Essay: «Scythian Watchman of the Lighthouse»
And so, I’m here again! My hair is blowing in the wind, tickling my face. The salty air allows me to take deep, deep breaths and feel the tranquility of the Azov coast.
Walking through the Mayak grounds, I approached the eagle sculpture—which I grew to love so much—once again, remembering a conversation between two friends I overheard during my last visit.
«Oh, the eagle, ” the first said, stopping before the sculpture. „It’s cool.“ „It’s more than just an eagle, ” the second replied. „It’s a living history.“ She nodded toward the sculpture and continued, „Long ago, the Scythians lived here. They hid their treasures in secret places, and the eagle—their trusted friend—guarded those treasures.“ „How did he guard them?“ the first interrupted. „He’s not alive; he’s made of stone.“ „He’s made of stone now, but in the legends, he was real. In the legends, he soared above the clouds with his enormous wings. The Scythians believed the eagle was their protector. They depicted him on their jewelry and weapons, and when they buried their leaders and noble warriors, they placed gold that the eagle was guarding alongside them.“
The first circled the sculpture. She ran her palm over the stone. „It’s warm, ” she said. „And the gold? Did they find it?“ „Some of it was found. It’s in museums—in Berdyansk and Melitopol.“ The second looked around and lowered her voice. „But the rest is somewhere here. Under the mounds. Right beneath us.“ „No way.“ „I’m serious. The Scythians knew how to hide things.“ „And no one found anything?“ „Those who looked didn’t find anything. And those who did find it won’t tell.“
The first smirked but still glanced at the ground beneath her feet. The stone under her palm felt warm, not just from the sun. „So, this means we can’t find them because the eagle is still guarding the treasure?“ she asked, moving away from the sculpture. „They told us the eagle guards memory, ” the second answered. „And memory is the most precious treasure.“
They lingered near the sculpture for a while longer. The first walked around it one more time, studying the carvings and indentations of the stone eagle. The eagle’s gaze seemed alive, and looking into its eyes, one could sense that the eagle remembers everything—the Scythians, their gold, and perhaps the location where the rest of the treasures are hidden.
Finally, the first stepped away from the sculpture, and the two friends continued walking toward the sea.
I shifted my gaze from the sea to the sculpture, and the memory receded. Only the eagle remained. And I was beside it. The eagle could not fly away, because as long as it is here—here—the memory of the Scythians, their legends, and their treasures will live on for many years, holding within it that very secret the eagle will not reveal to anyone.The Lighthouse is a territory where the past and the present meet. Scythian gold sleeps beneath the burial mounds. The eagle guards the memory. People come here for the legends, for the sea, for the nature, for the silence that speaks louder than words. Here, everyone finds their own treasure. Some find the gold beneath the mounds. Others find themselves.Return to the Lighthouse. Listen to the call of the wind. Look at the eagle. Do not look for gold—look for yourself. The Lighthouse awaits you!
Legend of the Golden Guardian
The group of students walked across the Mayak grounds, chatting amongst themselves. It wasn’t their first day here, but they hadn’t managed to see the entire area yet. A sharp, resonant gust of wind swept in from the sea, and everyone fell silent—that’s always what happens when the steppe suddenly opens up before you in its full expanse.
«What a remote place, ” said the guy in the red cap, looking around.
„But there’s a statue, ” replied the girl with headphones around her neck. „See? The eagle.“
They walked closer. The stone bird sat with its wings spread wide toward the sea. The wind moved the grass at its base, making it seem as though the eagle was in motion.
„It’s beautiful, ” said the third, slender guy wearing glasses. He circled the sculpture and touched the stone.
„Do you know that they say there’s gold hidden here?“ the guy in the cap suddenly asked. Everyone turned around. „Well, more like somewhere under us. I read about it.“
„What gold?“ the girl smirked.
„Scythian. The Scythians lived here on the eastern shore. They hid their treasures in mounds and secret caches. And this very eagle guarded them.“ The guy gestured toward the sculpture and continued, „Not this specific one, of course, but the real one.“
„And where is the real one?“ the guy in glasses asked.
„I don’t know, ” the guy shrugged. „But there’s a legend.“
„Tell us, ” the girl requested.
A guy sat on a warm stone near the sculpture, and the others, without speaking, settled down beside him. The sea roared somewhere below. The steppe smelled of herbs. The sun tried to peek out from behind the gray clouds.
«So,» he began, «a long, long time ago, an Eagle soared over this steppe. Not just any eagle—a golden one. The Scythians called it the golden guardian. When it spread its wings, a golden ripple raced across the grass. And wherever its shadow fell, the earth became so fertile that the stalks grew as tall as a man.
The warriors believed that as long as the Eagle circled above the burial mounds, no enemy would find the hidden treasures. And so, the gold only increased in the caches: diadems, bowls, rings, weapons studded with jewels. The Scythians hid everything in the mounds and pits, and over each cache, the Eagle hovered in the sky, as if drawing an invisible circle.
This went on for a year. Two. A hundred. A thousand. Time for the Eagle was merely the changing of the seasons. But one day, disaster struck the steppe—not from the east, where they expected an enemy, but from within. A feud flared up between the two clans over the right to call themselves the guardians of the gold.
„We found the cache first!“ shouted the senior clan. „We were the first to defend it!“ retorted the junior clan.
And so, brother turned against brother, and son against father. The Eagle felt the trouble first. Its feathers dimmed. Its flight became heavy. And then it did what it had never dared before: it descended to the earth. It settled on a stone by the very edge and froze.
„He is tired,“ the people decided. „He is no longer a guardian.“
And as this thought took root and strengthened in their hearts, strangers appeared in the steppe. They walked silently, but their eyes burned with the same fire that once burned in the eyes of the Scythians—the fire of gold. They knew that the Eagle no longer circled the burial mounds; the caches were left without a protector.
One of the strangers, a young warrior named Satik, approached the stone Eagle and raised his sword over it.
«You do not fly anymore, ” he said. „You are no longer mighty. Reveal the secret where the gold is hidden, or I will shatter you into a thousand pieces.“
The Eagle remained silent. What could be said—stone is stone.
Satik struck. The sword deflected, leaving only a faint scratch on the stone. He raised his sword again. And again. Each blow resonated in the steppe with a dull echo, as if the earth itself were moaning. For three days and three nights, Satik struck the stone—and for three days and three nights, the Scythian clans could not close their eyes: in the sound of the striking, they imagined the voice of their own discord.
Then, on the fourth morning, the impossible happened. The Eagle turned its head.
„You desire gold, ” it said in a voice like the sound of wind in the grass. „But the gold is not hidden in the burial mounds. It is hidden within you. While you divided it—you lost it. For he who first forgets the treasure for the sake of a brother will find everything. But he who kills a brother for the sake of treasure will lose everything.“
Satik lowered his sword. He felt the weight of the Eagle’s words. And then Satik cast the sword aside, refusing to fight the Scythian people.
He took a step. One step—away from the sword. He looked at the Scythian warriors. They looked at him, and for the first time in three days, no one reached for their weapons.
That step changed everything. Not the gold. Not the sword. The step.
At that moment, a wind arose over the steppe—a wind no elder could recall. The eagle spread its wings for the first time in three days and three nights.
«You have until sunset, ” it boomed. „If you do not bury your enmity as deeply as you buried your gold by then, I will fly away. And I will fly away forever. Then the gold will become a curse, not a treasure.“
The sun was already sinking toward the horizon. The Scythians had less than half a day left.
They rushed toward the burial mounds, not to search for gold, but to bury their hatred. They dug a hole and tossed into it the swords with which they had killed each other. They dug a second and dropped in their grievances. They dug a third and threw in the words spoken in anger. Satik dug the fourth and discarded his own pride.
When the last ray touched the water, the Scythians and the strangers stood around the four fresh graves. And the Eagle descended to the earth. Slowly. Heavily.
„You buried your hatred, ” it sighed. „But you did not bury the gold. And that is right. Because gold is not meant to be found. It is meant to be remembered. As long as you remember—I am near. When you forget—I will fly away.“
It swept its wings—and vanished into the darkening sky. On the spot where it had sat, only a stone with a fine scratch remained. Later, people carved an eagle from it, in memory of their protector. And since then, it is said that whenever people on the eastern shore begin to divide their treasures, succumbing to pride and rage, the shadow of a great bird flies over the mounds, and for a moment, fear grips all who hold gold in their hands.
The guy fell silent. The sea roared. The wind sang its songs.
«So, ” the lanky man said slowly, looking at the sculpture, „is the gold still here?“
„Somewhere around here, ” the guy in the cap nodded. „Under the burial mounds. Beneath us. The Scythians were good at hiding things.“
„And you want to find it, ” the girl said. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.
The man didn’t reply. He stared at the stone eagle, and something in his gaze was different from a moment before—something greedy. Something alien.
„So what?“ the guy snapped.
„The fact that you seem to be looking for gold, ” the guy with glasses shrugged. „And I’m not sure you’ll like it.“
The guy in the cap stood up, dusting off his trousers. He opened his mouth to speak, but remained silent. In the ensuing quiet, all three of them felt the stone beneath their feet give a slight tremor—like a bird preparing to take flight.
The girl turned back to the sculpture and gazed into the stone eyes for a long time. It seemed to her that the eagle was looking directly at the man in the cap. And its gaze was anything but kind.
„Let’s go, ” she said softly. „I’ve lost my desire to search for treasure here.“
They walked toward the sea, but the guy in the red cap walked slower than the others, constantly glancing around. And the eagle watched him go—unblinking, never shifting its stone gaze. It looked as if it knew that this man would return someday. Alone. And then the legend would continue.
Perhaps the matter isn’t about gold at all. Perhaps the stone eagle guards something else entirely—something more precious than any metal. It guards memory. The memory of the Scythians, of their legends, of their mistakes, and of their insights. It guards a history that must not disappear. And as long as this eagle stands guard, spreading its wings over the steppe, the legend will live on.
