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This is a Caucasus tale 200 years old. It is derived from oral history given by grandfathers to children to remember a world long gone. Unlike most European tales, it does not have a 'happily ever after' ending; it is not like the tales mothers tell their sleepy eyed darlings as they drift off to happy dreams. Tales told in the Caucasus by Armenians, Circassians, Georgians, Kurds and Turks are not like the Pablum tales of Westerners with singing birds, talking animals that are furry and cuddly or kind beautiful sprites that cobble shoes and grant wishes while you sleep. Tales told in the Caucasus usually involve conflict; they are full of grim gnarly reminders of a hard life in an unforgiving land. Here is a story that tells of a time when there was no diversity, no globalism or political compromises. It was simply different homogeneous cultures often isolated from each other, existing side by side. The tale has been passed on generation to generation now, so that only fragments remain with little proof and many unanswered questions. For this and many other reasons, this must remain a Caucasus tale, more fiction than fact. And it all happened just this way.