THE SEVEN BROTHERS

In a town in the east, there lived a blacksmith. The caravan folk spread the fame of his sharp and strong knives through the world. Every Wednesday, the blacksmith came to trade at the local market. His knives were in demand and the townspeople quickly bought them up. But, despite this success, the blacksmith was not happy.
One day, a beautiful slender woman in an expensive dress decorated with gold and silver patterns asked the blacksmith:

“Why are you so sad? Such wares would make you welcome in any market, so why aren’t you happy?”
“Mercy, dear lady. Today it is ten years since I was married, but we do not have any children yet. I don’t know what I have done to anger Allah so. Why am I being punished like this?”
“Very well, I will help you, blacksmith. After the evening call to prayer head east and walk through the night, until the first rays of sun become entangled in the branches of the black oak. Next to the tree you will see a lone yurt of red felt. That is where I will be waiting for you,” said the woman and disappeared, like an apparition.

The blacksmith walked through the night, and in the early morning he saw a huge oak, and under it stood a red yurt.
If the blacksmith had known that in that yurt lived the old witch Zheztyrnak, then he would surely have turned on his heels and fled. She looked like a young girl, and only the long, brass claws on her hands gave away her true age, but the witch always hid them in long sleeves or wide pockets. Zheztyrnak would lure lone travellers with sweet talk and, afterwards, when her guest had fallen asleep, she would kill him and drink all his blood.

“Come in, blacksmith. You must be tired from your journey. Wouldn’t you like to lie down?” suggested Zheztyrnak.
“Thank you, but no. I didn’t come for that,” he demurred.
“Perhaps you are hungry? I have made beshbarmak.”
In the middle of the yurt, over the fire, stood a copper pot, tempting him with a delicious smell.
“Thank you, but no. I didn’t come for that.”
“I hear how hoarse your voice is. Maybe you are thirsty? Try some cold kumis,” persisted Zheztyrnak in a whisper.
“Thank you but no. I didn’t come for that,” the blacksmith refused a third time.
At that point, the witch gave up.
“As you wish. By the threshold there stands a bag of sunflower seeds. Take one and eat it before you go to sleep. Before long you will be blessed with a son.”
The blacksmith was overjoyed.
“Thank you, dear lady. How can I repay you? Would you like me to make you a most beautiful knife?”
“I don’t need your knives. All I ask is that when your son reaches seventeen, bring him here. He will work for me for a week. That way, you will repay your debt. But if he fails to fulfil even one of my tasks, I will visit a plague on you and your wife.”

The blacksmith ran home, tired but very contented. Before he went to sleep he ate a handful of sunflower seeds, because he had not just taken one from the bag but, to be on the safe side, he had grabbed several.

His wife bore him seven sons whom they named after the days of the week: Zheksenbe, Duisenbe, Seisenbe, Sarsenbe, Beisenbe, Zhuma and Senbe. The boys grew up to be kind and dutiful, respecting their elders and protecting the young. Their parents were rightfully proud of their sons.

“They are so similar. How can you tell them apart?” asked their neighbours.
“They are completely different,” answered their mother. “Zheksenbe is lazy and can sleep all day, Duisenbe is very clever and knows a lot, Seisenbe is very good at keeping house and always helps me at home, Sarsenbe is very observant and notices every little thing, Beisenbe is very good with the horses, Zhuma is very devout and knows all the surahs, and Senbe is happy and loves to joke around.
“Really, quite different,” agreed the neighbours but still they couldn’t tell them apart.
And so, when the brothers reached seventeen, their father told them the secret he had kept all these years.
“One of you needs to go to that woman and work for her for a week.”
“We will all go, but one at a time,” answered Duisenbe. “Zheksenbe, you are the oldest, you should go first.”
“I don’t feel like it, brother,” answered Zheksenbe. “You go first, and I’ll go tomorrow.”
And so Duisenbe was the first to go to the old witch. He walked all night and in the morning saw Zheztyrnak’s red yurt. The householder was delighted that the blacksmith had kept his word. It had been a long time since she had drunk young blood.
“Hello, blacksmith’s son. Have you come to fulfill your father’s debt?”
“Salaam Aleykum, good woman. What task do you have for me?”
“By the entrance, there is a trunk with a store of rice. It will be winter soon, and I don’t know whether I have enough. Count each grain.”

Duisenbe went to count the rice, and Zheztyrnak rubbed her hands and sharpened her claws. The trunk was large. The young man would be counting all day, and in the evening he would grow tired and fall asleep, and there and then the witch would quench her thirst for young blood. But after an hour, the blacksmith’s son returned with a report.

“In your trunk there are exactly 500,100 grains of rice,” said Duisenbe.
“How did you count them so quickly?” said Zheztyrnak in surprise. “It took me a week.”
“I made some scales out of rope. This stone weighs the same as a handful of 5000 grains. In all, I weighed 100 such handfuls and there were 100 grains left over,” answered Duisenbe. 
“Perhaps you are tired and would like to lie down?” asked the witch in a hopeful voice.
“There’s no time to sleep, there is too much work to do. Until tomorrow,” said Duisenbe and left for home.
In the evening Zheksenbe was idling again and Seisenbe had to go in his place.
“Listen to my second task,” said the witch. “My yurt is damaged. Can you hear how the wind whistles? Find the hole and mend it. In the meantime, I’m going for a walk.”

Zheztirnnak left and on the way rubbed her hands and sharpened her claws. In the felt of her yurt, her magical sybyzgy, a flute used to bring down plague rats upon the people, lay sleeping. It was hidden so that nobody could find it. Towards evening the guest would grow tired and fall asleep, and there and then the witch would quench her thirst for young blood. But after only an hour she heard Seisenbe call her.

“Here you are. You can check my work,” he said, with his hands on his hips.
The witch listened and, lo and behold, the yurt was quiet like never before.
“But how?” she exclaimed in surprise.
“I took the yurt apart and put it back together again. There was just a little stick left over. I broke it and threw it out. It should not whistle any more,” Seisenbe gave the woman the good news and set off home. “Until tomorrow.”

In the evening, Zheksenbe again did not want to work, and Sarsenbe had to go in place of his brother.

“Listen to my third task,” said the witch. “I have lost a pearl button by the yurt. Find it.”

Sarsenbe set about fulfilling the task, and Zheztyrnak rubbed her hands and sharpened her claws. The button was the size of a small bead. The youth would search all day and towards evening he would grow tired and fall asleep, and there and then the witch would quench her thirst for young blood.
But after no more than an hour, Sarsenbe returned with the button.

“I am the most observant, nothing can hide from my gaze,” boasted Sarsenbe and he handed over his find to the witch and went home. “Until tomorrow.”
That evening Zheksenbe was idling again and his brother Beisenbe had to go in his place.
“Listen to my fourth task,” said the witch. “Behind the yurt grazes a herd of horses. Lead them into the enclosure. And watch that they don’t scatter.”
Beisenbe went to fulfill the task and Zheztyrnak rubbed her hands and sharpened her claws. Her horses were wild and wicked. They listened to the witch and only to her. The youth would run around after them all day, and towards evening he would grow tired and fall asleep, and there and then the witch would quench her thirst for young blood.
Not an hour had gone by, and Beisenbe had returned. “All done,” he said.

The witch took herself to the enclosure to see for herself that the horses were there.
“That black stallion is the most important one. I calmed him and led him into the enclosure. The rest followed him,” explained Beisenbe and set off home. “Until tomorrow.”
That evening Zheksenbe was idling again. Zhuma had to go in his place.
“Listen to my fifth task,” said the witch. “My brother is coming and you will entertain him. I’m going out on business.»
Zheztyrnak walked off and all the way rubbed her hands and sharpened her claws. Her brother was the Devil himself. The youth would spend the whole day looking after the demanding guest and towards evening would grow tired and fall asleep, and there and then the witch would quench her thirst for young blood. After an hour Zheztyrnak returned, and Zhuma was waiting at the yurt.
“Where is my brother?” she asked.
“He has been and gone. As agreed, I seated him at the place for honoured guests, poured tea and went to read the dua prayers before we ate. As he heard the prayers, your brother leapt up and ran straight out,” said Zhuma and left for home. “Until tomorrow.”

That evening Zheksenbe again was idling and didn’t want to go.
“Senbe, brother, I am tired today. I want to sleep. You go instead and tomorrow it will be my turn.
Senbe agreed and set off for the witch’s house in place of his brother.
“Listen to my sixth task,” said the witch. “Alas, I am sad here on my own. Tell me the news from the steppe, tell me everything, don’t leave anything out.”
Senbe began and Zheztyrnak waited for the youth to want a drink. He would then drink the kumis and fall asleep, and there and then the witch would quench her thirst for young blood. But Senbe related all the latest gossip with such humour that the witch guffawed and clutched her stomach.
“That’s it. I can’t take any more or I’ll burst laughing,” said the witch and sent the youth home. “Until tomorrow.”

That evening it was Zheksenbe’s turn to go to the witch. He got up, stretched, and reluctantly set out, and toward morning saw the witch’s red yurt.
“Listen to my seventh task…”
“Oh, woman, I am tired from my journey. I’ve been walking all night. I’ll sleep a little and afterwards we will talk about your task.”
The witch was delighted at her good fortune.
“Forget the task. It’s done. The debt is written off. Sleep, my sweet.”

Zheksenbe lay on the cot and snored, and Zheztyrnak rubbed her hands and sharpened her claws. But the witch didn’t know that Zheksenbe had slept all week, and as a result, slept lightly, like a baby. As she rushed at the youth, he heard the sound of her brass claws and leapt up.
“I’ve had enough sleep, it seems,” exclaimed Zheksenbe, and grasped the sharp knife his father had made and, with one stroke, severed the witch’s claws.
And so it was that Zheztyrnak was stripped of her magical powers and never attacked people again.