March 7, 2022

The old Shaman cut a branch from the tree to make his sacred flame. The Soviets had promised the village electricity, and had brought generators and fuel. The Russians no longer brought fuel.

He heard the crush of branches under feet. Perhaps it was his son come to help. But no, his son was gone now.

A small figure emerged from the underbrush and stopped, staring. In torn mining clothes they were small and like a woman, raven black head to toe with difficult to see features.

The old man gripped his stick firmly, unsure if he should be threatened. They asked in an even and lifeless voice if he could spare oil, plastic, or rubber.

This was one of the strange robots used in dangerous and inhospitable places... much like anywhere in the far east of Russia along the shores of the ocean. He indicated to follow him to his house at the edge of the village.

It ate his empty plastic bottles but would not take the last of his heating oil.

It only spoke Russian. It obsessively cleaned his house top to bottom, and repaired the tile on his floor as well. He asked if it had run away. But it had been abandoned. Part of the mine some 70 kilometers away had collapsed and it had dug itself out to go to find its owner to ask for another task.

It did not even have a name of an owner, or the name of the mine.

As the shaman prepared for his ritual, the curious robot painted its face to match. The old man smiled, perhaps the spirits would smile as well. He brought it to his lodge and lit the sacred fire. He gave it a drum and taught it the pace.

In his trance he saw his son's back, walking away to the west. He called out but his son did not hear him so he made chase, his son forever staying at the edge of his sight.

The old shaman fell to his knees and wept for a son lost.

The beat of the drum sounded louder, and closer, just above his head and the old man turned to look upon the strange robot in his trance with him, beating the drum. In the distance the shaman's son stopped, turned, and came back. His face was blurred, his chest red with blood from a fatal wound, a wound from a useless war not his own, half a world away.

His son fixated on the robot with the drum, not acknowledging his father as though he could not see him. The robot stopped drumming and held out the drum face down. The son dropped a sheep anklebone into the drum, turned and walked to the west. Wailing in sorrow the old Shaman called out to his son, "See me! Speak with me!"

The robot with the drum followed the son, and urged the Shaman to walk with, and so he did.

They walked to the banks of a river, where the son put another anklebone into the drum, took the drum and put it on the river where it became a raft large enough for the three of them and they boarded it, and crossed the river. At the other side, the son took the drum and returned it to its normal size to return it to the robot. He put another anklebone in the drum and turned again to the west and began to walk.

They walked for a long time, and at every turn, or obstacle, the son would put another anklebone into the drum until there was one bone left at a fork in the path. The shaman knew this place, a path to the underworld, and a path to the upper world, and his son stood at the place where either was forever after. The son turned to put the anklebone into the drum but the old man took the son's hand and the two wrestled for the bone. "Come back with me!" he cried. Each struggle took the son closer to the path to the underworld. The robot touched the old man's shoulder and the shaman calmed, "If you cannot come back with me, at least take the other path."

The son put the last anklebone in the drum and leaned in toward the robot, and whispered the name, "Lektyne." The son's face became plain to see once again and he could again see his father. The two men embraced and wept together. The son ascended the path to the upper world.

Then the shaman and his new apprentice, Lektyne, made their way back to the physical world.