you and me, to all of us.”

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