The Caucasian Captive 2.0, or The New Adventures of Shurik

High in the mountains sprawled a small aul—a settlement seemingly clinging to the slope. Stone houses stood in tiers: the roof of the lower one served as a courtyard for the one above. The morning sun gilded the snowy peaks far above, and below, in the valley, a turbulent river wound its way. The air was fresh and clear—one could breathe it deeply. A traveler named Shurik stood at the entrance to the aul, admiring this view, and felt his heart happily pounding in anticipation of adventures.

Shurik was a young researcher—an ethnographer who had come to study the customs and folklore of the mountain peoples of the Caucasus. He carried a light backpack, and a camera hung around his neck. He was inquisitive and observant, like a true detective. Even now, standing on the path, Shurik noticed details: behind one of the houses, a woman was spreading fruits on the flat roof—to dry them in the sun. By the neighboring wall, bundles of herbs—thyme and St. John’s wort—hung from a rope, a supply for tea and medicine. Chickens ran around the yard, and a cat dozed on the crossbar of a fence.

Children were coming towards Shurik along a narrow lane. Two boys about six years old were leading a little donkey laden with bundles of firewood. The kids were chatting merrily and even skipping a little as they walked. One youngster boldly leaped onto the donkey from behind and rode it for a few meters, spreading his arms out to the sides. Shurik smiled: here in the mountains, children start riding horseback before they can even walk, as he had read in books. A girl with braids was carrying a basket from which peeked red apples and fresh lavash—a round flatbread. Noticing the guest, the children stopped and stared at Shurik with large dark eyes full of curiosity.

“Hello!” Shurik said in a friendly tone, waving to the kids.

The children greeted him and immediately started asking questions: who was he, where did he come from? Shurik explained that he came from a big city to get to know their land. The boys exchanged glances: a guest from far away—this was important.

“My uncle said a scholar from the city would arrive today,” the girl said. “That must be you, right?”

Shurik nodded. The children happily bobbed their heads, pleased with their guess.

“Come on, we’ll show you the way,” the older boy suggested. “All the houses here are mixed up; you might get lost.”

Shurik thanked them and followed the little guides. They led him along a winding lane paved with flat stones. The houses stood so close to each other that the roofs almost touched. Some walls were decorated with beautiful ornaments—carved wooden panels. Shurik noted to himself that each pattern surely had its own meaning and history. On one balcony he saw an old man in a black papakha—a tall fur hat. The old man was warming himself in the sun, his shoulders wrapped in a burka (a long felt cloak). Seeing the stranger, the old man nodded to him with dignity. Shurik bowed politely in return, remembering the rule of respect for elders.

In the center of the aul there was a tiny square—a widening of the street near a ram-shaped fountain. Clean water was streaming from the stone head of the ram. A few women were filling their pitchers and chatting with each other. Seeing Shurik, they immediately smiled. One of the women in a bright headscarf asked the children: