The hazy morning light filtering through the grimy windows of the villa hit Borz's face. It wasn't snowing, but outside, a freezing autumn frost was whipping the dried leaves. The wounded dog had not left Borz's side all night, falling into a somewhat peaceful sleep.
Before leaving, Borz stood in the center of the sanctuary. He could not allow the dog to shiver on the cold stones; Nohchalla commanded not just the preservation of a life, but the granting of peace. This ancient law, carried in his genes, whispered that every soul seeking refuge was now his honor.
With great care, he gathered scattered oak branches and resinous timber. When he struck the flint, the first sparks fell like fragments of sorrowful hope. Borz nurtured the flame with his breath until it stretched its orange tongues toward the damp walls. The pained glint in the dog's eyes softened as the warmth filled the room. The animal looked at Borz with a gaze of gratitude and a silent plea.
Borz left an extra pile of wood by the hearth. He stopped at that doorless threshold, turned back, and whispered:
"Marsh oyla."
This was a sacred parting from the tens-of-thousands-of-years-old Nakh-Urartian language, a phrase that time itself could not erode. It meant "Stay free." In this ancient tongue, freedom was not merely the absence of chains, but the return of a living being to its own nature and dignity. In the world of the Nakh, freedom was above all else; to say "stay free" instead of "goodbye" was the noblest blessing one could offer. Borz was greeting this wounded soul not as a pet, but as a free spirit equal to his own honor. With one final look, he slipped into the cold forest.
Outside was a proud and mute kingdom. As Borz plunged deeper, the sharp, resinous scent of giant pines piercing the sky filled his lungs—the scent of the earth's final resistance. His steps left marks like seals on the frozen ground. No sound could be heard except for the whistle of the wind through clashing branches.
The forest watched Borz silently. The path of fallen pine needles was soft enough to swallow his every step, yet beneath lay an uncanny coldness. Borz heard no sign of life other than the white steam of his own breath and the bone-like crunch of dry twigs under his feet.
...
As Borz stepped through the doorless void of the villa, the freezing autumn frost pierced his face like a knife. The snow had not yet fallen, but the raw moisture—the harbinger of winter—burned his lungs with every breath. The phrase he had whispered to the animal at the threshold hung in the gray haze of the forest like a seal:
"Marsh oyla (Stay free)."
The reader must pause at this point to feel the ancient weight of these words. Throughout their thousands of years of history, the Nakhcho people never said "goodbye" when parting. In their language, parting was a moment of bestowing the most sacred wish upon the other. Marsh oyla (Stay free) was not just a farewell; it was the noblest prayer breathed into the soul of a living being.
This farewell drew its root from the very reason for the Nakhcho people's existence: the concept of Marsho (Freedom). If Marsho (Freedom) was the highest sacred value in the universe and the only condition for existence for this people, then Marsh oyla (Stay free) was the act of entrusting that freedom to another soul. These terms, filtered through tens of thousands of years of Nakh-Urartian languages, whispered a staggering truth to the reader: For a Nakhcho, Marsho (Freedom) was not an option, but a vital necessity as essential as the air they breathed. To say Marsh oyla (Stay free) to someone was to wish them the greatest heritage in this world—a free spirit. By bidding the wounded animal farewell with these words, Borz had greeted it not as a pet, but as a fellow traveler equal to his own honor.
Now, as he moved deeper into the forest, the echo of these ancient words accompanied his steps. The giant pines hanging from the sky pierced the heavens like black spears. The dense, resinous, and sharp scent of pine surrounding him sharpened Borz's senses like a dagger. The dried oak leaves on the ground crushed with a crunch like breaking bones with every step, whispering Borz's presence to the forest.
Borz stopped for a moment. He filled his lungs with the freezing and damp breath of the forest. His eyes scanned for the smallest shadow that might slip through the dry bushes, while his ears sought that hidden gurgle from beneath the earth. His Nakhcho genes whispered to him of patience and deciphering the language of nature. Just as a wolf's nose is sensitive, Borz's sensitivity to the scent of water was just as sharp.
A metallic, heavy scent of moisture hit his nose. This wasn't just wet earth; it was the harbinger of a fresh, life-giving leak trickling through the cracks of the rocks. Borz gripped his axe tighter in his right hand. He was the last wolf carrying the ten-thousand-year passion for Marsho (Freedom) in his veins, a man who wished for Marsh oyla (Stay free) even in his farewells.
...
As Borz pushed deeper into the forest toward the nooks where the moisture was most intense, his mind suddenly drifted to the whispers of ancient healers. Before his eyes, a humble plant appeared: the one modern medicine and botany call Plantago major (Great Plantain). With its broad, oval leaves that, when torn, revealed white, thread-like veins inside, it was more than just a name to Borz. This was a source of life hidden in the nooks where the earth was most fertile. Borz knew that if he could tear that leaf and reveal those fibrous veins, he could completely stop the dog's persistent bleeding and seal the wound.
At this point, the reader must learn a secret hidden in the history of the Nakh. This plant was one of the most sacred herbs used by the ancient pagan healers called Dolu-khicha (The one who knows the plants) in the Nakh language. For the Dolu-khicha, Plantago major was nature's own suture; those thin fibers inside the leaf were a divine hand that held the flowing life within the body. Finding this herb meant redrawing the line between life and death.
Borz focused on this plant as a wolf focuses on its prey. Behind the sharp scent of pine, he was now searching for the scent of fresh greenery mixed with moss. He whispered to himself: "Follow the trail of the Dolu-khicha..." If there was water,
Plantago major was there. If it was there, life was there. The passion for Marsho (Freedom) in his veins merged with this sacred plant, driving Borz toward the heart of the forest.
As Borz pushed deeper into the forest, he simultaneously pruned the dried and broken pine branches with his axe. He did not touch a single living tree; he only gathered the rotten or snapped pieces that the wind had brought down. He piled these wood fragments neatly under the trees as he moved.
This was a Nakhcho Adat (Tradition) ingrained in his blood, passed down through generations. Elders taught children from a young age that the forest was not property, but a trust. To harm a living branch was equivalent to hurting a soul; but to gather the lifeless gifts of the woods and serve the earth with respect was true nobility. Even in his most difficult moments, Borz did not break this discipline, honoring nature with every stroke of his axe.
This was a Nakhcho Adat (Tradition) ingrained in his blood, passed down through generations. Elders taught children from a young age that the forest was not property, but a trust. According to the ancient pagan beliefs of the Nakh people, every living tree possessed a soul, and to harm a living branch without vital necessity was to disturb the universal balance—equivalent to hurting a spirit. This was not merely a survival practice; it was a sacred way of life. Taking only what the forest "offered" was a thousand-year-old pact of respect with nature. Even in his most desperate hour, Borz did not break this discipline, honoring nature with every stroke of his axe. True Marsho (Freedom) was not being the master of nature, but being able to move in harmony with its sacred laws.
However, the forest was much larger than he had thought, and time was rapidly running out for the wounded soul lying on the cold stones of the shelter. Borz pushed forward, but with every step, the scent of damp earth seemed to thin, replaced by a freezing and dry wind. Was the water truly there, or was it just a trick played by his mind? If this search ended in frustration, would he be able to return before the fire he left behind died out? Or would the silent labyrinth of the forest bury this last wolf, chasing an ancient cure, empty-handed into its darkness?
Wherever There is Water, There is Life!