There was a girl called Torko-Chachak, which means "Silken Tassel." Her eyes were like wild cherries, her brows were like two rainbows. Into her braids she plaited seashells from distant lands, and on her hat there was a silken tassel, white as moonlight.
One day the father of Silken Tassel fell ill, and her mother said to her:
"Get up on the bay horse and hurry to the bank of the rushing river. There, in a tent made of birchbark, you will find the shaman Teldekpei. Ask him to come here and to cure your father."
The girl leaped up on the bay horse with the white star on his forehead, took in her right hand the leather reins with silver rings and in her left, the lash with a finely carved bone handle. The bay horse galloped fast, the reins shook up and down, the harness tinkled merrily.
Old Teldekpei sat at the threshold of his birchbark tent. With a sharp knife, he was carving a round cup out of a piece of birchwood. He heard the merry clattering of hooves, the ringing of the harness. He raised his eyes and saw the girl on the bay horse.
She sat proudly in the high saddle, the silken tassel fluttered in the wind, the seashells sang in her thick braids.
The knife dropped from the shaman's hand, the cup rolled into the fire.
"Grandfather," said the girl. "My father is sick, come help us."
"I will cure your father, Silken Tassel, if you will marry me." The shaman's eyebrows were like moss, his white beard, like a thorny shrub.
Frightened, Silken Tassel pulled the reins and galloped off.
"At dawn tomorrow I will come to you!" the shaman called after her.
The girl came home, entered the tent and said: "Old Teldekpei will be here tomorrow at dawn."
The stars had not yet melted in the sky, the people in the camp had not yet set the milk out to ferment, the meat in the kettles had not yet been cooked, and the fine white rugs were not yet spread upon the ground when there was a loud clattering of hooves.
The oldest of the elders came out to welcome the mighty shaman Teldekpei.
He sat atop a shaggy horse with a back as wide as a mountain yak's. Silently, looking at no one, he dismounted, and, greeting no one, he went into the tent. The old men brought in after him the eighty-pound robe in which he worked his magic and put it down on the white rug. They hung his tambourine upon a wooden peg and made a fire of fragrant juniper twigs under it.