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I
Veiled in the gloom of night
The sweet face of Kisteti
Appears, among hills around,
A rocky throne among cliffs.
The river moans in its dark ravine
Turbid, with grief at its heart.
The mountains too are bowed down,
Laving face and hands in the water;
On their breasts, many have died,
Unfitting is the blood on their flanks.
Seeking the blood of his brother’s killer,
A man travels along the road.
I say a road, but what road is this:
A narrow path over rock!
A path that’s so hard to walk,
He can scarcely move a step.
There, the village of the Kists,
Is like an eagle’s nest,
As pleasant a place to gaze on
As the breast of a woman.
Black fog slumbers about the village,
Its face deep in thought,
Listening to the hills around,
Absorbing the scene with joy.
It’s a guest for the moment,
Tomorrow, it moves elsewhere;
Departing, travelling the heights,
The slopes covered with ice;
It darkens and shrouds
The visible landscape.
Making the hunter cry out,
His track lost among cliffs,
Bringing joy to the wolf, the thief,
Those walkers in the dark.
II
High above, some stranger
Dislodges a rock from the cliff.
The traveller looks up,
Faced by a tall mountain.
He listens….after a moment
Hearing the hiss of sand.
He reaches for his gun:
It might be an enemy.
He looks about feverishly,
His weapon at the ready.
He sees someone burdened
With a double-headed staff.
He was dragging its dark weight,
That’s why the sand hissed.
The stranger said not a word,
Not a sound came from his mouth,
The barrel of the gun gleaming
Like the dew after morning rain.
He asked: ‘What kind of man are you?
Why are you wandering here at this hour?’
‘What would you have? I’m a hunter.’
‘You don’t look like one to me.’
‘Why should you not trust me?
Why are you suspicious?
Because I’m wandering perhaps
Like you across this mountain?
I am a hunter too,
And today I’ve hunted in vain.’
‘So it goes with us hunters.
Would you live without trouble?’
‘This also is trouble, brother,
I can barely move a step,
I’ve walked all these hills,
I traversed every ravine;
Black fog swirled around
Driven by a strong wind;
It howled through the ravines
Like a famished wolf.
I could barely see the road;
I tried to descend the cliff,
At a loss to know the way
I was struggling so fiercely.
I scared the beasts near and far,
I could hear their hooves clearly,
I could hear the rams clashing horns
As they fled along the cliff.
My heart sank at that
I could see nothing ahead;
Forget about the hunting,
I dared not take a step forward.’
The stranger standing close by
Came a little closer.
The traveller called out: ‘Hunt on, then,
Don’t complain, stay calm.’
‘Good hunting to you too, brother,
Kill a host of those agile creatures.’
‘Here’s one. So why complain?’
He showed him a horned ram,
Lying dead, one with curving horns.
‘A cunning one, but silent now.
If you want we’ll share it,
Equal shares, like comrades,
I’ll not take more than my own,
Let’s share it justly,
Come home with me tonight,
My dwelling is nearby.
Where do you come from, brother?
Tell me your name as well!
Don’t’ worry, God has found
Food for you today.
You shall have your share
In this ram I’ve slain,
Don’t look surprised, it’s no jest,
And I’m not seeking favours.
If it was not meant to be,
Why would you meet me, now?
It would be a shame
If you lost your share,
Who are you? Tell me your name.
Your looks seem Khesvurian.’
‘I am called, Nunua, brother,
A wanderer in the hills.’
But Zviadauri lied,
He concealed his true name.
What could he do? He was notorious,
He owed a debt of blood to many Kists,
He had cut the right hand of many Kists,
Sent them to an untimely grave.
‘Tell me your name, too,
Now I have told you mine.’
‘Mine is Jokhala, brother,
My last name, Alkhastaidze;
It would not do for us
To tell lies.
My house is nearby,
With doors like a fortress.
Come home with me tonight,
I’ll take you there myself.
If I’m not the perfect host
I’ll not treat you ill, at least.
Tomorrow, take your own way,
Go wherever you wish.
I’ll tell you some of my troubles,
You can share some of yours.’
‘Lead me wherever you wish, brother,
I long to be there – How far is it?
You’ve cut the ram’s throat,
And skinned its legs too.
I’ll not refuse to visit,
I’ll help carry the ram too
I don’t ask for a share, you know,
I’d not dishonour myself like that.’
Between them they skinned the ram,
And carried it to the house,
They exchanged many stories,
Grew acquainted as they went.
III
The turrets came in sight,
Dogs were barking;
From the doorways
Curious children were gazing;
The stone-built houses
Seemed like giant boulders.
‘Look, here are my family,
My fortress, my home;
Welcome, as brother to brother,
As godson to godfather.’
Jokhala called to his wife:
‘Come see who’s at the door!’
Pride was apparent
In the host’s conversation.
As they stood in the hallway, waiting…
The fire smouldered in the hearth,
An old man played on a lyre,
A man sitting near to him,
Sang of heroes
Of ancestral wars:
How they sacked Pshav-Khevsureti,
In vengeance for the blood of their brother;
They celebrate everywhere
The hand of a righteous man.
Then a beautiful woman appeared,
Dressed in black,
Slender as a willow tree,
Like a star descended to earth.
‘See, I have brought you a guest.’
‘Mercy be to God.’
How you will treat our guest, wife,
That is for you to say.
The woman welcomed him in:
‘Guest, may peace be upon you!’
‘You too, may you have peace
And your husband and children!’
She took the guest’s weapons,
They invited him in;
The woman following behind,
Jokhala leading;
Zviadauri following
His new brother.
IV
The man who sat by the hearth,
Grey-haired, elderly,
He rose now to his feet,
Like a powerful tiger on a cliff-top.
An old man, there as a guest,
Must respect the guest of another,
To rise to one’s feet is expected,
He must follow the mountain ways.
But on seeing the stranger,
He took on the mask of the wolf;
They were evident,
The thoughts in his mind,
The aged Kist felt no pleasure,
On seeing this stranger.
His heart throbbed with anger,
And his face betrayed it,
His hand drifted to his sword,
And he checked his knife, covertly,
But a guest cannot start a quarrel
In another man’s house.
He rose and exited quietly,
Biting his finger in bitterness,
He beat at his chest three times,
As he stepped outside.
He left and went from house to house,
Sharpening his tongue with poison:
‘Our deadly enemy, you Kists,
Walks with you, disguised, in the night.
It seems, Jokhala fails to know him
His eyes have not pierced the disguise.
He is the decimator of our people,
Attacking us with violence,
Forever insatiable in his desire
For our blood and bone.
Today he is in our hands, let’s see
If we can make him taste the bitterness
Of those Khevsur killed this summer;
We have unburied dead.
Tell me, if I fail of the truth,
If my words are in error!
Make our enemy know too,
That we are not basely born.
I am surprised at Jokhala,
Why open the door to an enemy,
Who is this guest? The idiot,
Why does he not see?
We must bring bitterness
To Zviadauri’s nostrils,
If not then let the women
Wield our shields and swords.’
Even the Kists’ children were stirred,
Everyone strapped on a sword,
The entire village was stirred –
Man, woman, and child.
They must sacrifice the life
Of Zviadauri to their dead;
They must kill him on his enemy’s grave
As is the custom.
To send a spy,
Instructing him in secret,
To go to Jokhala,
Like a neighbour and a brother;
Not to divulge in any way
The villagers’ intent.
To eat and to converse,
To discover where the guest will sleep;
To assault him at night, and bind him,
Needs little debate.
The spy arrives
With ingratiating tongue
He blesses Jokhala’s name,
He speaks freely, gives no offence.
He jests and tells stories,
He strikes sparks with his tongue.
Who could know his heart was full
Of the venom of a deadly snake.
They dined. The host
Admired his guest with all his heart.
‘He’s a brave man, you can tell,’
He swore by his cult,
‘Meeting today, tomorrow as brothers
Let us be one in spirit.’
He invited him to rest,
And showed him to his own bed.
His guest refused it, ‘No,’
I want neither mattress nor blanket.
I’ll sleep in the entrance way,
I’m not used to sleeping inside…
He had achieved the goal
Aimed at in his heart,
This is what the spy desires,
It’s why he made his way there.
And he left joyfully,
To spread the news around.
If the fox knows where the cockerel roosts,
What more can he wish!
Veiled in the gloom of night
The sweet face of Kisteti
Appears, among hills around,
A rocky throne among cliffs.
The river moans in its dark ravine
Turbid, with grief at its heart.
The mountains too are bowed down,
Laving face and hands in the water;
On their breasts, many have died,
Unfitting is the blood on their flanks.
Seeking the blood of his brother’s killer,
A man travels along the road.
I say a road, but what road is this:
A narrow path over rock!
A path that’s so hard to walk,
He can scarcely move a step.
There, the village of the Kists,
Is like an eagle’s nest,
As pleasant a place to gaze on
As the breast of a woman.
Black fog slumbers about the village,
Its face deep in thought,
Listening to the hills around,
Absorbing the scene with joy.
It’s a guest for the moment,
Tomorrow, it moves elsewhere;
Departing, travelling the heights,
The slopes covered with ice;
It darkens and shrouds
The visible landscape.
Making the hunter cry out,
His track lost among cliffs,
Bringing joy to the wolf, the thief,
Those walkers in the dark.
II
High above, some stranger
Dislodges a rock from the cliff.
The traveller looks up,
Faced by a tall mountain.
He listens….after a moment
Hearing the hiss of sand.
He reaches for his gun:
It might be an enemy.
He looks about feverishly,
His weapon at the ready.
He sees someone burdened
With a double-headed staff.
He was dragging its dark weight,
That’s why the sand hissed.
The stranger said not a word,
Not a sound came from his mouth,
The barrel of the gun gleaming
Like the dew after morning rain.
He asked: ‘What kind of man are you?
Why are you wandering here at this hour?’
‘What would you have? I’m a hunter.’
‘You don’t look like one to me.’
‘Why should you not trust me?
Why are you suspicious?
Because I’m wandering perhaps
Like you across this mountain?
I am a hunter too,
And today I’ve hunted in vain.’
‘So it goes with us hunters.
Would you live without trouble?’
‘This also is trouble, brother,
I can barely move a step,
I’ve walked all these hills,
I traversed every ravine;
Black fog swirled around
Driven by a strong wind;
It howled through the ravines
Like a famished wolf.
I could barely see the road;
I tried to descend the cliff,
At a loss to know the way
I was struggling so fiercely.
I scared the beasts near and far,
I could hear their hooves clearly,
I could hear the rams clashing horns
As they fled along the cliff.
My heart sank at that
I could see nothing ahead;
Forget about the hunting,
I dared not take a step forward.’
The stranger standing close by
Came a little closer.
The traveller called out: ‘Hunt on, then,
Don’t complain, stay calm.’
‘Good hunting to you too, brother,
Kill a host of those agile creatures.’
‘Here’s one. So why complain?’
He showed him a horned ram,
Lying dead, one with curving horns.
‘A cunning one, but silent now.
If you want we’ll share it,
Equal shares, like comrades,
I’ll not take more than my own,
Let’s share it justly,
Come home with me tonight,
My dwelling is nearby.
Where do you come from, brother?
Tell me your name as well!
Don’t’ worry, God has found
Food for you today.
You shall have your share
In this ram I’ve slain,
Don’t look surprised, it’s no jest,
And I’m not seeking favours.
If it was not meant to be,
Why would you meet me, now?
It would be a shame
If you lost your share,
Who are you? Tell me your name.
Your looks seem Khesvurian.’
‘I am called, Nunua, brother,
A wanderer in the hills.’
But Zviadauri lied,
He concealed his true name.
What could he do? He was notorious,
He owed a debt of blood to many Kists,
He had cut the right hand of many Kists,
Sent them to an untimely grave.
‘Tell me your name, too,
Now I have told you mine.’
‘Mine is Jokhala, brother,
My last name, Alkhastaidze;
It would not do for us
To tell lies.
My house is nearby,
With doors like a fortress.
Come home with me tonight,
I’ll take you there myself.
If I’m not the perfect host
I’ll not treat you ill, at least.
Tomorrow, take your own way,
Go wherever you wish.
I’ll tell you some of my troubles,
You can share some of yours.’
‘Lead me wherever you wish, brother,
I long to be there – How far is it?
You’ve cut the ram’s throat,
And skinned its legs too.
I’ll not refuse to visit,
I’ll help carry the ram too
I don’t ask for a share, you know,
I’d not dishonour myself like that.’
Between them they skinned the ram,
And carried it to the house,
They exchanged many stories,
Grew acquainted as they went.
III
The turrets came in sight,
Dogs were barking;
From the doorways
Curious children were gazing;
The stone-built houses
Seemed like giant boulders.
‘Look, here are my family,
My fortress, my home;
Welcome, as brother to brother,
As godson to godfather.’
Jokhala called to his wife:
‘Come see who’s at the door!’
Pride was apparent
In the host’s conversation.
As they stood in the hallway, waiting…
The fire smouldered in the hearth,
An old man played on a lyre,
A man sitting near to him,
Sang of heroes
Of ancestral wars:
How they sacked Pshav-Khevsureti,
In vengeance for the blood of their brother;
They celebrate everywhere
The hand of a righteous man.
Then a beautiful woman appeared,
Dressed in black,
Slender as a willow tree,
Like a star descended to earth.
‘See, I have brought you a guest.’
‘Mercy be to God.’
How you will treat our guest, wife,
That is for you to say.
The woman welcomed him in:
‘Guest, may peace be upon you!’
‘You too, may you have peace
And your husband and children!’
She took the guest’s weapons,
They invited him in;
The woman following behind,
Jokhala leading;
Zviadauri following
His new brother.
IV
The man who sat by the hearth,
Grey-haired, elderly,
He rose now to his feet,
Like a powerful tiger on a cliff-top.
An old man, there as a guest,
Must respect the guest of another,
To rise to one’s feet is expected,
He must follow the mountain ways.
But on seeing the stranger,
He took on the mask of the wolf;
They were evident,
The thoughts in his mind,
The aged Kist felt no pleasure,
On seeing this stranger.
His heart throbbed with anger,
And his face betrayed it,
His hand drifted to his sword,
And he checked his knife, covertly,
But a guest cannot start a quarrel
In another man’s house.
He rose and exited quietly,
Biting his finger in bitterness,
He beat at his chest three times,
As he stepped outside.
He left and went from house to house,
Sharpening his tongue with poison:
‘Our deadly enemy, you Kists,
Walks with you, disguised, in the night.
It seems, Jokhala fails to know him
His eyes have not pierced the disguise.
He is the decimator of our people,
Attacking us with violence,
Forever insatiable in his desire
For our blood and bone.
Today he is in our hands, let’s see
If we can make him taste the bitterness
Of those Khevsur killed this summer;
We have unburied dead.
Tell me, if I fail of the truth,
If my words are in error!
Make our enemy know too,
That we are not basely born.
I am surprised at Jokhala,
Why open the door to an enemy,
Who is this guest? The idiot,
Why does he not see?
We must bring bitterness
To Zviadauri’s nostrils,
If not then let the women
Wield our shields and swords.’
Even the Kists’ children were stirred,
Everyone strapped on a sword,
The entire village was stirred –
Man, woman, and child.
They must sacrifice the life
Of Zviadauri to their dead;
They must kill him on his enemy’s grave
As is the custom.
To send a spy,
Instructing him in secret,
To go to Jokhala,
Like a neighbour and a brother;
Not to divulge in any way
The villagers’ intent.
To eat and to converse,
To discover where the guest will sleep;
To assault him at night, and bind him,
Needs little debate.
The spy arrives
With ingratiating tongue
He blesses Jokhala’s name,
He speaks freely, gives no offence.
He jests and tells stories,
He strikes sparks with his tongue.
Who could know his heart was full
Of the venom of a deadly snake.
They dined. The host
Admired his guest with all his heart.
‘He’s a brave man, you can tell,’
He swore by his cult,
‘Meeting today, tomorrow as brothers
Let us be one in spirit.’
He invited him to rest,
And showed him to his own bed.
His guest refused it, ‘No,’
I want neither mattress nor blanket.
I’ll sleep in the entrance way,
I’m not used to sleeping inside…
He had achieved the goal
Aimed at in his heart,
This is what the spy desires,
It’s why he made his way there.
And he left joyfully,
To spread the news around.
If the fox knows where the cockerel roosts,
What more can he wish!
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