a legend
Cold Water
In ancient times, when the world was younger and the grasses taller, two great realms existed side by side, yet apart: the world of men and the world of spirits.
Men lived in a small settlement surrounded by a wall. Why the wall had been built — no one remembered exactly, but the elders knew: at night, when the moon hid behind the clouds, unseen forces roamed nearby, and the wall guarded the people’s peace. Every year, or even more often, the men would go out to restore it, for time and an unknown power wore away the stone, as water wears away the riverbank.
Far beyond the forests, beyond the mountains, beyond the swift rivers, stretched another world. There, by the light of the moon, those whom men called spirits took on flesh. Invisible to the eye in the world of men, there they revealed their true forms. And each spirit carried into the world of men its own essence, its own unseen energy.
Among them was the Spirit of Destruction. No one knew his name, for a name gives power, and he gave power to no one. He appeared in the form of a mighty bull, heavy as a boulder of stone. Wherever he charged, wherever he shrouded in his dust — ruin would follow. Stone crumbled, wood rotted, walls fell — it was his hooves striking the earth.
And among them was another — the embodiment of Beauty. Men called her Aksylu. Her very name came to mean what she brought into the world: pure light, grace, harmony. Wherever she passed, wherever she cast her gaze, beautiful things were born. Flowers bloomed brighter, songs flowed more sweetly, the hands of craftsmen gained steadiness and sensitivity. She appeared as a beautiful maiden in a long dress, light as the morning mist.
And in that settlement lived a young man, a yiget. He was a skilled artisan and a brave warrior. He loved the night, loved the silence, loved the shimmer of stars and the coolness of moonlight. When the men went to mend the wall, he did not merely stack stones — he adorned them with patterns, painted pictures upon them. The people marvelled at his work and praised him, and the elders said: «Surely Aksylu herself guides your hand.»
And there was truth in those words, though the yiget did not know it. Each time he sat down to work at night, Aksylu would steal out of the forest. She would sit a little way off on the grass and watch his hands, his focused face, how beauty was born from simple stone. And she would gift him with her energy — the same that makes the craftsman’s hands seeing and the heart full. And he felt this fullness, but did not know where it came from.
But one day it happened otherwise. The yiget was working at night, adorning the wall. The moon was full and bright, flooding the clearing with silver. Aksylu came as usual and sat behind him. And she was so close that evening that for the first time her silhouette became faintly visible against the dark forest. The yiget, as if sensing a stranger’s gaze, turned around. His heart faltered. At the edge of the clearing, where shadows wove with light, a maiden sat. Thinner than a moonbeam, wavering as a dream at dawn, yet more beautiful than anything his eyes had ever seen.
She understood that he had noticed her. Whether she was frightened or embarrassed — who knows. Slowly, as if afraid to startle a wild beast, she began to retreat toward the forest. She stepped from foot to foot, and every step was like a dance. The yiget dared not move, dared not breathe — he only watched as his vision faded in the moonlight, until it dissolved completely into the blackness of the trees.
He sat long, staring into the void. Then he went to his father. His father was a wise man, who knew much of olden times. And the yiget told him of the maiden who had appeared to him by moonlight and how she had vanished into the forest.
The father listened, frowned, and said:
— It was no maiden you saw, my son. It was the embodiment of Beauty, whom men call Aksylu. And if she drew near to you, it means she deemed your heart worthy. But know this: it is dangerous for men to consort with spirits. They cannot harm a man unless his strength clashes with theirs in struggle. But once they clash — woe to him. Forget her. Do not go there.
But the father’s words did not cool the yiget’s heart — they only inflamed it more. He could not forget the one who had appeared to him in moonlight. Longing for her robbed him of rest and sleep.
One night he rose and began to pack for the journey. He stepped into the yard — and there stood his father, as if waiting.
— Where are you bound? — asked the father.
And the yiget told him everything. Of the meeting that gave him no peace. Of how he had once gone into the forest seeking her. Of how, on a moonlit clearing, he had begun to build a sculpture from branches, stones, and leaves, almost by touch, guided only by his heart — and that sculpture was her image, the image of Aksylu, which he had tried to hold in this world. And of how an unseen beast had attacked him. Invisible at first, it revealed itself only when the yiget, defending himself, threw stones into the emptiness, and they clung to its body, giving shape to a huge bull. How he had fought with all his might with bow and sword, how arrows only enraged the beast, and how, at the very brink of death, a warm wind suddenly blew and drove the monster away.
The father listened and shook his head.
— That was no mere beast, my son. That was the Spirit of Destruction. Wherever he charges, wherever he shrouds with his dust — ruin follows. He wears down our wall, he crushes stones, he hunts for human life, waiting for strength to meet strength. You met in that battle — and you nearly perished. But a warm wind came and drove the fiend away. That was no ordinary wind — it was the Spirit of Wind. And before your eyes closed from exhaustion, you saw the image of the one you sought. Together they turned death away from you.
Then the yiget understood that it was not mere longing speaking in him, but something greater. And he said to his father:
— I cannot turn back. Better to test my strength against the Spirit of Destruction than to live my whole life without becoming worthy of that Beauty which is called Aksylu.
The father knew: his son could not be stopped. He laid his hand on the yiget’s shoulder and said:
— So be it. Take my horse — he will be your faithful companion. Take my tamed wolf — he will show the way. Take my falcon — he will warn you of danger. Go. Know Beauty, but promise to return alive.
The yiget bowed to his father, took the three helpers, promised to return, and set out on his journey — to where beyond forests and mountains, in the radiance of the moon, the spirits dwell.
If Given, I Continue
Long rode the yiget toward the places where spirits abide. He passed through dense forests, crossed swift rivers, traversed rocky mountains. And one night he decided to make camp.
He lit a fire, sat down by the flames — to rest, to warm himself, to gaze at the stars. Suddenly he felt: he was not alone in the forest. Someone was watching from the darkness. The yiget grew alert, seized his bow, looked around.
Then a low breeze swept over the ground — and extinguished the fire. And after the wind, mist began to fill the forest. Thick, milky, impenetrable — you could not see beyond your own hand. The yiget understood: this was no ordinary mist, but the work of one of the spirits.
He grabbed the horse with one hand, the wolf with the other, and placed the falcon on his shoulder — so they would not be lost in the gloom.
The wolf did not hesitate. He darted aside, pulling the yiget after him. The yiget did not resist — he trusted the beast’s instinct. Long they walked through the white veil. The yiget struggled with his last strength, but the wolf led on and on.
Then the mist began to sink lower, lower — and dispersed. The yiget looked around: the wolf had led them to a high mountain, called in those parts Coal Mountain. The mist remained below, spread like a white sea at its foot, while here, on the summit, all was clear and starry. They spent the night there.
Here I Felt a Fine View
Next morning the mist had cleared completely, and the yiget was about to continue. Suddenly, on the peak of Coal Mountain, a strong wind arose. It was the Spirit of Wind — the master of these heights, who tests everyone who dares to pass through his domain.
And that wind was no ordinary wind: born on Coal Mountain, it possessed such power that it reached the ends of the earth, filling the sails of ships in distant seas, far away from here.
The yiget tried with all his might to walk against the wind, struggling with it, but each time the wind threw him to the ground, dashed him against the rocks, would not let him rise. And through the roar of the wind, through the howling and whistling, a quiet, feminine, soft voice began to break through. It whispered into the yiget’s ear:
— Traveller, you are strong… But do you have strength enough to surrender? Where are you going? You wander a path that does not exist, seeking what does not exist. What makes you fight with me? My strength is that I am not. How can you overcome emptiness? Your blows meet only silence. In struggle you are blind — I point the way…
Kneeling, leaning against the stone with his last strength, the yiget felt a movement on his shoulder. The falcon spread its wings. But it did not flap — it simply allowed the wind to lift it. It did not resist, did not fight — it surrendered to the current and hung there, trusting completely.
And the yiget understood. He rose from his knees, straightened up. He stopped fighting. He allowed the wind to embrace him entirely — from head to toe. And like an ear of corn in the field, like a feather in the sky, he followed where the wind’s embrace bent him.
He did not go against it — he danced with the wind. Step, step, turn… The wind led him, and the yiget followed, unresisting. Thus, in dance, he descended from Coal Mountain to its foot.
And at parting, the wind quieted, and with a last breath — warm, caressing — stroked the yiget’s cheek. And fell silent.
The Spirit of Wind let him pass.
Gratitude
After a long journey, the yiget finally reached the clearing where he had once built the sculpture of Aksylu. By that time it was completely ruined. And again, by moonlight, he began his work.
At some point, as he laboured over the sculpture, he began to notice the one whose likeness he was trying to recreate emerging from the forest. Barely visible to the eye, Aksylu appeared. The yiget did not stop; on the contrary, he worked even more diligently.
To finish, he decided to come closer. With slow but steady steps he moved toward her. Suddenly the leaves on the trees rustled anxiously, the falcon soared into the sky, the wolf growled. A tree beside the wolf crashed down, pinning the beast to the ground. The horse, rushing to help, was also trapped under the trunk. The falcon, diving downwards, was struck by a stone and fell, breaking a wing.
The yiget froze. He knew: this was the Spirit of Destruction. He knew that if he engaged in battle, he would doom himself — the forces were too unequal. But to watch those loyal to him suffer — he could not. He seized his bow and began shooting arrows toward where the dust was rising. One arrow finally struck the spirit, and he revealed his true form — a huge bull, which with a roar charged at the yiget.
A long, gruelling battle began. The yiget fought with his last strength, holding to his word — not to retreat.
If Given, I Accept
In the heat of the fight, a thick fog enveloped the clearing — impenetrable, like the one in the forest. The spirit lost sight of the yiget, but the yiget was also blinded. He spun around, listening, until a sudden blow to his back flung him against a tree. His sword fell from his hands. The yiget rose, gasping, but his spirit was unbroken; he prepared to fight with bare hands.
And then he felt something: softly, from shoulder to fingers, something slipped and took his hand. Startled, he pulled away, but another blow came, and now he could not rise. Leaning his back against the tree, he awaited the final blow.
Again the same unseen hand touched him — gently, but insistently. This time the yiget did not resist. With his last strength he rose and allowed himself to be led through the mist.
Thus, step by step, he found the falcon and placed it on his shoulder. Then he came upon the horse and the wolf, pinned by the trees. He tried to move the trunk, but his strength was gone. Then a gust of wind came — warm, familiar — and threw the trees aside, freeing the beasts. The yiget jumped on the horse, and the horse galloped after the wolf, who led them out of the forest.
So they reached home. The wounds healed slowly, but all survived.
Can I Trust Myself?
The Spirit of Destruction, having escaped the forest after them, entered the world of men. One morning the yiget went out into the yard and saw panic: the wall that had guarded the settlement for ages was broken. He understood — this was the price for having set foot in the spirit world, for having dared to seek Beauty. And he accepted the burden.
From then on, every month, on the night of the full moon, the bull would come to the wall to complete its ruin. And every such night the yiget would go beyond the wall and fight until dawn. At the first rays of the sun the spirit would retreat to the forest, and the yiget, exhausted, would return home.
The people of the village grew used to it. They had even forgotten why he went out at night. For them it became ordinary. But the yiget knew: this was his payment, his debt. And he bore it without complaint. By day he lived an ordinary life, made beautiful things, and sometimes felt Aksylu — she would come to him when he created, and he would sense her presence. And on the night of the full moon he would go out to battle again.
So the years passed. Silver touched the yiget’s temples, wrinkles lined his face, but his hand still held the sword as firmly as ever, and his gaze remained clear. The people of the village, seeing his grey beard and unyielding bearing, began to call him no less than aqsaqal — the white-bearded elder. And in that name were both great respect and the bitter memory of what only he knew.
Like First Breath, Like First Cry
The aqsaqal grew old, his strength left him. One winter night, when the moon was especially bright and the snow deep, he could not hold back the bull. The bull threw him into a snowdrift and broke through to the wall, destroying it. The aqsaqal understood: he could no longer defend the settlement.
Then he gathered his things and set out on the road — to where it all began. That winter was harsh; frost and blizzards wore down the traveller, but he walked on. And he reached the very clearing where he had once built the statue of Aksylu.
The moon, as at the first meeting, flooded the clearing with silver, and the snow sparkled. The statue stood untouched — everything the bull could ruin he had ruined, but this statue he had never been able to overcome. Only dust and scratches covered its stone. Nearby the Spirit of Destruction roamed; seeing the aqsaqal, he stopped.
The aqsaqal approached the statue, ran his hand over the cold stone, then turned to the bull. The bull began to pace in circles, preparing to attack. The aqsaqal straightened his clothes, took out his bow and arrows, and stood opposite.
With the bull’s first move he loosed two arrows, and when it closed in — he drew his sword. All night the battle lasted, but the forces were unequal. Knocking the weapon from the aqsaqal’s hands, the bull threw him against a tree. The aqsaqal sat down, leaning his back against the trunk, and knew: this was the end. He could no longer stand; he only watched as the bull withdrew to the far edge of the clearing to gain momentum and finish him.
Dawn began. The first rays of the sun touched the aqsaqal’s face, and he felt their soft warmth. Tears glistened on his cheeks — not from fear, but from wonder. At the fleeting beauty of the morning, at the glitter of the snow, at the play of light upon the branches. All that energy that he had been allowed to see and understand filled his heart. Everything he had lived through had been worth this moment.
The bull charged forward. And suddenly a whirlwind of snow rose before him, forcing the beast to stop. When the snow settled, Aksylu stood beside the spirit. Every time the bull tried to break through, a wall of snow rose in front of him. Enraged, he hurtled straight ahead, smashing through the whirlwind.
The aqsaqal saw the huge bulk, wrapped in snow, rushing toward him. He closed his eyes, expecting the blow, but felt only a light breath. Opening his eyes, he saw the bull transformed into a block of ice. The frosty morning, Aksylu’s power, and her touch had done their work: the spirit of destruction was frozen in glittering captivity.
Aksylu came close, knelt beside the aqsaqal, brushed the snow from his face. And then the sunlight, for the first time, illuminated her features. The aqsaqal at last saw her face — beautiful, clear, the one he had tried to discern in the moonlight for so many years. She smiled at him, and in that smile was everything: gratitude, farewell, and eternity. Aksylu took his hand and nodded softly. The aqsaqal smiled back, breathed his last, and closed his eyes forever.
The Last Arrow
After that night, no one saw the aqsaqal again. Only the elders, who knew visions, said that Aksylu carried his body to Coal Mountain and buried him there. And on the grave she placed a stone on which she carved the words that he had left in his heart:
I am endlessly grateful for having been allowed to witness such a phenomenon that saved me from death without knowing liberating light feelings, a touch like a kiss, a wind whispering that I deserved it. And to that trust I am endlessly glad. Thank you for being with me, thank you for being near and following me everywhere. This is the reward — not to see, but to feel, and thereby to know that I was here and that I knew you.
I am sure, words are not needed, and there are no words that can give thanks. I do not ask for simplicity; I want in moments of silence sometimes to breathe and feel you. I know I will see you again, in places whose heart has nurtured me. Without extra signs, your gaze into my eyes, touching me, you will softly sing and awaken me to set off on the only path.
It is said that sometimes, on frosty nights when the moon is especially bright, two silhouettes can be seen on Coal Mountain: one — feminine, light as light; the other — masculine, leaning on a stone. They stand side by side, and the wind carries a quiet melody — as if someone sings of beauty stronger than destruction, and of fidelity that knows no death.
Kireev Rail
The legend is the beginning. The engineered form is its continuation. The artifact rests in Artefacts.