Introduction
Foreword
Deep in the perilous Dzhungarian Alatau mountain range lived a mean old giant – Deu. Inside his sombre cave, he felt his power waning. His spells wouldn’t spell, and the chaos he loved to wreak on the nomads of the Kazakh steppe didn’t bear their usual terror. Sullen, he decides to visit a Spirit for advice. “To regain your strength, you must drink a drop of blood from an innocent newborn human,” she tells him. And so, the Deu calls up his minion Masa – the Mosquito, a cunning little fella whose sting is sharp and strike sudden. “Masa, go into the Valleys of Zhetisu and find me that newborn!”
The road to the Valleys of Zhetisu takes the Masa across Kazakhstan’s Spring landscape. He anxiously buzzes through dense breathing forest, the driest plains, the most desolate of places, through luscious rivers, and deep, deep lakes. Finally, at a river’s bay, he sees white circles from afar – yurts! In a nearby tree, the Masa awaits the coming night.
What he doesn’t see is the watchful swallow – Karlygash, who notices his arrival and monitors him carefully.
As soon as stars start showing in the deep blue sky, the Masa darts out of his hiding spot and seeks out the yurt with the sweetest smell. As the flavor of a ripe peach floods his senses, he peeks under the entrance door and sees the baby’s crib – Besik. No adults around, perfect. As he tries to enter, he feels a breeze behind him. Karlygash – the swallow! With determination in its eyes, it races toward him. Its mighty wings swat at the helpless Masa. And just outside the sleeping baby’s yurt, they battle. Within minutes, the Masa can no longer withstand the blows the Karlygash keeps throwing at him, and so he drops to the ground.
Furious at what the Deu sees from his visions up in the mountain cave, he thrashes and curses. Amidst his rage, he throws a reckoning spell at the Karlygash. Taken off guard, all the Karlygash can do at the sight of an incoming fireball is throw himself to the side. While the fireball misses his body, it manages to graze the Karlygash’s singular tail, separating it forever into two. Today, the split tail is a reminder of the Karlygash’s bravery against the evil of the world.
The story above is a retelling of an old Kazakh folktale.
To Ari, Spring meant swallows — and to me, swallows meant home.
As you read the following issue, think about how our artists, writers, and creative folk have interpreted Spring through their work. Each piece is profound, personal, and priceless.
Enjoy.
The road to the Valleys of Zhetisu takes the Masa across Kazakhstan’s Spring landscape. He anxiously buzzes through dense breathing forest, the driest plains, the most desolate of places, through luscious rivers, and deep, deep lakes. Finally, at a river’s bay, he sees white circles from afar – yurts! In a nearby tree, the Masa awaits the coming night.
What he doesn’t see is the watchful swallow – Karlygash, who notices his arrival and monitors him carefully.
As soon as stars start showing in the deep blue sky, the Masa darts out of his hiding spot and seeks out the yurt with the sweetest smell. As the flavor of a ripe peach floods his senses, he peeks under the entrance door and sees the baby’s crib – Besik. No adults around, perfect. As he tries to enter, he feels a breeze behind him. Karlygash – the swallow! With determination in its eyes, it races toward him. Its mighty wings swat at the helpless Masa. And just outside the sleeping baby’s yurt, they battle. Within minutes, the Masa can no longer withstand the blows the Karlygash keeps throwing at him, and so he drops to the ground.
Furious at what the Deu sees from his visions up in the mountain cave, he thrashes and curses. Amidst his rage, he throws a reckoning spell at the Karlygash. Taken off guard, all the Karlygash can do at the sight of an incoming fireball is throw himself to the side. While the fireball misses his body, it manages to graze the Karlygash’s singular tail, separating it forever into two. Today, the split tail is a reminder of the Karlygash’s bravery against the evil of the world.
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The story above is a retelling of an old Kazakh folktale.
To Ari, Spring meant swallows — and to me, swallows meant home.
As you read the following issue, think about how our artists, writers, and creative folk have interpreted Spring through their work. Each piece is profound, personal, and priceless.
Enjoy.