Across the entire heaven shone a rainbow. And not one, but two. And through the rainbow-gate rushed the broad Ob: The great Ob—birthplace of the wife and serpent.

The Shambatyon River rolls along rapids and stones. Who will brave it? On its other shore live the people of M. M., the most sacred letter of the alphabet, conceals the name of the coming one. The Kabala recalls the Shambatyon. Katun rolls along stones—a true Katun. And as yet, the city has not been built on the new site.

Katun in Turki means woman.

“The Dodecahedron, significant of the feminine Origin, is being indicated in scientific terms which are connected with the dates of evolution. . . .”

“On Katun and on the Bia, brother will rise against brother. There will be great slaughter and then there will begin a new life….”

And still others come and speak concerning the same year of Twenty-eight. The sun spots condense as at present only every seventy-seven years. And then finally comes the most inspired person and he also talks about the same year. What a wonder! One, through astronomy; the other, through astrology; the third, through writings; the fourth, through numerology; and all are concerned with the same thing. What a wonder! If one adds twenty-five to 1911 one gets the same result—the year 1936.

Stone—wondrous stone. The stone of Tigeretz. And simply—stone. The entire district is all stone!

Elen-Chadir, Tourak, Kuegan, Karagai, Ak-kem, Yasatar, Ekonur, Chegan, Arasan, Urul, Kuraghan, Alahoi, Jharhash, Ongudai, Eloman, Turgunda, Argut, Karaghem, Archat, Jhaldur, Chingistai, Ak-Ulgun, Hamsar.

All these are names; these names of rivulets, habitations and town sites sound like a chanting tune, like a harmonious peal. So many nations have brought their finest harmonies and dreams. The tread of tribes went and is returning.

Near Black Anui on Karagol there are caves. The depths and distances are not known. There are bones and inscriptions.

And when we crossed Edigol the broadness of Altai spread before us. It blossomed in all interblending green and blue shades. It became white with distant snow. The grass and the flowers stood the height of a man on horseback. One cannot even locate the horses in it. Nowhere have we seen such grassy vesture.

An Altaian overtook us. Timorously he peered at us. What kind of new foreigners had come to his country? He brandished his whip and disappeared in the resounding grasses—blue, gold and purple. The resemblance between the North American Indians and the Mongols is striking.

About the good Oirot all know. Also they know the favorite Altaian name—Nicholai.

Beyond Yalui begin the Altaian Ails. The peaked yurtas covered with the bark of the larch tree are darkened. The site for Kamlayne is seen. Here they do not say Shaman but Kam. Toward Anui and Ulala there are still Kams who “conjure forth snow and serpents.” But toward the south, Shamanism has been replaced by the teaching about the White Burkhan and his friend, Oirot. Sacrifices have been abolished, being replaced by the burning of aromatic heather and by harmonious singing. They expect the beginning of the new era soon. It was a woman—a young Altaian—who sensed the new steps of the world and safeguarded the first austere law.

The road, washed away by rains, exhausted the horses. We stopped in Kurlyk. We shall have to sit through the night. But it is no hardship to spend the night in a place where the teaching of the White Burkhan and his benevolent friend Oirot were born. The name of Oirot has been accepted by a whole district. Here, verily, they expect the coming of the White Burkhan. In the cliffs towering over Kurlyk, the entrances of the caves loom dark. These caves penetrate deeply: their depth has not been ascertained. There are also secret passages—from Tibet, through Kunlun, through Altyntag, through Turfan; the Long Ear knows of secret passages. How many people have saved themselves in these passages and caves! Reality has become a fairy tale. Just as the black aconite of the Himalaya has become the Fire-Blossom.

When the white birch grew in our land, the White Tsar came and conquered our country. And the Tchud did not wish to remain under the White Tsar and went under the ground. And they covered themselves with stones”—“On the Ouimon they show you the Tchud graves covered with stones”—“On this spot the underground Tchud departed.” The migration of the nations has been imprinted there.

Belovodye! The grandfather of Atamanoff and the father of Ognieff went in search of Belovodye: “Over the Kokushy Mountains. Through Bogogorshe. Over Ergor—by a special path. Whoever does not know the path will perish in the lakes or on the hungry steppe. It has happened also that the people from Belovodye have come out on horseback through special passages over Ergor. And also long ago it happened that a woman from Belovodye came out. High of stature, thin of figure, with face darker than ours. She was clad in a long skirt, a kind of sarafan. There are special dates for everything.”

From the south and from the north, from the east and from the west, they are thinking of the same things. And the same evolutionary process is being impressed upon the best images. A center between the four oceans exists. Consciousness of the new world exists. Will the subterranean Tchud not return? Do not the Agharti, the subterranean people, saddle their horses? Does not the bell of Belovodye ring out? Does not the horseman ride over Ergor? On the ridges—on the Dalnyi and on the Studenyi, the peaks are aflame.

“In 1923 Sokoliha with the people of Bukhtarma went to search for Belovodye. Not one of them returned. But recently there came letters from Sokoliha. She writes that she did not reach Belovodye but she lives well. Where she lives, she does not write. All know of Belovodye.”

“Since when originated the news about Belovodye?”

“The message came from the Kalmucks and the Mongols; originally they told our forefathers who lived according to the old belief and devotion.”

Which means that at the base of information about Belovodye lies a communication from the Buddhist world. The same center of teaching of life is interpreted by the Old Believers. The way between the Argun , and Irtysh leads on to the same Tibet.

They write about the magnetic storms and the unusual temperature and about various natural phenomena due to condensation of the sun spots. Next year the effect of the spots will be still more significant. Unusual northern lights are possible. There may be shocks of the nervous system. How many legends are connected with sun spots, those menacing wrinkles of the luminary.

Ramsana left for Ladak. He could not stand the low places of the north. “Either I leave or die” Of course, Ladakis pass their whole lives on heights not lower than - twelve thousand feet. It is a pity for Ramsana. One can confidently depend on Ladakis to watch things. The Oirot drivers are not like the Ladakis.

Vakhramey counts the number of wagons and agricultural machines. The Old Believer’s heart has assimilated the machines. Sanely he estimates the industry of Germany and America. Sooner or later they will certainly work with America. The people remember the Americans. They value the frank character of the Americans and are aware of the common traits. “Come to work with us!” they call to the Americans. This friendly call has penetrated throughout all Asia.

After discussing industry, Vakhramey begins to murmur, chantingly, some tale; I catch: “And receive me, thou most peaceful desert. . . . And how shall I receive thee? I, the desert, possess neither mansions nor palaces in me.” . . .

It is familiar to me: the tale about Jasaf. “Dost thou know, Vakhramey, about whom thou singest? Thou singest about Buddha. Because the Bodhisatv has been transformed into Jasaf.”

So Buddha merged into the Kerjak consciousness. The plowed fields led them to the machines and cooperation to Belovodye.

But Vakhramey is not only versed in the cooperative movement and in canticles. According to the covenant of the wise ones, he is not astonished at anything; he knows the ores and the deer; he knows the little bees and especially the secret traditions. He knows the herbs and the flowers. This is indisputable. And not only does he know how and where the flowers grow, and where the roots are hidden, but he loves them and delights in them. Gathering a great bunch of vari-colored grasses, that reach up to his gray beard, his face lights up. And he pets them. And caressingly he speaks of their usefulness. Here is verily Panteleon the Healer. It is not dark witchery but knowledge drawn from experience. Greetings, Vakhramey Semeonich! For thee, on Himalaya, does the Fire-Blossom grow!

And here is Vakhramey’s sister, Aunt Elena. She is both a healer and a painter of verdure and a skillful writer. She also knows herbs and flowers. She can decorate any kind of casement with ochre and madder-lake and red-lead. On the doors and casements, she can paint all types of grass designs. Or she will adorn them with bright little birds and a ferocious yellow lion as a guard. No important letter in the village can be written without her . . . “And to whom art thou writing?—to thy son? Let me tell thee how to write”—And a long, compassionate, heartfelt epistle, full of poetic spirit, would flow forth. Such a capable woman!

“With the people of Bukhtarma we do not wish to associate! You see, they appeared as comrades but really came to rob, and the most characteristic thing was their ancient sarafan. . . . And so now they are called ‘Sarafaniki.’ Now, of course, they have reformed. If you meet one—he turns away his face, because he still is human and feels ashamed. . . . Now we ought to have real American machines. It is time to free the horses.” ...

Again one sees a striving toward vigilant cooperation. And new herds are fattening on the high ridges. And from the Studenyi summit one can see best Beluha itself—of whom even the deserts whisper.

Everything bears the traces of the civil war. Here on the highway, a Red regiment was destroyed by ambush. Here in the Katun they drowned the Whites. On the mountain ridge are lying the red Commissars. And under Katanda, the Kerjak psalmist, an old believer, was hacked with sabers. Many graves on the roads; and near them grows thick new grass.

As birds on the branches, so from mouth to mouth flit words forgotten and not recognized by any one. The inhabitants in Trans-Baikal calls a spider misguir. And a guest merchant is called misguir—according to the Siberian interpretation, simply a spider. What kind of Turki idiom helped here? Wind, in the language of the people in Trans-Baikal, is hiyus—this is completely beyond understanding. The root is neither Mongolian nor Yakut.

On the taiga toward Kousnetzk they eat fitches and marmots. This is dangerous because marmots bring on the bubonic plague. They say that the infection disappears from the fur under the influence of sun rays. But who can ascertain when the rays have effect and how much? Whence came the famous Spanish influenza, so similar in form to the bubonic plague? Is it not from furs? Mongolia is often the breeding place for epidemics. And the cattle plague is also very common. One gets used to everything. In Lahore, in Srinagar, in Baramula, cholera was raging when we were there. In Khotan there was small pox; in Kashgar, scarlet fever. One gets used to anything.

Oirot horses are sturdy, as are also the horses from Kuldja and Olet. The Karashahr race horses and Badakhshans are not sturdy and are less adaptable for the mountains.

The Mongols and Buriats are anxious to see various countries. They want to visit Germany and France. They love America and Germany. The need of broadening one’s horizon is demonstrated by them in an ancient parable of a frog and a turtle: The frog lived in a well and the turtle in the ocean. But the turtle came to the frog and told him of the vastness of the ocean. . . . “In your opinion is the ocean twice as large as my well?” . . . “Much larger,” answered the turtle. “Wouldst thou say three times as large as my well?” . . . “Much larger.” . . . “And four times as large?” . . . “Much larger” . . . Then the frog chased away the turtle as a boaster and a liar. . . .

The Popovtsi, the Bezpopovtsi, the Striguni, the Priguni, the Pomortsi, the Netovtsi (not recognizing anything, but considering themselves “of the old faith”) afford many incomprehensible discussions. And toward Trans-Baikal among the Semeiski (Old Believers exiled to Siberia with their entire families), also are added the Temnovertsi, and the Kalashniki. Each one of the Temnovertsi has his own ikon closed with little doors, to which he alone prays. If someone else should pray to the same ikon, it would become unfit! Still more strange—the Kalashniki. They pray before the ikon through a little opening in a kalach (a loaf of bread). We have heard much, but such obscure beliefs we have never seen nor heard of—and in the summer of 1926! Here are also Hlysti, Pashkovtzi, Stundisti and Molokans. Among the green and blue hills, among the taiga thickets, one cannot perceive all curves. Glancing at the beard and low fillet, one cannot judge what the heavy-garbed man whom we encounter is carrying with him.

Ust Kan is the last telegraph station. From there we sent the first telegram ever sent to America. The telegraph operator was upset. He offered to send it by mail to Biisk. He had never dealt with such a fearful animal as America! But we insisted. And he promised to send it after consulting Biisk.

It is planned to extend the railroad line to Katanda, in two stages from Beluha. Up to Katanda, even in pre-war times a railroad line from Barnaul was planned—connecting the heart of Altai with Semipalatinsk and Novosibirsk. They say that even then the engineers went through this line. “Yes? When, ‘then’?” . . . “Yes, it is known before the war.” . . . The mysterious “then” becomes synonymous with the “pre-war epoch.” From Peking one can go on a “Dodge” up to Urumchi itself, which means also up to Kuldja, up to Chuguchak, up to Semipalatinsk. Life forges a vital web of communication.

Tales creep in from Kobdo. Every one is interested in conveying to us at least something of unknown Mongolia, of the land of magnetic storms, mirages of the sun, and cruciform moons. Every one wants to know about Mongolia. . . . Everything is strange. They tell of a sentinel who was eaten by dogs. He hacked seven of them, but could not save himself from the pack. A Mongolian commander in Uliasutai ate a human heart. There are some who say it was a Russian and some who think it was a Chinese. On the Iro and toward Urianhai there is much gold. Also on the Iro a strange boy who pronounced some prophecy was born to a Shaman woman. They whisper about the reincarnation of the Mongolian Bogdo Gegen. And others say that another unusual being was also born in China. But authorities do not recognize either the one or the other: Bogdo Gegen was never reborn either as Mongolian or Chinese, but always in Tibet. On the way from Uliasutai to Kobdo some wild people in furs jumped out and threw stones at the machine. They were so-called Guards! On the way to Manchuria from a cliff “mineral oil” flows into the desert. There also exist such magnetic places that even an automobile slows up.

Thus at the cross-road are woven complicated carpets of Asiatic design. And how can they exist without news? In this case, it would not be worthwhile to go to a far-off ail and to drink tea with a strong essence of tales. Mongolia attracts attention.

“Blacksmiths of Kurumchi”—strange incomprehensible people, who not only passed but also lived within the boundaries of Altai and Trans-Baikal. The generally accepted divisions of Huns, Alans and Goths are divided into manifold unaccountable subdivisions. To such an extent is everything obscured that coins with exact dates are sometimes attributed to completely non-correlating, temporarily established periods. Stagstones, Kereksuri, stone figures; walls of nameless cities—although all have been written about and counted, yet the paths of the peoples have not been clarified. How remarkable are the textures from the last Hun’s graves which completed the famous Siberian antiquities!

There exists a legend about a Black Stone, which appears at the dates of great events. If you compare all the verbal dates of India, Tibet, Egypt and Mongolia, then their coincidence will remind you that apart from the record of historians, there is being set down another history of the world. It is especially significant to compare the testimony of completely unrelated nationalities.

The Kalmucks and Mongols recognize from traces left by horses and camels, the origin and the quantity of the cargo. They will say: “A horseman passed here, leading two horses. Two horses are worn out and the third one is fresh.” Or “A herd of horses passed by and with the herd are two horsemen.” . . .

Different occurrences from the recent wars were related to us. One horseman volunteered to force the surrender of a whole regiment. He took his comrade and a big drove of horses. “More,” he said, “is not needed.” He drove the horses in the direction of the wind and he himself went with his comrade to negotiate. He demanded, “Surrender your arms at once, otherwise I will lead my whole army upon you.” They reflected, perceiving the pillars of dust from the drove; then they surrendered the army. And the audacious fellow commanded his comrade to go in advance and lead back the troop. Thus he forced a whole regiment to surrender. This is not a fairy tale of Jengis-Khan. It is a recent event.

Rumors even outride the motors—they will go on horseback for two hundred miles to drink tea.

Again they report: “It is rumored that you were lost.” Is it possible that for a second time they will bury one? Whence is this unquenchable desire for slander and false inventions? They say that many imitations of my paintings are circulating. They tell amusing stories and even mention several men who in this way, using my name, earned money. They say that V. and R. worked that way. I had a chance to see a few imitations before the war. I remember one very large painting not uncleverly composed from fragments of various of my works. The poor collector who called me to approve his purchase, was immeasurably grieved. Friends, they may bring such imitations to you to the Museum. Look, beware! So often it happened that we saw paintings as well as whole albums falsely signed. I remember one painting by Rustschitz signed with my name.

They speak about the destruction of many of my paintings—“Call of the Serpent” is lost from the Academy. “The March,” “Unkrada,” “Building of the Walls,” “Sviatogor” and others are lost. Of course they consider them lost—but who knows? The paths of objects are so unexpected. Collecting Old Masters, we came across such subtle play of life.

A woman traveler, a painter, visits us. A geological expedition comes. A conversation about artists: Juon, Mashkov, Kanchalovsky, Lentulof, Saryan, Kustodief hold their ground.... Benois is shaky. Dobujhinsky went to Lithuania. They do not mention Somof. They do not know that Bakst has died. The young ones are growing. Stchuseff and Stchuko go forward boldly. The woman painter walks about, sketches old corners, gates, window casements, various beams and the little horses on cornices, as though making an inventory before a distant journey. The various tiny horses will depart from the roofs. Let them depart, as well as the pattern of the chintzes. But with what will they be replaced? The “Viennese” chair and the fading calico do not bring in culture. Here is a task for the young: Give an image of the future life. From factory whistles and from the peal of bells someone has synchronized a symphony; though as yet it is unsuccessful, the whole conception is truly resonant. And thus for the building of a house an alert hand is necessary and dispassionate labor. Here Ikon painters from Mastersky, Palehovsky and Holuisky lent the work new importance.

In the East, they apply the externalization of sensitiveness not only to separate individuals but also to groups and seemingly to whole districts. The result is a tremendous experiment in the application of psychic energy. And all this is being done silently and anonymously.

Behold and be surprised: books, paintings, songs, dances and buildings—all these are sent out upon the waves of the world anonymously. Books are attributed, according to tradition, to a certain author, but he himself does not put his name upon the manuscript. Paintings are not signed; the name of the architect of Potala is not inscribed. On faience, on ceramics, on metal art crafts one can sometimes see the trade-mark but not the name. And in this fundamental anonymity the East has left the West far behind. One must learn from the East, but for that one must absorb the psychology of the East. The East does not love false visitors; the East easily discerns masquerading imitations. And the East will never forget its decision. The judgment of the East is rendered at the very first moment. All the patches of corrections only serve to intensify the clownishness of the imitative attire.

The discovery of Theremin: “We saw on the screen the motion of human hands which took place at the same time behind the wall in the next room.” At last the “miraculous” becomes “scientific.” Finally, one begins to turn to the real study of all of the properties of energy.

Just when we did not ask; just when we did not expect, he himself spoke and demonstrated his knowledge of special places. Our simpletons would have considered this a fairy tale or an unusual revelation; yet here he smilingly closed his yellow khalat and proved his knowledge of certain ones and where they live. “And with that place, now for fifteen years there have been no communications.”

To the Tashi Lama in Peking came a group of Chinese asking for passports for the passage to Shambhala. This reminded us of the letter which was written from Boston to Shambhala. Whence and how has this Chinese group come together? Were they attracted by the wanderings of Lao-Tzin? Or because of older writings? Or by the book of the Abbot of Wu-t’ai-shan. Some time ago one would have ridiculed that fact but now a great deal has occurred. The literature has become so enriched that the recent invention and “magic” have passed into the laboratory of research. And the skeptics are indignant, but only because of their complete ignorance and unenlightenment. Even the most obtuse thinkers ask “What does it mean?” One may speak about the significance of that which happens but the fact itself by now does not remain unobserved.

They tell of the experiment of Manouilof, who has made researches into the sex of plants and minerals and also into the masculine and feminine origin of human blood. Experiment with the mineral “pyrite” gives a result long since indicated by the science of the East: “Pyrite produces crystals of two kinds—one a kind of cube and the other a form of dodecahedron. If the very same reaction is poured into the test tube with cubic crystals—one will get a discoloration of fluid—the masculine reaction. And if the same be performed with the dodecahedron crystals, a purple color results—the feminine reaction.” For the West this discovery is new but the ancient formulae of the East speak of the dodecahedron as the Mother of the World—the feminine beginning. They also point out about the purple physical feminine emanation. You can imagine with what calm smile the scientist of the East listens to the “new” discoveries of the West. “Hemoglobin in the blood of animals and chlorophyle in the juice of plants are similar in their nature.” And the scientist of the East nods, as a sign of an age-long assent.

Know! Know without fear and in the entire measure.

When at last will people walk out of the foggy twilight of “mysticism,” to the study of sunlit reality? When will the darkness of the cave transform itself into the radiance of space?

The horns of the deer and the jet of Kabarga up to now are regarded as precious wares. One must make research into the healing qualities of the powdered horn of the deer. The spring blood which fills these woolly horns of course is permeated with a strong excretion. What is the difference between the musk of the Tibetan ram and the musk of Altaian Kabarga? The Kabarga feeds upon the nettle of the cedar and the larch. Altaians chew the gum of fir tree tar. All the properties of musk must be investigated.

We are stopping in the former chapel of the Old Believers. On the walls are still seen the four corners of the former ikons. In the next room a red chalice is painted on the wall. Wherefore? At the gates sits a white dog. He came with us. Whence?

The White Burkhan, of course, is also the Blessed Buddha. In the region of Ak-Kem are traces of radio-activity. The water in Ak-Kem is milky white. Pure Belovodye. Through Ak-Kem the fiftieth latitude passes. We recall the conclusion of Csoma de Koros.

About two o’clock in the night, on the second of August, east of the village Altaiskoye, a large, powerfully luminous meteorite fell. To the south of Verkhiniouimon, last year, on the summit of the ridges, stones and sand were erupted as if by an explosion. A pit was formed.

“Unspilled Chalice”—the most blue, the most reverberant mountains. Purity itself as in Phalut. And he carries from the mountains his chalice.

“The Blacksmith forges the fate of humanity, on the Siver Mountains.” The grave of Sviatogor is on Siver Mountain. The Siver Mountains—Sumyr, Subur, Sumbyr, Siberian-Sumeru. The exact center from the four oceans. In Altai, on the right bank of Katun, there is a mountain. Its significance is being likened to the world-mountain, Sumeru. Sayn Galabyn sudur is “the narrative of the Good Era.”

All the trees were charmed against harming Baldur. One mistletoe was forgotten—and the arrow from this very mistletoe struck Baldur. All the animals gave blessings for the building of the temple in Lhasa, but one, the gray bull, was forgotten and he was the one who, in the form of an impious king, rebelled later against the true teaching. Nothing that exists can be neglected in the structure. “Even a mouse will gnaw through the knots.”

Katun is welcoming. The Blue Mountains are resonant. White is Beluha. The flowers are vivid and the green grasses and cedars are calming. Who has said that Altai is cruel and unapproachable? Whose heart has become fearful of the austere power and beauty?

On the seventeenth of August we beheld Beluha. It was so clear and reverberant. Verily, Zvenigorod!

Beyond Beluha there appears the crests of Kunlun so beloved to the heart, and beyond that “the mountain of the Divine Queen” and “Five Treasure Troves of the Snows.” And herself, “the Queen of the White Snows,” and all the written and unwritten, the spoken and the unspoken.

“Between the Irtysh and Argun. Over Kokushi. Through Bogogorshi, over Ergor itself, rides a horseman.