My name is Geser.

I

I am lying in a cradle, and a huge raven is standing over me with its black wings spread wide and its beak agape. It is five times my size and clearly wants to eat me. There is no time to worry. I grab its beak with both hands and tear its mouth in half. I am covered in its black blood, and I have pissed myself. I pissed myself not out of fear, but simply because I still don’t know how to control myself. Yes, I am a baby. And I am only a couple of days old. I am still holding the two halves of the huge beak in my hands — in my baby hands — when I finally hear screams and footsteps. An arrow whistles through the air, plunges into the raven’s body, and knocks us to the ground. Strong hands grab me and lift me up. The blood-soaked beak slips, but I do not let go. Someone else, trying to pull the raven away, drags it toward himself, and we all fall on top of it. There are two voices: a male voice — the one who pulled the raven — and a female voice, the one holding me. They speak Buryat. They call me their son. I do not understand immediately; they are speaking an ancient dialect. The woman tries to persuade me to let go of the beak. I try to respond, but my tongue will not obey me. This is my mother.

Arguing with each other, my parents finally manage to separate me from the raven.

“Are you crazy? Why are you pulling like that?”

“It’s you who gets knocked over by a breeze, old woman!”

Yes, my parents are old — clearly over forty.

After moving away from the struggle, they stare at me in silence, then at the raven’s torn beak. Suddenly, the old man drops to his knees and begins to whisper prayers, praying for me. The stunned woman comes to life. She walks past her husband into the yurt, pours water into a wooden trough, and places me inside. “Cold!” I want to scream, but all that comes from my throat is a loud squeak. Jerking my bottom, I easily tip the trough over. With a squeal, the old woman jumps away from me, her eyes bulging. “Boleob, boleob,”(“I won’t do it again, I won’t.”) she whispers. The old man crawls to the source of the noise, falls to his knees next to me and hits his balding head several times on the mud formed by the spilled water. Swear words come back to my mind. I am covered in mud, I am cold, and these two unreasonable old people are doing nothing to at least warm the water and wash me.

II

Where am I from? That is a long story.

In the twenty-first century, I was a good boxer.

In the twentieth century, a thirty-year-old rebel.

In the nineteenth, a Huvaraka.

In the seventeenth, a Sagittarius.

I am immortal. I am reborn again and again. Of course, everyone is reborn — but only I remember all my past lives. And now, a new birth. In my previous life, I was a god. My name is Buhe Baligte, which means Mighty Lucky. I am the son of the supreme god Khurmast Tengri. But let’s go in order. The Upper World is not calm either. It is divided into two parts: fifty-five Tengrians in the West and forty-four in the East. They live forever. Most of the time they feast and visit one another. When they grow bored, they start wars among themselves. They become so carried away that they sometimes forget their direct duty: to maintain order on Earth. And so disasters happen — floods, droughts, dzuds, taiga fires.

But more on that later, if anyone is interested in celestial quarrels.

This time, the bone of contention was a worthless stretch of land between them: Segen Sebdeg. Empty. Arid. What possessed Atai Ulaan, leader of the Eastern Tengrians? Why did Khurmast Tengri, the eldest of the Western gods, become enraged? It is not for us to judge. The two leaders fought for a long time. Earthquakes shook the land, thunder roared, lightning split the sky, volcanoes erupted.

Khurmast won. He cut Atai Ulaan into pieces and cast him from the sky to the ground.

A feast followed — a celebration of victory. But not for long. His older sister, Manzan Gurme, came to him with terrible news. The fragments of Atai Ulaan’s body had fallen to Earth and transformed into shomos and mangadkhai. They caused great suffering, tormenting people. And the people prayed to the gods. At first, Khurmast himself intended to descend to Earth to restore order. Perhaps he felt guilt. But this was not fitting for a supreme god. So they sent me. I was ordered to be born into a poor, elderly, childless family. They had begged desperately for a son. They begged more than anyone, more powerfully than anyone.

3

In the evening, when they calmed down, my parents washed me and wrapped me up. And I want to eat like an animal, as I said in a loud voice, as babies can.

"Now, son, now is my little hero," I suddenly hear in my head. Can Mom hear me? And understands? And I can hear her!

"When?" - I tried to ask mentally.

"Wait a bit, I'll handle the cattle."

- No! I want it now!

— Okay.

"Old," she says aloud to her husband, "the son asks for food." Manage the yard yourself.

My father nodded understandingly. He smiled at his wife, smiled at me, and left.

Her breasts, which were not small, but full of milk, emptied quickly. Satiety blissfully spread through my body and I fell asleep.

Woke up. Dark. I'm even more hungry. There is still almost no milk in the tits. I bite, the drops that appear only tease my appetite. What to do? It's too early for me to eat the cold meat in the pot. He's still young. Threatens with indigestion.

Bending my legs, I turn over and get on all fours. Oh, I'm not two days old anymore, but two months old! Miracles? What's so wonderful? Am I God or not God? I crawl to the hearth, taste the meat, but there are no teeth. It's not worth the risk.

I noticed sheep on the street in the evening. And lambs. I crawl outside.

The lambs are closed separately. A dozen ewes, almost without resistance, were fed with their milk. He fell asleep there.

I woke up again. I want to eat again. More than ever. The sheep's productivity does not cover my needs. I get to my feet and go to the only cow. Five or six liters of milk soothe hunger.

Probably for a couple of hours. It's already getting light. No, something has to be done about this insatiable appetite.

The door of the yurt opens and the father comes out. When he sees me, he freezes only for a moment.

"Father, it's me, your son.

The old man looks inside the yurt, making sure. That the other me wasn't there, he opened the door and motioned me inside.

And then, I hear the sound of an airplane. What? There are still several thousand years before the advent of flying machines...