The next day, when everyone in the village was already asleep, the great shaman fluttered out of his daughter's house, like the shadow of a polar night owl, and slowly headed along the canal, lurking in the bushes towards his native village. There were fifty kilometers left, and he was in no hurry. He was carrying a large bag of groceries. There was enough food for a long journey, and the shaman was good at distributing food throughout the way. A summer trail was winding and dangerous. There were several rivers along the way, swamps, and a trip across a large litter of a river called Pilyokhlor. This path was not difficult for him. His soul bubbled like a big lake full of fish, and boundless joy burst out.

These were his native waters and his native lands. This was the land where he was born, breathed air for the first time. He was at home.

Secretly, like a driven animal, and yet without losing his inner dignity, he walked through forests and swamps. Not a single person on this land could give him to the authorities: hearing the name of Lylan Luhpi shepan iki, people bowed or lowered their eyes as a sign of respect. The shaman, however, made his way through the forests, hiding from people. It was important for him that no one was hurt through his fault. He walked along the mossy forest paths, leaving no traces. He overcame talnik windbreaks like a white sacred ermine, passed unfamiliar paths like a light, quiet arctic fox. He didn't look around from fear, like a hare. His soul did not howl like a wolf, but sang, murmuring, like a hasty forest brook – a soim shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, the one that hurries to the great river As.

He didn't look for an easy way; his natural instinct of a hunter told him where to move, where to turn. He walked without fear, like a brown bear in the forest. He was in a hurry to his native nest, to his small warm house standing under the centuries-old evergreen cedars, which had remained from his grandfather. This is where he took in the taste of the motherland with his mother's milk. He was a free man, and there was no sin on him. Otherwise why would the Almighty Turam help him? The sacred shaman's gift was also sent from heaven. How could a little man resist the will of the gods?

The settlers who lived in the dugouts, were sent to fishing in the summer, and in the winter they were sent out to the village to work on a timber work area. Although the trees were rare and not large, in some places in the forest tundra, on good soil, larch trees grew quite high, and were suitable for building houses. Fine wood was laid for firewood. They didn't complain, they tried to do any job accurately and quickly, with the hope that they would someday be released home. Now they were settled seven kilometers higher along the Ob from the village of Pitlourkurt.

In the dense woodlands, among the swamps, new houses were being built. Axes were pounding, saws rang from morning till night. The village was still small, but was quickly built.

The wood work area was near the forest road, and the exiles were often surprised:

«How could a well-trodden road appear in this wilderness, and why would the Khanty people need it, if they only ride deer, or boats in summer? Even hunters do not step on a wide path.»

And then a hunter came out of the woods past the exiles and stepped onto the wide path. He nodded to the women as a sign of greeting, crossed the road, and went hunting, skiing along his own track towards the village. His hunting belt was all hung with squirrel carcasses, and a fox tail flashed red.