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In that darkness
Er-kishi's darkness darkened;
in that loneliness,
his loneliness grew lonelier yet.
A tree grew on the earth above, [1]
branchless, budless, leafless,
it grew greatly but God said:
"A tree should branch,
a tree should bud,
a tree should leaf;
let this tree bud and branch,
let it be green
from root to tip."
Then the tree grew full, grew bright,
grew full with the fullness
of God's eyes,
grew bright with the brightness
of God's eyes.
Nine times the tree branched:
three branches eastward,
three branches westward,
two branches southward,
one single branch northward,
one dry and yellow branch,
dry and hopeless, stretched north.
The tree spread its branches,
spread its green leaves
over the marshes born of Er-kishi's spit,
over the rotten, broken hills.
The tree's roots branched in earth;
the tree's branches rooted in sky;
through the tree peace passed,
peace between earth and sky;
in the tree earth and sky came together,
and in the tree was water's fullness.
Then God said:
"Let some birds fly,
a bird for every leaf on every branch;
and let every bird sing,
a song for every fruit of the tree;
let joy descend through the tree,
through the tree let loneliness end,
pain end in the songs of the birds."
Then birds came,
then birds sang,
but no birds came,
no birds sang on the north branch,
the songless, joyless
branch of the north.
The song completed joy,
finished the half-made.
As the birds sang,
moon and sun, sun and stars,
came to be;
day and night, earth and water,
all were full of song;
but something was lacking.
A delirious breeze, a drunken breeze,
blew over a lake,
over the first lake that ever was,
the breeze was a song
that had not been heard;
but something was lacking.
God was still lonely,
feeling the lack of something;
God thought
and found what was lacking;
found people were lacking:
"Let people grow,
a human grow from each of the nine roots."
Suddenly, the tree's roots swelled,
suddenly they burst through the earth;
a cry of sudden joy floated,
harmonious and joyful, among the hills;
the cry's sudden waves splashed,
splashed up to God,
there splashing the song of the nine new persons
who sang the joy of the gift of being.
Three men sang from the three eastern branches;
three women sang from the three western branches;
One man sang from the south,
and a man, thin and dry,
sang from the northern branch,
the thin dry branch of the north.
A woman sat,
a woman smiled
between the south and the north;
her smile hurried south,
her hands hurried north,
she was pulled north, drawn south:
at last she turned
& joined the man of the south.
An owl sat on the northern branch,
the single branch of the north,
and even today sits and whistles there;
and even today the north people
whistle and moan from primal sorrow.
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God Kara-han, having created people,
having completed creation,
called Er-kishi up from darkness, [2]
called him up to see the fullness of the light.
God Kara-han, full with fullness,
forgave Er-Kishi and called him back.
Er-kishi sped to God's call
but the sudden greenness swamped his eyes,
blinded his eyes with fullness of light;
the tree, the changing, shining tree
confused Er-kishi;
the people, changing and shining,
confused Er-kishi
with the luster of their new being:
What sort of thing was this,
what sort of thing?
Er-kishi ears were dumb with light,
he did not hear God Kara-han:
"How is it,
hey, Er-kishi,
how is it,
how do you like the world?"
At last Er-kishi's ears awoke,
he said:
"Who
 who are they?
what
what is this?
what are these that sing?"
God Kara-han laughed:
"These?
These are my creatures,
all my beautiful creatures—
bird, tree, leaf,
wind, cloud, man—
all that Is is my world."
Then Er-kishi cringed and begged,
begged insanely:
"Give me
give me half,
give half, half, O God!
Give so that your greatness
is shown in your giving.
After all,
I, I was your first friend,
your first companion."
God Kara-han replied
with a knife for a voice:
"No,
I cannot give you this world;
I cannot give you
what isn't mine."
"Not yours?
Not yours?
Did you not make it all?
Did you not,
just now,
say it was yours?
Lying is not godly!"
It seemed Er-kishi's slyness
slipped through the meshes
of God Kara-han's knowledge:
"Yes, we created, created all
you see and all you do not see.
We said Be and they were.
But what we created
we created not for ourself,
but for these, these people."
"Then give me,
give me half of the people."
Er-kishi's eyes and mouth
were a gang of robbers:
"Why I, I am the same as your baby brother,
so let us share."
God kara-han's smile was godly.
He knew Er-kishi's innerness,
knew with godly knowledge:
"Not born, never to die,
we have no brothers;
we said Be and all things were.
Out of our voice came all worlds.
Hey, Er-kishi,
you shall be given nothing,
none of the people will I give you;
but if you can get any,
if you can deceive any of the people,
They shall be yours,
they shall be your people
if they choose."
The power of God froze Er-kishi,
bound him moveless where he was
as God kara-han flew away,
as the people laughed and strolled beneath the tree.
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When day left, all slept—
wolf slept, bird slept,
even the northern owl slept—
while all were asleep
a song hummed from the tree's core,
a song of beauty from the world's core
lulled the people.
Only God Kara-han and double Er-kishi
remained awake;
while the people slept, [3]
God Kara-han created the dog
and created the snake
to keep the people from Er-kishi's evil.
The snake had legs and great beauty,
the dog was handsome and noble.
God set them to keep double Er-kishi
and his evil from the people.
Er-kishi, knowing nothing of the dog and snake,
thought it his his duty
to deceive, to steal the people,
to give them envy
that would turn them from God.
The song, the lullaby
from the tree's heartwood,
stopped and birds began to sing.
Daylight, cool with dreams,
entered the tree
and came from the tree to the people.
The people woke in the cool of dawn,
waking, saw the dog and the snake,
God's guardians over them.
"Praised be God," they said and ate,
eating only of the fruit of the east,
not eating or touching the rest of the fruit.
Er-kishi was filled with evil glee:
"Hey,
hey people,
people let me share your joy,
come to me."
Only the woman at the south
looked at Er-kishi,
looked and saw his handsomeness,
heard his warm words,
felt the killing light in his eyes.
The dog and the snake fenced out Er-kishi
with their contempt.
Er-kishi said:
"Hey,
hey people,
why do you eat those dried up fruits,
when those juicy ones
hang easy to pick
hey?
Let me know!"
The people answered:
"God forbade it."
"Try them once," said Er-kishi's soft voice,
"to obey and not know why you obey
is really stupid—maybe God is lying."
All the people, all but one,
answered: "God would not lie;
he who saves us, he who forgives us,
would not lie. Hey, stranger! You lie."
But the woman of the south,
who had not answered with the others,
whispered:
"Stranger,
are those fruits really sweet?
Stranger,
why would God forbid us them?
Tell me; I would know."
Er-kishi hid his evil-winged joy,
his joy in causing evil,
even in a woman,
and he spoke deceit,
spoke with conviction,
false conviction, deceitful passion:
"Hey
woman beautiful woman!
Your beauty is more than other women's—
so the sweetness of these fruits
surpasses the sweetness of other fruits.
Your God,
your jealous God,
forbid you to eat them
so he could have them
all to himself."
Er-kishi's words stirred the loose woman's heart;
he said:
"Reach out
reach out your hand,
let the beautiful earth
see these two beauties meet.
Reach."
The woman shivered a dream-shiver:
"Oh, no;
I am afraid;
God forbids."
The dog and the snake grew impatient,
the people's eyes were whetted with anger.
Again Er-kishi spoke:
"Forget,
forget the God
who forgot you long ago."
All but the woman,
all the people but the loose woman of the south,
shouted:
"Get out!
God does not forget.
You do not belong here.
Get out!"
The vengeful snake, the angry dog,
walked toward Er-kishi;
even as he backed away fearfully,
he added:
"Beautiful woman,
clever woman, I would know,
would know your name.
Can you tell me?"
"Ece," she answered, "I am Ece."
She pointed to the man beside her:
"He is Doganay;
we await you stranger—
what is your name?"
But Er-kishi could not answer;
the snake and the dog drove him north,
surely the north, miserable,
was the place of this evil one.
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But Er-kishi did not think himself miserable: [4]
chaos, chaos like the north, he knew;
what he feared, what made him miserable,
was order and truth, beauty and love.
The north did not shame him.
He waited for night,
for darkness to match his dark heart;
waiting, his evil heart
praised evil.
When evening came,
waters darkened;
over dark waters the owl screamed thinly,
dark clouds covered moon znd stars.
But every side of the tree flowed with light;
Er-kishi stared unblinking
at the streaming light of the people's tree;
he stared at the snake guarding forbidden fruit;
he stared at the dog sleeping at the tree's foot.
He stared at Ece, beautiful and captivating,
Ece speaking to Doganay:
"Doganay, bring me some of the forbidden fruits.
The stranger said they were sweet.
All the people sleep now,
so who will know if we eat?"
Doganay answered:
"God."
He sees us."
But the woman
was hungry, was thirsty;
hunger and thirst shook her bones;
her bones shook with her mouth's desire:
"Listen, Doganay, do you not love me?
You said you loved next after God;
did you lie?"
He sighed:
"It is not, is not,
is not a lie.
But do not ask this of me."
"Why?" asked womanly Ece,
"Why do you fear
one little fruit?
Are not my eyes worth
one little fruit?
What is your answer?"
Doganay's bones trembled,
his trembling spoke:
"You do not, Ece,
You do not know
what you are worth.
This fruit is not worth even your little finger;
but do not ask this of me!
Believe me,
the sweetness of your walk,
of each step toward me,
the joy of your closeness,
these are worth the world.
You have more brightness
than the sky;
but do not use your brightness
to make me sin;
do not make me sin
because of that ungodly liar.
Such sin would only bring us shame;
do not ask that fruit of me,
Ece, do not ask it."
He turned the eyes
of his opened hands to God:
"Forgive us, O God;
your law is ours."
Ece wept,
the forbidden fruit
burned within her.
Then came Er-kishi, double and dark,
soundlessly, coming near her.
In joy, great joy, she jumped:
"O! Stranger, O! Stranger."
Er-kishi's voice, like the fruit,
tickled and burned:
"Do you,
do you really,
really want
to eat of these fruits?"
All Ece's thirst, all her hunger,
all her dry desire, spoke:
"O! So much,
I want them so much,
you cannot know
how much."
"Then look, look there,
then reach, reach out,
they, they await you.
Come, reach out."
"But the snake, the snake guards,
he guards them so I cannot reach."
"Do not fear.
I will enter the snake."
And Er-kishi went up,
up like the night, up like smoke,
into the tree,
into the snake.
Ece looked where Doganay prayed;
in her looking, God was gone,
God seemed no longer to care.
Er-kishi, in the tree, in the snake,
bent the branch down to Ece,
the forbidden fruits shook with light,
were filled with light
that sang in the darkness:
"Come, come;
reach, reach."
God seemed not to know these things;
God Kara-han,
God who could see an ant's eyelashes,
thin and black, at midnight,
choose not to see Er-kishi
bending the shining fruit to Ece—
he had show his people good and evil,
left them to choose,
he would not lead them like children.
Doganay saw God
would not come, would not interfere;
he saw Ece plucking the fruit:
"Leave it!
Do not destroy this beauty
for a moment's joy,
Ece!
do not."
but she had eaten.
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Ece picked the large fruit [5]
and bit it quickly.
Its juice,
bitter yet sweet,
sweet yet unfulfilling,
burned through her mouth and throat,
burned a fire to her bones,
a fire of joy in daring to disobey.
Doganay's eyes widened in fear,
fear of lightning and chaos entangling the world;
Ece devoured the fruit
as Er-kishi devoured her with his eyes,
with his pride he consumed his first creature,
a woman.
Ece, trembling with desire,
trembling with the fruit's fire,
put half the flame in Doganay's mouth;
the first drop sparked
from his teeth to his tongue
and set his whole body afire,
his whole being burned
with one drop of that juice.
Half the fruit now remained—
Doganay gobbled at one edge,
Ece gobbled at the other—
half the last drop burnt Doganay's tongue,
the other half of the last drop burnt Ece's.
At this moment,
the sleepers woke,
a secret fear woke in the night,
a thousand confusions wandered in the dark.
Suddenly, they saw
their nakedness,
their naked souls,
and then they knew shame,
and the shame threw them apart.
Ece twisted in pain,
in a world of pain;
sweat drops big as hills
rolled from her skin,
loss swelled her eyes,
the whites of her eyes
ached and froze with fear
Doganay was also troubled;
his body was bent as he dug for water,
water to ease the woman's pain.
The grand water of creation was gone,
all that was left were roots and bugs.
Gok-ogul helped them,
helped them find tasty roots,
grass and shells and drinking water.
Also he taught them
to sow wheat and reap;
after sowing and reaping,
to grind and sweat, making bread.
Gok-ogul showed them how to make a wagon
to carry them from place to place.
Doganay and Ece took their children,
Took their children and went south.
The sickly man of the north root
went further north,
into the sickly, grey north
where the owl's cry whipped the cold
and the cold reared like a horse in battle.
Before God Ulgen sent the people away,
a man, a man under the east branches,
was Ay-atam and his women was Ay-va.
The other people took their children,
took their children and went west,
but Ay-atam and Ay-va went east,
took their two daughters to the east.
Now to the east, now to the west,
now to the south, now to the east,
now to all the four corners,
people walked bent with sorrow,
walked over the once-joyous earth,
spreading their sorrow with each step.
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