Grandmother returned from the neighbors and told me that the Levontiev children were going to the strawberry harvest, and told me to go with them.
You'll get some trouble. I will take my berries to the city, I will also sell yours and buy you gingerbread.
A horse, grandma?
Horse, horse.
Gingerbread horse! This is the dream of all village kids. He is white, white, this horse. And his mane is pink, his tail is pink, his eyes are pink, his hooves are also pink. Grandmother never allowed us to carry around with pieces of bread. Eat at the table, otherwise it will be bad. But gingerbread is a completely different matter. You can stick the gingerbread under your shirt, run around and hear the horse kicking its hooves on its bare belly. Cold with horror - lost, - grab your shirt and be convinced with happiness - here he is, here is the horse-fire!
With such a horse, I immediately appreciate how much attention! The Levontiev guys fawn over you this way and that, and let you hit the horse first, and shoot with a slingshot, so that only they will then be allowed to bite off the horse or lick it. When you give Levontyev’s Sanka or Tanka a bite, you must hold with your fingers the place where you are supposed to bite, and hold it tightly, otherwise Tanka or Sanka will bite so hard that the horse’s tail and mane will remain.
Levontiy, our neighbor, worked on the badogs together with Mishka Korshukov. Levontii harvested timber for badogi, sawed it, chopped it and delivered it to the lime plant, which was opposite the village, on the other side of the Yenisei. Once every ten days, or maybe fifteen, I don’t remember exactly, Levontius received money, and then in the next house, where there were only children and nothing else, a feast began. Some kind of restlessness, a fever, or something, gripped not only the Levontiev house, but also all the neighbors. Early in the morning, Aunt Vasenya, Uncle Levontiy’s wife, ran into grandma’s, out of breath, exhausted, with rubles clutched in her fist.
Stop, you freak! - her grandmother called out to her. - You have to count.
Aunt Vasenya obediently returned, and while grandma was counting the money, she walked with her bare feet, like a hot horse, ready to take off as soon as the reins were let go.
Grandmother counted carefully and for a long time, smoothing out each ruble. As far as I remember, my grandmother never gave Levontikha more than seven or ten rubles from her “reserve” for a rainy day, because this entire “reserve” consisted, it seems, of ten. But even with such a small amount, the alarmed Vasenya managed to shortchange by a ruble, sometimes even by a whole triple.
How do you handle money, you eyeless scarecrow! the grandmother attacked the neighbor. - A ruble for me, a ruble for another! What will happen? But Vasenya again threw up a whirlwind with her skirt and rolled away.
She did!
For a long time my grandmother reviled Levontiikha, Levontii himself, who, in her opinion, was not worth bread, but ate wine, beat herself on the thighs with her hands, spat, I sat down by the window and looked longingly at the neighbor’s house.
He stood by himself, in the open space, and nothing prevented him from looking at the white light through the somehow glazed windows - no fence, no gate, no frames, no shutters. Uncle Levontius didn’t even have a bathhouse, and they, the Levont’evites, washed in their neighbors, most often with us, after fetching water and ferrying firewood from the lime factory.
One good day, perhaps even evening, Uncle Levontius rocked a ripple and, having forgotten himself, began to sing the song of sea wanderers, heard on voyages - he was once a sailor.
Sailed along the Akiyan
Sailor from Africa
Little licker
He brought it in a box...
The family fell silent, listening to the voice of the parent, absorbing a very coherent and pitiful song. Our village, in addition to the streets, towns and alleys, was also structured and composed in song - every family, every surname had “its own”, signature song, which deeper and more fully expressed the feelings of this particular and no other relative. To this day, whenever I remember the song “The Monk Fell in Love with a Beauty,” I still see Bobrovsky Lane and all the Bobrovskys, and goosebumps spread across my skin from shock. The heart trembles and contracts from the song of the “Chess Knee”: “I was sitting at the window, my God, and the rain was dripping on me.” And how can we forget Fokine’s soul-tearing poem: “It was in vain that I broke the bars, in vain I escaped from prison, my dear, dear little wife is lying on another’s chest,” or my beloved uncle: “Once upon a time in a cozy room,” or in memory of my late mother , which is still sung: “Tell me, sister...” But where can you remember everything and everyone? The village was large, the people were vocal, daring, and the family was deep and wide.
But all our songs flew glidingly over the roof of the settler Uncle Levontius - not one of them could disturb the petrified soul of the fighting family, and here on you, Levontiev's eagles trembled, there must have been a drop or two of sailor, vagabond blood tangled in the veins of the children, and it -their resilience was washed away, and when the children were well-fed, did not fight and did not destroy anything, one could hear a friendly chorus spilling out through the broken windows and open doors.
V.P. Astafiev is one of the writers who had a difficult childhood in the difficult pre-war years. Having grown up in the village, he was well acquainted with the peculiarities of the Russian character, the moral foundations on which humanity has rested for centuries.
His works, which made up the “Last Bow” cycle, are devoted to this topic. Among them is the story “The Horse with the Pink Mane.”
Autobiographical basis of the work
At the age of seven, Viktor Astafiev lost his mother - she drowned in the Yenisei River. The boy was taken in by his grandmother, Katerina Petrovna. Until the end of his life, the writer was grateful to her for her care, kindness and love. And also for the fact that she formed in him true moral values, which the grandson never forgot. One of the important moments of his life, forever etched in the memory of the already matured Astafiev, is what he tells in his work “The Horse with a Pink Mane.”
The story is told from the perspective of a boy, Viti, who lives with his grandparents in a taiga Siberian village. His daily routine is similar to each other: fishing, playing with other kids, going to the forest to pick mushrooms and berries, helping with housework.
The author pays special attention to the description of the Levontius family, who lived in the neighborhood. In the story “The Horse with a Pink Mane,” it is their children who will play an important role. Enjoying unlimited freedom, with little idea of what true kindness, mutual assistance and responsibility are, they will push the main character to commit an act that he will remember all his life.
The plot begins with the grandmother's news that the Levontiev children are going to the ridge to buy strawberries. She asks her grandson to go with them, so that later he can sell the berries he collected in the city and buy the boy gingerbread. A horse with a pink mane - this sweetness was the cherished dream of every boy!
However, the trip to the ridge ends in deception, to which Vitya goes, having never picked strawberries. The guilty boy tries in every possible way to delay the disclosure of the offense and the subsequent punishment. Finally, the grandmother returns from the city lamenting. So the dream that Vitya would have a wonderful horse with a pink mane turned into regret that he had succumbed to the tricks of the Levontiev children. And suddenly the repentant hero sees that same gingerbread in front of him... At first he does not believe his eyes. The words bring him back to reality: “Take it... You’ll see... when you fool your grandmother...”.
Many years have passed since then, but V. Astafiev could not forget this story.
“The Horse with a Pink Mane”: main characters
In the story, the author shows the period of growing up of a boy. In a country devastated by civil war, everyone had a hard time, and in a difficult situation, everyone chose their own path. Meanwhile, it is known that many character traits are formed in a person in childhood.
Getting to know the way of life in the house of Katerina Petrovna and Levontia allows us to conclude how different these families were. Grandmother loved order in everything, so everything went its own, predetermined course. She instilled the same qualities in her grandson, who was left an orphan at an early age. So the horse with the pink mane was supposed to be his reward for his efforts.
A completely different atmosphere reigned in the neighbor's house. Lack of money alternated with a feast, when Levontius bought various things with the money he received. At such a moment, Vitya loved to visit his neighbors. Moreover, the tipsy Levontius began to remember his deceased mother and slipped the best piece to the orphan. The grandmother did not like these visits by her grandson to the neighbors’ house: she believed that they themselves had a lot of children and often had nothing to eat. And the children themselves were not well-mannered, so they could have a bad influence on the boy. They will really push Vitya into deception when he goes with them to get the berries.
The story “The Horse with a Pink Mane” is the author’s attempt to determine the reason for what may guide a person who commits bad or good deeds in life.
Hike to the ridge
The writer describes in some detail the road for strawberries. The Levontiev kids behave unreasonably all the time. Along the way, they managed to climb into someone else’s garden, pull onions and use them on whistles, and fight with each other...
On the ridge, everyone began to pick berries, but the Levontievskys didn’t last long. Only the hero conscientiously put the strawberries into the container. However, after his words about the gingerbread caused only ridicule among his “friends”, wanting to show his independence, he succumbed to the general fun. For some time, Vitya forgot about his grandmother and the fact that until recently his main desire was a horse with a pink mane. The retelling of what amused the children that day includes the murder of a defenseless siskin and the massacre of fish. And they themselves constantly quarreled, Sanka especially tried. Before returning home, he told the hero what to do: fill the container with grass, and put a layer of berries on top - so the grandmother will not find out anything. And the boy followed the advice: after all, nothing would happen to Levontievsky, but he would be in trouble.
Fear of punishment and remorse
Exploring the human soul at crucial moments in life is a task that fiction often solves. “The Horse with a Pink Mane” is a work about how difficult it was for a boy to admit his mistake.
The next night and the whole long day, when the grandmother went with the tuesk to the city, turned into a real test for Vitya. Going to bed, he decided to get up early and confess everything, but did not have time. Then the grandson, again in the company of neighboring children and constantly teased by Sashka, fearfully awaited the return of the boat on which the grandmother had sailed away. In the evening, he did not dare to return home and was glad when he managed to lie down in the pantry (Aunt Fenya brought him home already after dark and distracted Katerina Petrovna). He could not sleep for a long time, constantly thinking about his grandmother, feeling sorry for her and remembering how hard she experienced the death of her daughter.
Unexpected ending
Fortunately for the boy, his grandfather returned from the farm at night - now he had help, and it was not so scary.
Lowering his head, pushed by his grandfather, he timidly entered the hut and roared at the top of his voice.
His grandmother put him to shame for a long time, and when she finally ran out of steam and there was silence, the boy timidly raised his head and saw an unexpected picture in front of him. A horse with a pink mane “galloped” across the scraped table (V. Astafiev remembered this for the rest of his life). This episode became one of the main moral lessons for him. Grandmother's kindness and understanding helped develop such qualities as responsibility for one's actions, nobility and the ability to resist evil in any situation.
Grandmother returned from the neighbors and told me that the Levontiev children were going to the strawberry harvest, and told me to go with them.
You'll get some trouble. I will take my berries to the city, I will also sell yours and buy you gingerbread.
A horse, grandma?
Horse, horse.
Gingerbread horse! This is the dream of all village kids. He is white, white, this horse. And his mane is pink, his tail is pink, his eyes are pink, his hooves are also pink. Grandmother never allowed us to carry around with pieces of bread. Eat at the table, otherwise it will be bad. But gingerbread is a completely different matter. You can stick the gingerbread under your shirt, run around and hear the horse kicking its hooves on its bare belly. Cold with horror - lost, - grab your shirt and be convinced with happiness - here he is, here is the horse-fire!
With such a horse, I immediately appreciate how much attention! The Levontiev guys fawn over you this way and that, and let you hit the horse first, and shoot with a slingshot, so that only they will then be allowed to bite off the horse or lick it. When you give Levontyev’s Sanka or Tanka a bite, you must hold with your fingers the place where you are supposed to bite, and hold it tightly, otherwise Tanka or Sanka will bite so hard that the horse’s tail and mane will remain.
Levontiy, our neighbor, worked on the badogs together with Mishka Korshukov. Levontii harvested timber for badogi, sawed it, chopped it and delivered it to the lime plant, which was opposite the village, on the other side of the Yenisei. Once every ten days, or maybe fifteen, I don’t remember exactly, Levontius received money, and then in the next house, where there were only children and nothing else, a feast began. Some kind of restlessness, a fever, or something, gripped not only the Levontiev house, but also all the neighbors. Early in the morning, Aunt Vasenya, Uncle Levontiy’s wife, ran into grandma’s, out of breath, exhausted, with rubles clutched in her fist.
Stop, you freak! - her grandmother called out to her. - You have to count.
Aunt Vasenya obediently returned, and while grandma was counting the money, she walked with her bare feet, like a hot horse, ready to take off as soon as the reins were let go.
Grandmother counted carefully and for a long time, smoothing out each ruble. As far as I remember, my grandmother never gave Levontikha more than seven or ten rubles from her “reserve” for a rainy day, because this entire “reserve” consisted, it seems, of ten. But even with such a small amount, the alarmed Vasenya managed to shortchange by a ruble, sometimes even by a whole triple.
How do you handle money, you eyeless scarecrow! the grandmother attacked the neighbor. - A ruble for me, a ruble for another! What will happen? But Vasenya again threw up a whirlwind with her skirt and rolled away.
She did!
For a long time my grandmother reviled Levontiikha, Levontii himself, who, in her opinion, was not worth bread, but ate wine, beat herself on the thighs with her hands, spat, I sat down by the window and looked longingly at the neighbor’s house.
He stood by himself, in the open space, and nothing prevented him from looking at the white light through the somehow glazed windows - no fence, no gate, no frames, no shutters. Uncle Levontius didn’t even have a bathhouse, and they, the Levont’evites, washed in their neighbors, most often with us, after fetching water and ferrying firewood from the lime factory.
One good day, perhaps even evening, Uncle Levontius rocked a ripple and, having forgotten himself, began to sing the song of sea wanderers, heard on voyages - he was once a sailor.
Sailed along the Akiyan
Sailor from Africa
Little licker
He brought it in a box...
The family fell silent, listening to the voice of the parent, absorbing a very coherent and pitiful song. Our village, in addition to the streets, towns and alleys, was also structured and composed in song - every family, every surname had “its own”, signature song, which deeper and more fully expressed the feelings of this particular and no other relative. To this day, whenever I remember the song “The Monk Fell in Love with a Beauty,” I still see Bobrovsky Lane and all the Bobrovskys, and goosebumps spread across my skin from shock. The heart trembles and contracts from the song of the “Chess Knee”: “I was sitting at the window, my God, and the rain was dripping on me.” And how can we forget Fokine’s soul-tearing poem: “It was in vain that I broke the bars, in vain I escaped from prison, my dear, dear little wife is lying on another’s chest,” or my beloved uncle: “Once upon a time in a cozy room,” or in memory of my late mother , which is still sung: “Tell me, sister...” But where can you remember everything and everyone? The village was large, the people were vocal, daring, and the family was deep and wide.
But all our songs flew glidingly over the roof of the settler Uncle Levontius - not one of them could disturb the petrified soul of the fighting family, and here on you, Levontiev's eagles trembled, there must have been a drop or two of sailor, vagabond blood tangled in the veins of the children, and it - their resilience was washed away, and when the children were well-fed, did not fight and did not destroy anything, one could hear a friendly chorus spilling out through the broken windows and open doors:
She sits, sad
All night long
And such a song
He sings about his homeland:
"In the warm, warm south,
In my homeland,
Friends live and grow
And there are no people at all..."
Uncle Levontiy drilled the song with his bass, added rumble to it, and therefore the song, and the guys, and he himself seemed to change in appearance, became more beautiful and more united, and then the river of life in this house flowed in a calm, even bed. Aunt Vasenya, a person of unbearable sensitivity, wetted her face and chest with tears, howled into her old burnt apron, spoke out about human irresponsibility - some drunken lout grabbed a piece of shit, dragged it away from his homeland for who knows why and why? And here she is, poor thing, sitting and yearning all night long... And, jumping up, she suddenly fixed her wet eyes on her husband - but wasn’t it he, wandering around the world, who did this dirty deed?! Wasn't he the one who whistled the monkey? He's drunk and doesn't know what he's doing!
Uncle Levontius, repentantly accepting all the sins that can be pinned on a drunken person, wrinkled his brow, trying to understand: when and why did he take a monkey from Africa? And if he took away and abducted the animal, where did it subsequently go?
In the spring, the Levontiev family picked up the ground around the house a little, erected a fence from poles, twigs, and old boards. But in winter, all this gradually disappeared in the womb of the Russian stove, which lay open in the middle of the hut.
Tanka Levontievskaya used to say this, making noise with her toothless mouth, about their whole establishment:
But when the guy snoops at us, you run and don’t get stuck.
Uncle Levontius himself went out on warm evenings wearing trousers held on by a single copper button with two eagles, and a calico shirt with no buttons at all. He would sit on an ax-scarred block of wood that represented a porch, smoke, look, and if my grandmother reproached him through the window for idleness, listing the work that, in her opinion, he should have done in the house and around the house, Uncle Levontius scratched himself complacently.
I, Petrovna, love freedom! - and moved his hand around himself:
Fine! Like the sea! Nothing depresses the eyes!
Uncle Levontius loved the sea, and I loved it. The main goal of my life was to break into Levontius’s house after his payday, listen to the song about the little monkey and, if necessary, join in with the mighty choir. It's not that easy to sneak out. Grandma knows all my habits in advance.
There’s no point in peeking out,” she thundered. “There’s no point in eating these proletarians, they themselves have a louse on a lasso in their pocket.”
But if I managed to sneak out of the house and get to the Levontievskys, that’s it, here I was surrounded by rare attention, here I was completely happy.
Get out of here! - the drunken Uncle Levontius sternly ordered one of his boys. And while one of them reluctantly crawled out from behind the table, he explained to the children his strict action in an already limp voice: “He is an orphan, and you are still with your parents!” - And, looking at me pitifully, he roared: - Do you even remember your mother? I nodded affirmatively. Uncle Levontius sadly leaned on his arm, rubbing tears down his face with his fist, remembering; - Badogs have been injecting her for one year each! - And completely bursting into tears: - Whenever you come... night-midnight... lost... your lost head, Levontius, will say and... make you hangover...
Aunt Vasenya, Uncle Levontiy’s children and I, together with them, burst into roars, and it became so pitiful in the hut, and such kindness swept over the people that everything, everything spilled out and fell out on the table and everyone vying with each other treated me and ate themselves through the force, then they started singing, and the tears flowed like a river, and after that I dreamed about the miserable monkey for a long time.
Late in the evening or completely at night, Uncle Levontius asked the same question: “What is life?!” After which I grabbed gingerbread cookies, sweets, the Levontiev children also grabbed whatever they could get their hands on and ran away in all directions.
Vasenya made the last move, and my grandmother greeted her until the morning. Levontii broke the remaining glass in the windows, cursed, thundered, and cried.
The next morning, he used shards of glass on the windows, repaired the benches and table, and, full of darkness and remorse, went to work. Aunt Vasenya, after three or four days, again went to the neighbors and no longer threw up a whirlwind with her skirt, again borrowing money, flour, potatoes - whatever was necessary - until she was paid.
It was with Uncle Levontius’s eagles that I set off to hunt for strawberries in order to earn gingerbread with my labor. The children carried glasses with broken edges, old ones, half torn for kindling, birch bark tueskas, krinkas tied around the neck with twine, some of them had ladles without handles. The boys played freely, fought, threw dishes at each other, tripped each other, started fighting twice, cried, teased. On the way, they dropped into someone's garden, and since nothing was ripe there yet, they piled on a bunch of onions, ate until they salivated green, and threw away the rest. They left a few feathers for the whistles. They squealed in their bitten feathers, danced, we walked merrily to the music, and we soon came to a rocky ridge. Then everyone stopped playing around, scattered through the forest and began to take strawberries, just ripening, white-sided, rare and therefore especially joyful and expensive.
I took it diligently and soon covered the bottom of a neat little glass by two or three.
Grandmother said: the main thing in berries is to close the bottom of the vessel. I breathed a sigh of relief and began to pick strawberries faster, and I found more and more of them higher up the ridge.
The Levontiev children walked quietly at first. Only the lid, tied to the copper teapot, jingled. The older boy had this kettle, and he rattled it so that we could hear that the elder was here, nearby, and we had nothing and no need to be afraid.
Suddenly the lid of the kettle rattled nervously and a fuss was heard.
Eat, right? Eat, right? What about home? What about home? - the elder asked and gave someone a slap after each question.
A-ha-ga-gaaa! - Tanka sang. - Shanka was wandering around, no big deal...
Sanka got it too. He got angry, threw the vessel and fell into the grass. The eldest took and took the berries and began to think: he is trying for the house, and those parasites over there are eating the berries or even lying on the grass. The elder jumped up and kicked Sanka again. Sanka howled and rushed at the elder. The kettle rang and berries splashed out. The heroic brothers fight, roll on the ground, and crush all the strawberries.
After the fight, the elder man gave up too. He began to collect the spilled, crushed berries - and put them in his mouth, in his mouth.
That means you can, but that means I can’t! You can, but that means I can’t? - he asked ominously until he had eaten everything he had managed to collect.
Soon the brothers somehow quietly made peace, stopped calling them names and decided to go down to the Fokinskaya River and splash around.
I also wanted to go to the river, I would also like to splash around, but I did not dare to leave the ridge because I had not yet filled the vessel full.
Grandma Petrovna was scared! Oh you! - Sanka grimaced and called me a nasty word. He knew a lot of such words. I also knew, I learned to say them from the Levontiev guys, but I was afraid, maybe embarrassed to use obscenity and timidly declared:
But my grandmother will buy me a gingerbread horse!
Maybe a mare? - Sanka grinned, spat at his feet and immediately realized something; - Tell me better - you’re afraid of her and you’re also greedy!
Do you want to eat all the berries? - I said this and immediately repented, I realized that I had fallen for the bait. Scratched, with bumps on his head from fights and various other reasons, with pimples on his arms and legs, with red, bloody eyes, Sanka was more harmful and angrier than all the Levontiev boys.
Weak! - he said.
I'm weak! - I swaggered, looking sideways into the tuesok. There were berries already above the middle. - Am I weak?! - I repeated in a fading voice and, so as not to give up, not to be afraid, not to disgrace myself, I decisively shook the berries onto the grass: - Here! Eat with me!
The Levontiev horde fell, the berries instantly disappeared. I only got a few tiny, bent berries with greenery. It's a pity for the berries. Sad. There is longing in the heart - it anticipates a meeting with grandmother, a report and a reckoning. But I assumed despair, gave up on everything - now it doesn’t matter. I rushed along with the Levontiev children down the mountain, to the river, and boasted:
I’ll steal grandma’s kalach!
The guys encouraged me to act, they say, and bring more than one roll, grab a shaneg or a pie - nothing will be superfluous.
We ran along a shallow river, splashed with cold water, overturned slabs and caught the sculpin with our hands. Sanka grabbed this disgusting-looking fish, compared it to a shame, and we tore the pika to pieces on the shore for its ugly appearance. Then they fired stones at the flying birds, knocking out the white-bellied one. We soldered the swallow with water, but it bled into the river, could not swallow the water and died, dropping its head. We buried a little white, flower-like bird on the shore, in the pebbles, and soon forgot about it, because we got busy with an exciting, creepy business: we ran into the mouth of a cold cave, where evil spirits lived (they knew this for certain in the village). Sanka ran the farthest into the cave - even the evil spirits did not take him!
This is even more! - Sanka boasted, returning from the cave. - I would run further, I would run into the block, but I’m barefoot, there are snakes dying there.
Zhmeev?! - Tanka retreated from the mouth of the cave and, just in case, pulled up her falling panties.
I saw the brownie and the brownie,” Sanka continued to tell.
Clapper! Brownies live in the attic and under the stove! - the eldest cut off Sanka.
Sanka was confused, but immediately challenged the elder:
What kind of brownie is that? Home. And here is the cave one. He's all covered in moss, gray and trembling - he's cold. And the housekeeper, for better or worse, looks pitifully and groans. You can’t lure me, just come and grab me and eat me up. I hit her in the eye with a rock!..
Maybe Sanka was lying about the brownies, but it was still scary to listen to, it seemed like someone was moaning and groaning very close in the cave. Tanka was the first to pull away from the bad spot, followed by her and the rest of the guys fell down the mountain. Sanka whistled and yelled stupidly, giving us heat.
We spent the whole day so interesting and fun, and I completely forgot about the berries, but it was time to return home. We sorted out the dishes hidden under the tree.
Katerina Petrovna will ask you! He'll ask! - Sanka neighed. We ate the berries! Ha ha! They ate it on purpose! Ha ha! We're fine! Ha ha! And you are ho-ho!..
I myself knew that to them, the Levontievskys, “ha-ha!”, and to me, “ho-ho!” My grandmother, Katerina Petrovna, is not Aunt Vasenya; you can’t get rid of her with lies, tears and various excuses.
I quietly trudged after the Levontiev boys out of the forest. They ran ahead of me in a crowd, pushing a ladle without a handle along the road. The ladle clanked, bounced on the stones, and the remains of the enamel bounced off it.
You know what? - After talking with the brothers, Sanka returned to me. - You push the herbs into the bowl, add berries on top - and you're done! Oh, my child! - Sanka began to accurately imitate my grandmother. - I helped you, orphan, I helped you. And the demon Sanka winked at me and rushed further, down the ridge, home.
And I stayed.
The voices of the children under the ridge, behind the vegetable gardens, died down, it became eerie. True, you can hear the village here, but still there is a taiga, a cave not far away, in it there is a housewife and a brownie, and snakes are swarming with them. I sighed, sighed, almost cried, but I had to listen to the forest, the grass, and whether the brownies were creeping out of the cave. There's no time to whine here. Keep your ears open here. I tore up a handful of grass and looked around. I stuffed the tuesk tightly with grass, on a bull so that I could see the house closer to the light, I collected several handfuls of berries, laid them on the grass - it turned out to be strawberries even with a shock.
You are my child! - my grandmother began to cry when I, frozen with fear, handed her the vessel. - God help you, God help you! I’ll buy you a gingerbread, the biggest one. And I won’t pour your berries into mine, I’ll take them right away in this little bag...
It relieved a little.
I thought that now my grandmother would discover my fraud, give me what I was due, and was already prepared for punishment for the crime I had committed. But it worked out. Everything worked out fine. Grandmother took the tuesok to the basement, praised me again, gave me something to eat, and I thought that I had nothing to be afraid of yet and life was not so bad.
I ate, went outside to play, and there I felt the urge to tell Sanka about everything.
And I’ll tell Petrovna! And I'll tell you!..
No need, Sanka!
Bring the roll, then I won’t tell you.
I secretly snuck into the pantry, took the kalach out of the chest and brought it to Sanka, under my shirt. Then he brought another, then another, until Sanka got drunk.
“I fooled my grandmother. Kalachi stole! What will happen? - I was tormented at night, tossing and turning on the bed. Sleep did not take me, the “Andelsky” peace did not descend on my life, on my Varna soul, although my grandmother, having crossed herself at night, wished me not just any, but the most “Andelsky”, quiet sleep.
Why are you messing around there? - Grandma asked hoarsely from the darkness. - Probably wandered in the river again? Are your legs hurting again?
No, I responded. - I had a dream...
Sleep with God! Sleep, don't be afraid. Life is worse than dreams, father...
“What if you get out of bed, crawl under the blanket with your grandmother and tell everything?”
I listened. The labored breathing of an old man could be heard from below. It's a pity to wake up, grandma is tired. She has to get up early. No, it’s better that I don’t sleep until the morning, I’ll watch over my grandmother, I’ll tell about everything: about the little girls, and about the housewife and the brownie, and about the rolls, and about everything, about everything...
This decision made me feel better, and I didn’t notice how my eyes closed. Sanka’s unwashed face appeared, then the forest, grass, strawberries flashed, she covered Sanka, and everything that I saw during the day.
On the floors there was a smell of pine forest, a cold mysterious cave, the river gurgled at our very feet and fell silent...
Grandfather was at the village, about five kilometers from the village, at the mouth of the Mana River. There we have sown a strip of rye, a strip of oats and buckwheat, and a large paddock of potatoes. Talk about collective farms was just beginning at that time, and our villagers were still living alone. I loved visiting my grandfather’s farm. It’s calm there, in detail, no oppression or supervision, run around even until the night. Grandfather never made any noise at anyone, he worked leisurely, but very steadily and pliantly.
Oh, if only the settlement were closer! I would have left, hidden. But five kilometers was an insurmountable distance for me then. And Alyoshka is not there to go with him. Recently, Aunt Augusta came and took Alyoshka with her to the forest plot, where she went to work.
I wandered around, wandered around the empty hut and could not think of anything else but to go to the Levontievskys.
Petrovna has sailed away! - Sanka grinned and snorted saliva into the hole between his front teeth. He could fit another tooth in this hole, and we were crazy about this Sanka hole. How he drooled at her!
Sanka was getting ready to go fishing and was unraveling the fishing line. His little brothers and sisters jostled around, wandered around the benches, crawled, hobbled on bowed legs.
Sanka gave slaps left and right - the little ones got under his arm and tangled the fishing line.
“There’s no hook,” he muttered angrily, “he must have swallowed something.”
Nishta-ak! - Sanka reassured me. - They'll digest it. You have a lot of hooks, give me one. I'll take you with me.
I rushed home, grabbed the fishing rods, put some bread in my pocket, and we went to the stone bullheads, behind the cattle, which went straight down into the Yenisei behind the log.
There was no older house. His father took him with him “to the badogi”, and Sanka commanded recklessly. Since he was the eldest today and felt great responsibility, he did not get cocky in vain and, moreover, pacified the “people” if they started a fight.
Sanka set up fishing rods near the gobies, baited worms, pecked at them and threw the fishing line “by hand” so that it would cast further - everyone knows: the further and deeper, the more fish and the larger it is.
Sha! - Sanka widened his eyes, and we obediently froze. It didn't bite for a long time. We got tired of waiting, started pushing, giggling, teasing. Sanka endured, endured, and drove us out to look for sorrel, coastal garlic, wild radish, otherwise, they say, he cannot vouch for himself, otherwise he will screw us all. The Levontief boys knew how to get their fill from the earth, ate everything that God sent them, did not disdain anything, and that is why they were red-faced, strong, and dexterous, especially at the table.
Without us, Sanka really got stuck. While we were collecting greens suitable for food, he pulled out two ruffs, a gudgeon and a white-eyed spruce. They lit a fire on the shore. Sanka put the fish on sticks and prepared them to fry; the children surrounded the fire and did not take their eyes off the frying. “Sa-an! - they soon whined. - It’s already cooked! Sa-an!..”
W-well, breakthrough! W-well, breakthrough! Can’t you see that the ruff is gaping with its gills? Just want to gobble it up quickly. Well, how does your stomach feel, did you have diarrhea?..
Vitka Katerinin has diarrhea. We don't have it.
What did I say?!
The fighting eagles fell silent. With Sanka it’s not painful to separate the turuses, he just stumbles into something. The little ones endure, they toss their noses at each other; They strive to make the fire hotter. However, patience does not last long.
Well, Sa-an, there’s coal right there...
Choke!
The guys grabbed sticks with fried fish, tore them on the fly, and on the fly, groaning from the hotness, they ate them almost raw, without salt or bread, ate them and looked around in bewilderment: already?! We waited so long, endured so much, and only licked our lips. The kids also quietly threshed my bread and got busy doing whatever they could: they pulled the banks out of their holes, “flailed” stone tiles on the water, tried to swim, but the water was still cold, and quickly ran out of the river to warm up by the fire. We warmed up and fell into the still low grass, so as not to see Sanka frying fish, now for himself, now it’s his turn, and here, don’t ask, it’s a grave. He won’t, because he loves to eat himself more than anyone else.
It was a clear summer day. It was hot from above. Near the cattle, speckled cuckoo shoes were leaning toward the ground. Blue bells dangled from side to side on long, crisp stems, and probably only the bees heard them ring. Near the anthill, striped gramophone flowers lay on the warmed ground, and bumblebees poked their heads into their blue horns. They froze for a long time, sticking out their shaggy bottoms; they must have been listening to the music. The birch leaves glittered, the aspen tree grew dim from the heat, and the pine trees along the ridges were covered in blue smoke. The sun shimmered over the Yenisei. Through this flickering, the red vents of the lime kilns blazing on the other side of the river were barely visible. The shadows of the rocks lay motionless on the water, and the light tore them apart and tore them to shreds, like old rags. The railway bridge in the city, visible from our village in clear weather, swayed with thin lace, and if you looked at it for a long time, the lace became thinner and torn.
From there, from behind the bridge, the grandmother should swim. What will happen! And why did I do this? Why did you listen to the Levontievskys? It was so good to live. Walk, run, play and don't think about anything. Now what? There is nothing to hope for now. Unless for some unexpected deliverance. Maybe the boat will capsize and grandma will drown? No, it’s better not to tip over. Mom drowned. What's good? I'm an orphan now. Unhappy man. And there is no one to feel sorry for me. Levontii only feels sorry for him when he’s drunk, and even his grandfather - and that’s all, the grandmother just screams, no, no, but she’ll give in - she won’t last long. The main thing is that there is no grandfather. Grandfather is in charge. He wouldn't hurt me. The grandmother shouts at him: “Potatchik! I’ve been spoiling mine all my life, now this!..” “Grandfather, you’re a grandfather, if only you’d come to the bathhouse to wash, if only you’d just come and take me with you!”
Why are you whining? - Sanka leaned towards me with a concerned look.
Nishta-ak! - Sanka consoled me. - Don't go home, that's all! Bury yourself in the hay and hide. Petrovna saw your mother’s eye slightly open when she was buried. He is afraid that you will drown too. Here she starts to cry: “My child is drowning, he threw me off, little orphan,” and then you’ll get out!..
I won't do that! - I protested. - And I won’t listen to you!..
Well, the leshak is with you! They are trying to take care of you. In! Got it! You're hooked!
I fell from the ravine, alarming the shorebirds in the holes, and pulled the fishing rod. I caught a perch. Then the ruff. The fish approached and the bite began. We baited worms and cast them.
Don't step over the rod! - Sanka superstitiously yelled at the kids, completely crazy with delight, and dragged and dragged the fish. The boys put them on a willow rod, lowered them into the water and shouted at each other: “Who was told not to cross the line?!”
Suddenly, behind the nearest stone bullock, forged poles clicked on the bottom, and a boat appeared from behind the cape. Three men threw poles out of the water at once. Glittering with polished tips, the poles fell into the water at once, and the boat, burying its edges in the river, rushed forward, throwing waves to the sides. A swing of the poles, an exchange of arms, a push - the boat jumped up with its nose and moved forward quickly. She's closer, closer. Now the stern one moved his pole, and the boat nodded away from our fishing rods. And then I saw another person sitting on the gazebo. A half shawl is on the head, its ends are passed under the arms and crosswise tied on the back. Under the short shawl is a burgundy-dyed jacket. This jacket was taken out of the chest on major holidays and on the occasion of a trip to the city.
I rushed from the fishing rods to the hole, jumped, grabbed the grass, and stuck my big toe into the hole. A shorebird flew up, hit me on the head, I was frightened and fell onto lumps of clay, jumped up and ran along the shore, away from the boat.
Where are you going? Stop! Stop, I say! - the grandmother shouted.
I ran at full speed.
I-a-avishsha, I-a-avishsha home, swindler!
The men turned up the heat.
Hold him! - they shouted from the boat, and I didn’t notice how I ended up at the upper end of the village, where the shortness of breath, which always tormented me, disappeared! I rested for a long time and soon discovered that evening was approaching - willy-nilly I had to return home. But I didn’t want to go home and, just in case, I went to my cousin Kesha, Uncle Vanya’s son, who lived here, on the upper edge of the village.
I'm lucky. They were playing lapta near Uncle Vanya's house. I got involved in the game and ran until dark. Aunt Fenya, Keshka’s mother, appeared and asked me:
Why don't you go home? Grandma will lose you.
“Nope,” I answered as nonchalantly as possible. - She sailed to the city. Maybe he spends the night there.
Aunt Fenya offered me something to eat, and I gladly ground everything she gave me, thin-necked Kesha drank boiled milk, and his mother said to him reproachfully:
Everything is milky and milky. Look how the boy eats, that’s why he’s as strong as a boletus mushroom. “I saw Aunt Fenina’s praise, and I began to quietly hope that she would leave me to spend the night.
But Aunt Fenya asked me questions, asked me about everything, after which she took me by the hand and took me home.
There was no longer any light in our hut. Aunt Fenya knocked on the window. “Not locked!” - Grandma shouted. We entered a dark and quiet house, where the only sounds we could hear were the multi-winged tapping of butterflies and the buzzing of flies beating against the glass.
Aunt Fenya pushed me into the hallway and pushed me into the storage room attached to the hallway. There was a bed made of rugs and an old saddle in the heads - in case someone got sick of the heat during the day and wanted to rest in the cold.
I buried myself in the rug, became silent, listening.
Aunt Fenya and grandmother were talking about something in the hut, but it was impossible to make out what. The closet smelled of bran, dust and dry grass stuck in all the cracks and under the ceiling. This grass kept clicking and crackling. It was sad in the pantry. The darkness was thick, rough, filled with smells and secret life. Under the floor, a mouse was scratching alone and timidly, starving because of the cat. And everyone crackled dry herbs and flowers under the ceiling, opened boxes, scattered seeds into the darkness, two or three got entangled in my stripes, but I didn’t pull them out, afraid to move.
Silence, coolness and night life established themselves in the village. The dogs, killed by the daytime heat, came to their senses, crawled out from under the canopy, porches, and out of the kennels and tried their voices. Near the bridge that spans the Fokino River, an accordion was playing. Young people gather on the bridge, dance, sing, and scare the late kids and shy girls.
Uncle Levontius was hastily chopping wood. The owner must have brought something for the brew. Did someone's Levontiev poles get "gotten off"? Most likely ours. They have time to hunt for firewood at such a time...
Aunt Fenya left and closed the door tightly. The cat sneaked stealthily towards the porch. The mouse died down under the floor. It became completely dark and lonely. The floorboards did not creak in the hut, and the grandmother did not walk. Tired. Not a short way to the city! Eighteen miles, and with a knapsack. It seemed to me that if I felt sorry for my grandmother and thought well of her, she would guess about it and forgive me everything. He will come and forgive. Well, it will click once, so what a problem! For such a thing, you can do it more than once...
However, the grandmother did not come. I felt cold. I curled up and breathed on my chest, thinking about my grandmother and all the pitiful things.
When my mother drowned, my grandmother did not leave the shore; they could neither carry her away nor persuade her with the whole world. She kept calling and calling her mother, throwing crumbs of bread, silver pieces, and shreds into the river, tearing hair out of her head, tying it around her finger and letting it go with the flow, hoping to appease the river and appease the Lord.
Only on the sixth day was the grandmother, her body in disarray, almost dragged home. She, as if drunk, muttered something deliriously, her hands and head almost reached the ground, the hair on her head unraveled, hung over her face, clung to everything and remained in tatters on the weeds. on poles and on rafts.
The grandmother fell in the middle of the hut on the bare floor, with her arms outstretched, and so she slept, naked, in scrambled supports, as if she was floating somewhere, without making a rustle or sound, and could not swim. In the house they spoke in whispers, walked on tiptoe, fearfully leaned over their grandmother, thinking that she had died. But from the depths of the grandmother’s insides, through clenched teeth, there came a continuous groan, as if something or someone there, in the grandmother, was being crushed, and it was suffering from unrelenting, burning pain.
The grandmother woke up from sleep immediately, looked around as if after fainting, and began to pick up her hair, braid it, holding a rag for tying the braid in her teeth. She didn’t say it in a matter-of-fact and simple manner, but instead breathed out of herself: “No, don’t call me on Lidenka, don’t call me. The river does not give it up. Close somewhere, very close, but doesn’t give away and doesn’t show...”
And mom was close. She was pulled under the rafting boom against Vassa Vakhrameevna’s hut, her scythe caught on the boom’s sling and tossed and dangled there until her hair became unstuck and the braid was torn off. So they suffered: mother in the water, grandmother on the shore, they suffered terrible torment for someone unknown whose grave sins...
My grandmother found out and told me when I was growing up that eight desperate Ovsyansk women were crammed into a small dugout boat and one man at the stern - our Kolcha Jr. The women were all bargaining, mostly with berries - strawberries, and when the boat capsized, a bright red stripe rushed across the water, and the raftsmen from the boat, who were saving people, shouted: “Blood! Blood! It smashed someone against a boom...” But strawberries floated down the river. Mom also had a strawberry cup, and like a scarlet stream it merged with the red stripe. Maybe my mother’s blood from hitting her head on the boom was there, flowing and swirling along with the strawberries in the water, but who will know, who will distinguish red from red in panic, in the bustle and screams?
I woke up from a ray of sunlight filtering through the dim window of the pantry and poking into my eyes. Dust flickered in the beam like a midge. From somewhere it was applied by borrowing, arable land. I looked around, and my heart jumped joyfully: my grandfather’s old sheepskin coat was thrown over me. Grandfather arrived at night. Beauty! In the kitchen, grandma was telling someone in detail:
-...Cultural lady, in a hat. “I’ll buy all these berries.” Please, I beg your mercy. The berries, I say, were picked by the poor orphan...
Then I fell through the ground along with my grandmother and could no longer and did not want to understand what she was saying next, because I covered myself with a sheepskin coat and huddled in it in order to die as soon as possible. But it became hot, deaf, I couldn’t breathe, and I opened up.
He always spoiled his own! - the grandmother thundered. - Now this! And he's already cheating! What will come of it later? Zhigan will be there! Eternal prisoner! I’ll take Levontiev’s ones, stain them, and I’ll take them into circulation! This is their certificate!..
The grandfather went into the yard, out of harm’s way, baling something under the canopy. Grandma can’t be alone for long, she needs to tell someone about the incident or smash the swindler, and therefore me, to smithereens, and she quietly walked along the hallway and slightly opened the door to the pantry. I barely had time to close my eyes tightly.
You're not sleeping, you're not sleeping! I see everything!
But I didn't give up. Aunt Avdotya ran into the house and asked how “theta” swam to the city. The grandmother said that she “sailed, thank you, Lord, and sold the berries,” and immediately began to narrate:
Mine! Little one! What have you done!.. Listen, listen, girl!
That morning many people came to us, and my grandmother detained everyone to say: “And mine! Little one!” And this did not in the least prevent her from doing household chores - she rushed back and forth, milked the cow, drove her out to the shepherd, shook out the rugs, did her various chores, and every time she ran past the pantry doors, she did not forget to remind:
You're not sleeping, you're not sleeping! I see everything!
Grandfather turned into the closet, pulled the leather reins out from under me and winked:
“It’s okay, they say, be patient and don’t be shy!”, and he even patted me on the head. I sniffled and the tears that had been accumulating for so long, like berries, large strawberries, stained them, poured out of my eyes, and there was no way for them to stop them.
Well, what are you, what are you? - Grandfather reassured me, wiping away the tears from my face with his big hand. - Why are you lying there hungry? Ask for some help... Go, go,” my grandfather gently pushed me in the back.
Holding my pants with one hand and pressing the other to my eyes with my elbow, I stepped into the hut and began:
I’m more... I’m more... I’m more... - and couldn’t say anything further.
Okay, wash your face and sit down to chat! - still irreconcilably, but without a thunderstorm, without thunder, my grandmother cut me off. I obediently washed my face, rubbed my face with a damp rag for a long time, and remembered that lazy people, according to my grandmother, always wipe themselves with a damp one, because they wake up later than everyone else. I had to move to the table, sit down, look at people. Oh my God! Yes, I wish I could cheat at least once again! Yes I...
Shaking from the still lingering sobs, I clung to the table. Grandfather was busy in the kitchen, wrapping an old rope around his hand, which I realized was completely unnecessary to him, took something out of the floor, took an ax out from under the chicken coop, and tried the edge with his finger. He looks for and finds a solution, so as not to leave his miserable grandson alone with the “general” - that’s what he calls his grandmother in his heart or in mockery. Feeling the invisible but reliable support of my grandfather, I took the crust from the table and began to eat it dry. Grandma poured out the milk in one fell swoop, placed the bowl in front of me with a knock, and put her hands on her hips:
My belly hurts, I'm staring at the edges! Ash is so humble! Ash is so quiet! And he won’t ask for milk!..
Grandfather winked at me - be patient. I knew even without him: God forbid I should contradict my grandmother now, doing something not at her discretion. She must unwind and must express everything that has accumulated in her heart, she must release her soul and calm it down. And my grandmother put me to shame! And she denounced it! Only now, having fully understood into what a bottomless abyss trickery had plunged me and what “crooked path” it would lead me to, if I had taken up the ball game so early, if I had followed the dashing people into robbery, I began to roar, not just repenting, but afraid that he was lost, that there was no forgiveness, no return...
Even my grandfather could not stand my grandmother’s speeches and my complete repentance. Left. He left, disappeared, puffing on a cigarette, saying, I can’t help or cope with this, God help you, granddaughter...
Grandma was tired, exhausted, and maybe she sensed that she was trashing me too much.
It was calm in the hut, but it was still hard. Not knowing what to do, how to continue living, I smoothed out the patch on my pants and pulled out the threads from it. And when he raised his head, he saw in front of him...
I closed my eyes and opened my eyes again. He closed his eyes again and opened them again. A white horse with a pink mane galloped along the scraped kitchen table, as if across a vast land with arable fields, meadows and roads, on pink hooves.
Take it, take it, what are you looking at? You look, but even when you fool your grandmother...
How many years have passed since then! How many events have passed? My grandfather is no longer alive, my grandmother is no longer alive, and my life is coming to an end, but I still can’t forget my grandmother’s gingerbread - that marvelous horse with a pink mane.
Horse with a pink mane
Grandmother returned from the neighbors and told me that the Levontiev children were going to the strawberry harvest, and told me to go with them.
You'll get some trouble. I will take my berries to the city, I will also sell yours and buy you gingerbread.
A horse, grandma?
Horse, horse.
Gingerbread horse! This is the dream of all village kids. He is white, white, this horse. And his mane is pink, his tail is pink, his eyes are pink, his hooves are also pink.
Grandmother never allowed us to carry around with pieces of bread. Eat at the table, otherwise it will be bad. But gingerbread is a completely different matter. You can stick the gingerbread under your shirt, run around and hear the horse kicking its hooves on its bare belly. Cold with horror - lost, - grab your shirt and be convinced with happiness - here he is, here is the horse-fire!
With such a horse, I immediately appreciate how much attention! The Levontiev guys fawn over you this way and that, and let you hit the horse first, and shoot with a slingshot, so that only they will then be allowed to bite off the horse or lick it. When you give Levontyev’s Sanka or Tanka a bite, you must hold with your fingers the place where you are supposed to bite, and hold it tightly, otherwise Tanka or Sanka will bite so hard that the horse’s tail and mane will remain.
Levontiy, our neighbor, worked on the badogs together with Mishka Korshukov. Levontii harvested timber for badogi, sawed it, chopped it and delivered it to the lime plant, which was opposite the village, on the other side of the Yenisei. Once every ten days, or maybe fifteen - I don’t remember exactly - Levontius received money, and then in the next house, where there were only children and nothing else, a feast began.
Some kind of restlessness, a fever, or something, gripped not only the Levontiev house, but also all the neighbors. Early in the morning, Aunt Vasenya, Uncle Levontiy’s wife, ran into grandma’s, out of breath, exhausted, with rubles clutched in her fist.
Stop, you freak! - her grandmother called out to her. - You have to count.
Aunt Vasenya obediently returned, and while grandma was counting the money, she walked with her bare feet, like a hot horse, ready to take off as soon as the reins were let go.
Grandmother counted carefully and for a long time, smoothing out each ruble. As far as I remember, my grandmother never gave Levontikha more than seven or ten rubles from her “reserve” for a rainy day, because this entire “reserve” consisted, it seems, of ten. But even with such a small amount, the alarmed Vasenya managed to shortchange by a ruble, sometimes even by a whole triple.
How do you handle money, you eyeless scarecrow! - the grandmother attacked the neighbor. - A ruble for me, a ruble for another! What will happen?
But Vasenya again threw up a whirlwind with her skirt and rolled away.
She did!
For a long time my grandmother reviled Levontiikha, Levontii himself, who, in her opinion, was not worth bread, but ate wine, beat herself on the thighs with her hands, spat, I sat down by the window and looked longingly at the neighbor’s house.
He stood by himself, in the open space, and nothing prevented him from looking at the white light through the somehow glazed windows - no fence, no gate, no frames, no shutters. Uncle Levontius didn’t even have a bathhouse, and they, the Levont’evites, washed in their neighbors, most often with us, after fetching water and ferrying firewood from the lime factory.
One good day, perhaps even evening, Uncle Levontius rocked a ripple and, having forgotten himself, began to sing the song of sea wanderers, heard on voyages - he was once a sailor.
Sailed along the Akiyan
Sailor from Africa
Little licker
He brought it in a box...
The family fell silent, listening to the voice of the parent, absorbing a very coherent and pitiful song. Our village, in addition to the streets, towns and alleys, was also structured and composed in song - every family, every surname had “its own”, signature song, which deeper and more fully expressed the feelings of this particular and no other relative. To this day, whenever I remember the song “The Monk Fell in Love with a Beauty,” I still see Bobrovsky Lane and all the Bobrovskys, and goosebumps spread across my skin from shock. The heart trembles and contracts from the song of the “Chess Knee”: “I was sitting at the window, my God, and the rain was dripping on me.” And how can we forget Fokine’s soul-tearing poem: “It was in vain that I broke the bars, in vain I escaped from prison, my dear, dear little wife is lying on another’s chest,” or my beloved uncle: “Once upon a time in a cozy room,” or in memory of my late mother , which is still sung: “Tell me, sister...” But where can you remember everything and everyone? The village was large, the people were vocal, daring, and the family was deep and wide.
But all our songs flew glidingly over the roof of the settler Uncle Levontius - not one of them could disturb the petrified soul of the fighting family, and here on you, Levontiev's eagles trembled, there must have been a drop or two of sailor, vagabond blood tangled in the veins of the children, and it - their resilience was washed away, and when the children were well-fed, did not fight and did not destroy anything, one could hear a friendly chorus spilling out through the broken windows and open doors:
She sits, sad
All night long
And such a song
He sings about his homeland:
"In the warm, warm south,
In my homeland,
Friends live and grow
And there are no people at all..."
Uncle Levontiy drilled the song with his bass, added rumble to it, and therefore the song, and the guys, and he himself seemed to change in appearance, became more beautiful and more united, and then the river of life in this house flowed in a calm, even bed. Aunt Vasenya, a person of unbearable sensitivity, wetted her face and chest with tears, howled into her old burnt apron, spoke out about human irresponsibility - some drunken lout grabbed a piece of shit and stole it from his homeland for who knows why and why? And here she is, poor thing, sitting and yearning all night long... And, jumping up, she suddenly fixed her wet eyes on her husband - but wasn’t it he, wandering around the world, who did this dirty deed?! Wasn't he the one who whistled the monkey? He's drunk and doesn't know what he's doing!
Uncle Levontius, repentantly accepting all the sins that can be pinned on a drunken person, wrinkled his brow, trying to understand: when and why did he take a monkey from Africa? And if he took away and abducted the animal, where did it subsequently go?
In the spring, the Levontiev family picked up the ground around the house a little, erected a fence from poles, twigs, and old boards. But in winter, all this gradually disappeared in the womb of the Russian stove, which lay open in the middle of the hut.
Tanka Levontievskaya used to say this, making noise with her toothless mouth, about their whole establishment:
But when the guy snoops at us, you run and don’t get stuck.
Uncle Levontius himself went out on warm evenings wearing trousers held on by a single copper button with two eagles, and a calico shirt with no buttons at all. He would sit on an ax-scarred block of wood that represented a porch, smoke, look, and if my grandmother reproached him through the window for idleness, listing the work that, in her opinion, he should have done in the house and around the house, Uncle Levontius scratched himself complacently.
I, Petrovna, love freedom! - and moved his hand around himself: - Good! Like the sea! Nothing depresses the eyes!
Uncle Levontius loved the sea, and I loved it. The main goal of my life was to break into Levontius’s house after his payday, listen to the song about the little monkey and, if necessary, join in with the mighty choir. It's not that easy to sneak out. Grandma knows all my habits in advance.
There’s no point in peeking out,” she thundered. “There’s no point in eating these proletarians, they themselves have a louse on a lasso in their pocket.”
But if I managed to sneak out of the house and get to the Levontievskys, that’s it, here I was surrounded by rare attention, here I was completely happy.
Get out of here! - the drunken Uncle Levontius sternly ordered one of his boys. And while one of them reluctantly crawled out from behind the table, he explained to the children his strict action in an already limp voice: “He is an orphan, and you are still with your parents!” - And, looking at me pitifully, he roared: - Do you even remember your mother? - I nodded affirmatively. Uncle Levontius sadly leaned on his arm, rubbing tears down his face with his fist, remembering; - Badogs have been injecting her for one year each! - And completely bursting into tears: - Whenever you come... night-midnight... lost... your lost head, Levontius, will say and... make you hangover...
Aunt Vasenya, Uncle Levontius’s children and I, together with them, burst into roars, and it became so pitiful in the hut, and such kindness overwhelmed the people that everything, everything spilled out and fell out on the table and everyone vying with each other treated me. and they themselves ate with all their might, then they began to sing, and tears flowed like a river, and after that I dreamed about the miserable monkey for a long time.
Late in the evening or completely at night, Uncle Levontius asked the same question: “What is life?!” After which I grabbed gingerbread cookies, sweets, the Levontiev children also grabbed whatever they could get their hands on and ran away in all directions. Vasenya made the last move, and my grandmother greeted her until the morning. Levontii broke the remaining glass in the windows, cursed, thundered, and cried.
The next morning, he used shards of glass on the windows, repaired the benches and table, and, full of darkness and remorse, went to work. Aunt Vasenya, after three or four days, again went to the neighbors and no longer threw up a whirlwind with her skirt, again borrowing money, flour, potatoes - whatever was necessary - until she was paid.
It was with Uncle Levontius’s eagles that I set off to hunt for strawberries in order to earn gingerbread with my labor. The children carried glasses with broken edges, old ones, half torn for kindling, birch bark tueskas, krinkas tied around the neck with twine, some of them had ladles without handles. The boys played freely, fought, threw dishes at each other, tripped each other, started fighting twice, cried, teased. On the way, they dropped into someone's garden, and since nothing was ripe there yet, they piled on a bunch of onions, ate until they salivated green, and threw away the rest. They left a few feathers for the whistles. They squealed in their bitten feathers, danced, we walked merrily to the music, and we soon came to a rocky ridge. Then everyone stopped playing around, scattered through the forest and began to take strawberries, just ripening, white-sided, rare and therefore especially joyful and expensive.
I took it diligently and soon covered the bottom of a neat little glass by two or three. Grandmother said: the main thing in berries is to close the bottom of the vessel. I breathed a sigh of relief and began to pick strawberries faster, and I found more and more of them higher up the ridge.
The Levontiev children walked quietly at first. Only the lid, tied to the copper teapot, jingled. The older boy had this kettle, and he rattled it so that we could hear that the elder was here, nearby, and we had nothing and no need to be afraid.
Suddenly the lid of the kettle rattled nervously and a fuss was heard.
Eat, right? Eat, right? What about home? What about home? - the elder asked and gave someone a slap after each question.
A-ha-ga-gaaa! - Tanka sang. - Shanka was wandering around, no big deal...
Sanka got it too. He got angry, threw the vessel and fell into the grass. The eldest took and took the berries and began to think: he is trying for the house, and those parasites over there are eating the berries or even lying on the grass. The elder jumped up and kicked Sanka again. Sanka howled and rushed at the elder. The kettle rang and berries splashed out. The heroic brothers fight, roll on the ground, and crush all the strawberries.
After the fight, the elder man gave up too. He began to collect the spilled, crushed berries - and put them in his mouth, in his mouth.
That means you can, but that means I can’t! You can, but that means I can’t? - he asked ominously until he had eaten everything he had managed to collect.
Soon the brothers somehow quietly made peace, stopped calling them names and decided to go down to the Fokinskaya River and splash around.
I also wanted to go to the river, I would also like to splash around, but I did not dare to leave the ridge because I had not yet filled the vessel full.
Grandma Petrovna was scared! Oh you! - Sanka grimaced and called me a nasty word. He knew a lot of such words. I also knew, I learned to say them from the Levontiev guys, but I was afraid, maybe embarrassed to use obscenity and timidly declared:
But my grandmother will buy me a gingerbread horse!
Maybe a mare? - Sanka grinned, spat at his feet and immediately realized something; - Tell me better - you’re afraid of her and you’re also greedy!
Do you want to eat all the berries? - I said this and immediately repented, I realized that I had fallen for the bait. Scratched, with bumps on his head from fights and various other reasons, with pimples on his arms and legs, with red, bloody eyes, Sanka was more harmful and angrier than all the Levontiev boys.
Weak! - he said.
I'm weak! - I swaggered, looking sideways into the tuesok. There were berries already above the middle. - Am I weak?! - I repeated in a fading voice and, so as not to give up, not to be afraid, not to disgrace myself, I decisively shook the berries onto the grass: - Here! Eat with me!
The Levontiev horde fell, the berries instantly disappeared. I only got a few tiny, bent berries with greenery. It's a pity for the berries. Sad. There is longing in the heart - it anticipates a meeting with grandmother, a report and a reckoning. But I assumed despair, gave up on everything - now it doesn’t matter. I rushed along with the Levontiev children down the mountain, to the river, and boasted:
I’ll steal grandma’s kalach!
The guys encouraged me to act, they say, and bring more than one roll, grab a shaneg or a pie - nothing will be superfluous.
We ran along a shallow river, splashed with cold water, overturned slabs and caught the sculpin with our hands. Sanka grabbed this disgusting-looking fish, compared it to a shame, and we tore the pika to pieces on the shore for its ugly appearance. Then they fired stones at the flying birds, knocking out the white-bellied one. We soldered the swallow with water, but it bled into the river, could not swallow the water and died, dropping its head. We buried a little white, flower-like bird on the shore, in the pebbles, and soon forgot about it, because we got busy with an exciting, creepy business: we ran into the mouth of a cold cave, where evil spirits lived (they knew this for certain in the village). Sanka ran the farthest into the cave - even the evil spirits did not take him!
This is something else! - Sanka boasted, returning from the cave. - I would run further, I would run into the block, but I’m barefoot, there are snakes dying there.
Zhmeev?! - Tanka retreated from the mouth of the cave and, just in case, pulled up her falling panties.
I saw the brownie and the brownie,” Sanka continued to tell.
Clapper! Brownies live in the attic and under the stove! - the eldest cut off Sanka.
Sanka was confused, but immediately challenged the elder:
What kind of brownie is that? Home. And here is the cave one. He's all covered in moss, gray and trembling - he's cold. And the housekeeper, for better or worse, looks pitifully and groans. You can’t lure me, just come up and he’ll grab it and eat it. I hit her in the eye with a rock!..
Maybe Sanka was lying about the brownies, but it was still scary to listen to, it seemed like someone was moaning and groaning very close in the cave. Tanka was the first to pull away from the bad spot, followed by her and the rest of the guys fell down the mountain. Sanka whistled and yelled stupidly, giving us heat.
We spent the whole day so interesting and fun, and I completely forgot about the berries, but it was time to return home. We sorted out the dishes hidden under the tree.
Katerina Petrovna will ask you! He'll ask! - Sanka neighed. - We ate the berries! Ha ha! They ate it on purpose! Ha ha! We're fine! Ha ha! And you are ho-ho!..
I myself knew that to them, the Levontievskys, “ha-ha!”, and to me, “ho-ho!” My grandmother, Katerina Petrovna, is not Aunt Vasenya; you can’t get rid of her with lies, tears and various excuses.
I quietly trudged after the Levontiev boys out of the forest. They ran ahead of me in a crowd, pushing a ladle without a handle along the road. The ladle clanked, bounced on the stones, and the remains of the enamel bounced off it.
You know what? - After talking with the brothers, Sanka returned to me. - You push the herbs into the bowl, add berries on top - and you're done! Oh, my child! - Sanka began to accurately imitate my grandmother. - I helped you, orphan, I helped you. - And the demon Sanka winked at me, and rushed further, down the ridge, home.
I sighed, sighed, almost cried, but I had to listen to the forest, the grass, and whether the brownies were creeping out of the cave. There's no time to whine here. Keep your ears open here. I tore up a handful of grass and looked around. I stuffed the tuesk tightly with grass, on a bull so that I could see the house closer to the light, I collected several handfuls of berries, laid them on the grass - it turned out to be strawberries even with a shock.
You are my child! - my grandmother began to cry when I, frozen with fear, handed her the vessel. - God help you, God help you! I’ll buy you a gingerbread, the biggest one. And I won’t pour your berries into mine, I’ll take them right away in this little bag...
It relieved a little.
I thought that now my grandmother would discover my fraud, give me what I was due, and was already prepared for punishment for the crime I had committed. But it worked out. Everything worked out fine. Grandmother took the tuesok to the basement, praised me again, gave me something to eat, and I thought that I had nothing to be afraid of yet and life was not so bad.
I ate, went outside to play, and there I felt the urge to tell Sanka about everything.
And I’ll tell Petrovna! And I'll tell you!..
No need, Sanka!
Bring the roll, then I won’t tell you.
I secretly snuck into the pantry, took the kalach out of the chest and brought it to Sanka, under my shirt. Then he brought another, then another, until Sanka got drunk.
“I fooled my grandmother. Kalachi stole! What will happen? - I was tormented at night, tossing and turning on the bed. Sleep did not take me, the “Andelsky” peace did not descend on my life, on my Varna soul, although my grandmother, having crossed herself at night, wished me not just any, but the most “Andelsky”, quiet sleep.
Why are you messing around there? - Grandma asked hoarsely from the darkness. - Probably wandered in the river again? Are your legs hurting again?
No, I responded. - I had a dream...
Sleep with God! Sleep, don't be afraid. Life is worse than dreams, father...
“What if you get out of bed, crawl under the blanket with your grandmother and tell everything?”
I listened. The labored breathing of an old man could be heard from below. It's a pity to wake up, grandma is tired. She has to get up early. No, it’s better that I don’t sleep until the morning, I’ll watch over my grandmother, I’ll tell about everything: about the little girls, and about the housewife and the brownie, and about the rolls, and about everything, about everything...
This decision made me feel better, and I didn’t notice how my eyes closed. Sanka’s unwashed face appeared, then the forest, grass, strawberries flashed, she covered Sanka, and everything that I saw during the day.
On the floors there was a smell of pine forest, a cold mysterious cave, the river gurgled at our very feet and fell silent...
Grandfather was at the village, about five kilometers from the village, at the mouth of the Mana River. There we have sown a strip of rye, a strip of oats and buckwheat, and a large paddock of potatoes.
Talk about collective farms was just beginning at that time, and our villagers were still living alone. I loved visiting my grandfather’s farm. It’s calm there, in detail, no oppression or supervision, run around even until the night. Grandfather never made any noise at anyone, he worked leisurely, but very steadily and pliantly.
Oh, if only the settlement were closer! I would have left, hidden. But five kilometers was an insurmountable distance for me then. And Alyoshka is not there to go with him. Recently, Aunt Augusta came and took Alyoshka with her to the forest plot, where she went to work.
I wandered around, wandered around the empty hut and could not think of anything else but to go to the Levontievskys.
Petrovna has sailed away! - Sanka grinned and snorted saliva into the hole between his front teeth. He could fit another tooth in this hole, and we were crazy about this Sanka hole. How he drooled at her!
Sanka was getting ready to go fishing and was unraveling the fishing line. His little brothers and sisters jostled around, wandered around the benches, crawled, hobbled on bowed legs. Sanka gave slaps left and right - the little ones got under his arm and tangled the fishing line.
“There’s no hook,” he muttered angrily, “he must have swallowed something.”
Nishta-ak! - Sanka reassured me. - They'll digest it. You have a lot of hooks, give me one. I'll take you with me.
I rushed home, grabbed the fishing rods, put some bread in my pocket, and we went to the stone bullheads, behind the cattle, which went straight down into the Yenisei behind the log.
There was no older house. His father took him with him “to the badogi”, and Sanka commanded recklessly. Since he was the eldest today and felt great responsibility, he did not get cocky in vain and, moreover, pacified the “people” if they started a fight.
Sanka set up fishing rods near the gobies, baited worms, pecked at them and threw the fishing line “by hand” so that it would cast further - everyone knows: the further and deeper, the more fish and the larger it is.
Sha! - Sanka widened his eyes, and we obediently froze.
It didn't bite for a long time. We got tired of waiting, started pushing, giggling, teasing. Sanka endured, endured, and drove us out to look for sorrel, coastal garlic, wild radish, otherwise, they say, he cannot vouch for himself, otherwise he will screw us all.
The Levontief boys knew how to get their fill from the earth, ate everything that God sent them, did not disdain anything, and that is why they were red-faced, strong, and dexterous, especially at the table.
Without us, Sanka really got stuck. While we were collecting greens suitable for food, he pulled out two ruffs, a gudgeon and a white-eyed spruce. They lit a fire on the shore. Sanka put the fish on sticks and prepared them to fry; the children surrounded the fire and did not take their eyes off the frying. “Sa-an! - they soon whined. - It’s already cooked! Sa-an!..”
W-well, breakthrough! W-well, breakthrough! Can’t you see that the ruff is gaping with its gills? Just want to gobble it up quickly. Well, how does your stomach feel, did you have diarrhea?..
Vitka Katerinin has diarrhea. We don't have it.
What did I say?!
The fighting eagles fell silent. With Sanka it’s not painful to separate the turuses, he just stumbles into something. The little ones endure, they toss their noses at each other; They strive to make the fire hotter. However, patience does not last long.
Well, Sa-an, there’s coal right there...
Choke!
The guys grabbed sticks with fried fish, tore them on the fly, and on the fly, groaning from the hotness, they ate them almost raw, without salt or bread, ate them and looked around in bewilderment: already?! We waited so long, endured so much, and only licked our lips. The kids also threshed my bread unnoticed and got busy doing whatever they could: they pulled the banks out of their holes, “flailed” stone tiles on the water, tried to swim, but the water was still cold, they quickly jumped out of the river to warm up by the fire. We warmed up and fell into the still low grass, so as not to see Sanka frying fish, now for himself, now it’s his turn, and here, don’t ask, it’s a grave. He won’t, because he loves to eat himself more than anyone else.
It was a clear summer day. It was hot from above. Near the cattle, speckled cuckoo shoes were leaning toward the ground. Blue bells dangled from side to side on long, crisp stems, and probably only the bees heard them ring. Near the anthill, striped gramophone flowers lay on the warmed ground, and bumblebees poked their heads into their blue horns. They froze for a long time, sticking out their shaggy bottoms; they must have been listening to the music. The birch leaves glittered, the aspen tree grew dim from the heat, and the pine trees along the ridges were covered in blue smoke. The sun shimmered over the Yenisei. Through this flickering, the red vents of the lime kilns blazing on the other side of the river were barely visible. The shadows of the rocks lay motionless on the water, and the light tore them apart and tore them to shreds, like old rags. The railway bridge in the city, visible from our village in clear weather, swayed with thin lace, and if you looked at it for a long time, the lace became thinner and torn.
From there, from behind the bridge, the grandmother should swim. What will happen! And why did I do this? Why did you listen to the Levontievskys? It was so good to live. Walk, run, play and don't think about anything. Now what? There is nothing to hope for now. Unless for some unexpected deliverance. Maybe the boat will capsize and grandma will drown? No, it’s better not to tip over. Mom drowned. What's good? I'm an orphan now. Unhappy man. And there is no one to feel sorry for me. Levontii only feels sorry for him when he’s drunk, and even his grandfather - and that’s all, the grandmother just screams, no, no, but she’ll give in - she won’t last long. The main thing is that there is no grandfather. Grandfather is in charge. He wouldn't hurt me. The grandmother shouts at him: “Potatchik! I’ve spent my whole life enjoying mine, now this!..”
“Grandfather, you are a grandfather, if only you could come to the bathhouse to wash, if only you would just come and take me with you!”
Why are you whining? - Sanka leaned towards me with a concerned look.
Nishta-ak! - Sanka consoled me. - Don't go home, that's all! Bury yourself in the hay and hide. Petrovna saw your mother’s eye slightly open when she was buried. He is afraid that you will drown too. Here she starts to cry: “My child is drowning, he threw me off, little orphan,” and then you’ll get out!..
I won't do that! - I protested. - And I won’t listen to you!..
Well, the leshak is with you! They are trying to take care of you. In! Got it! You're hooked!
I fell from the ravine, alarming the shorebirds in the holes, and pulled the fishing rod. I caught a perch. Then the ruff. The fish approached and the bite began. We baited worms and cast them.
Don't step over the rod! - Sanka superstitiously yelled at the kids, completely crazy with delight, and dragged and dragged the fish. The boys put them on a willow rod, lowered them into the water and shouted at each other: “Who was told - don’t overfill the fishing rod?!”
Suddenly, behind the nearest stone bullock, forged poles clicked on the bottom, and a boat appeared from behind the cape. Three men threw poles out of the water at once. Glittering with polished tips, the poles fell into the water at once, and the boat, burying its edges in the river, rushed forward, throwing waves to the sides. A swing of the poles, an exchange of arms, a push - the boat jumped up with its nose and moved forward quickly. She's closer, closer. Now the stern one moved his pole, and the boat nodded away from our fishing rods. And then I saw another person sitting on the gazebo. A half shawl is on the head, its ends are passed under the arms and crosswise tied on the back. Under the short shawl is a burgundy-dyed jacket. This jacket was taken out of the chest on major holidays and on the occasion of a trip to the city.
I rushed from the fishing rods to the hole, jumped, grabbed the grass, and stuck my big toe into the hole. A shorebird flew up, hit me on the head, I was frightened and fell onto lumps of clay, jumped up and ran along the shore, away from the boat.
Where are you going? Stop! Stop, I say! - the grandmother shouted.
I ran at full speed.
I-a-avishsha, I-a-avishsha home, swindler!
The men turned up the heat.
Hold him! - they shouted from the boat, and I didn’t notice how I ended up at the upper end of the village, where the shortness of breath, which always tormented me, disappeared! I rested for a long time and soon discovered that evening was approaching and, willy-nilly, I had to return home. But I didn’t want to go home and, just in case, I went to my cousin Kesha, Uncle Vanya’s son, who lived here, on the upper edge of the village.
I'm lucky. They were playing lapta near Uncle Vanya's house. I got involved in the game and ran until dark. Aunt Fenya, Keshka’s mother, appeared and asked me:
Why don't you go home? Grandma will lose you.
“Nope,” I answered as nonchalantly as possible. - She sailed to the city. Maybe he spends the night there.
Aunt Fenya offered me something to eat, and I gladly ground everything she gave me, thin-necked Kesha drank boiled milk, and his mother said to him reproachfully:
Everything is milky and milky. Look how the boy eats, that’s why he’s as strong as a boletus mushroom. “I saw Aunt Fenina’s praise, and I began to quietly hope that she would leave me to spend the night.
But Aunt Fenya asked me questions, asked me about everything, after which she took me by the hand and took me home.
There was no longer any light in our hut. Aunt Fenya knocked on the window. “Not locked!” - Grandma shouted. We entered a dark and quiet house, where the only sounds we could hear were the multi-winged tapping of butterflies and the buzzing of flies beating against the glass.
Aunt Fenya pushed me into the hallway and pushed me into the storage room attached to the hallway. There was a bed made of rugs and an old saddle in the heads - in case someone got sick of the heat during the day and wanted to rest in the cold.
I buried myself in the rug, became silent, listening.
Aunt Fenya and grandmother were talking about something in the hut, but it was impossible to make out what. The closet smelled of bran, dust and dry grass stuck in all the cracks and under the ceiling. This grass kept clicking and crackling. It was sad in the pantry. The darkness was thick, rough, filled with smells and secret life. Under the floor, a mouse was scratching alone and timidly, starving because of the cat. And everyone crackled dry herbs and flowers under the ceiling, opened boxes, scattered seeds into the darkness, two or three got entangled in my stripes, but I didn’t pull them out, afraid to move.
Silence, coolness and night life established themselves in the village. The dogs, killed by the daytime heat, came to their senses, crawled out from under the canopy, porches, and out of the kennels and tried their voices. Near the bridge that spans the Fokino River, an accordion was playing. Young people gather on the bridge, dance, sing, and scare the late kids and shy girls.
Uncle Levontius was hastily chopping wood. The owner must have brought something for the brew. Did someone's Levontiev poles get "gotten off"? Most likely ours. They have time to hunt for firewood at such a time...
Aunt Fenya left and closed the door tightly. The cat sneaked stealthily towards the porch. The mouse died down under the floor. It became completely dark and lonely. The floorboards did not creak in the hut, and the grandmother did not walk. Tired. Not a short way to the city! Eighteen miles, and with a knapsack. It seemed to me that if I felt sorry for my grandmother and thought well of her, she would guess about it and forgive me everything. He will come and forgive. Well, it will click once, so what a problem! For such a thing, you can do it more than once...
However, the grandmother did not come. I felt cold. I curled up and breathed on my chest, thinking about my grandmother and all the pitiful things.
When my mother drowned, my grandmother did not leave the shore; they could neither carry her away nor persuade her with the whole world. She kept calling and calling her mother, throwing crumbs of bread, silver pieces, and shreds into the river, tearing hair out of her head, tying it around her finger and letting it go with the flow, hoping to appease the river and appease the Lord.
Only on the sixth day was the grandmother, her body in disarray, almost dragged home. She, as if drunk, muttered something deliriously, her hands and head almost reached the ground, the hair on her head unraveled, hung over her face, clung to everything and remained in tatters on the weeds. on poles and on rafts.
The grandmother fell in the middle of the hut on the bare floor, with her arms outstretched, and so she slept, naked, in scrambled supports, as if she was floating somewhere, without making a rustle or sound, and could not swim. In the house they spoke in whispers, walked on tiptoe, fearfully leaned over their grandmother, thinking that she had died. But from the depths of the grandmother’s insides, through clenched teeth, there came a continuous groan, as if something or someone there, in the grandmother, was being crushed, and it was suffering from unrelenting, burning pain.
The grandmother woke up from sleep immediately, looked around as if after fainting, and began to pick up her hair, braid it, holding a rag for tying the braid in her teeth.
She didn’t say it in a matter-of-fact and simple manner, but instead breathed out of herself: “No, don’t call me on Lidenka, don’t call me. The river does not give it up. Close somewhere, very close, but doesn’t give away and doesn’t show...”
And mom was close. She was pulled under the rafting boom against Vassa Vakhrameevna’s hut, her scythe caught on the boom’s sling and tossed and dangled there until her hair became unstuck and the braid was torn off. So they suffered: mother in the water, grandmother on the shore, they suffered terrible torment for someone unknown whose grave sins...
My grandmother found out and told me when I was growing up that eight desperate Ovsyansk women were crammed into a small dugout boat and one man at the stern - our Kolcha Jr. The women were all bargaining, mostly with berries - strawberries, and when the boat capsized, a bright red stripe rushed across the water, and the raftsmen from the boat, who were saving people, shouted: “Blood! Blood! It smashed someone against a boom...”
But strawberries floated down the river. Mom also had a strawberry cup, and like a scarlet stream it merged with the red stripe. Maybe my mother’s blood from hitting her head on the boom was there, flowing and swirling along with the strawberries in the water, but who will know, who will distinguish red from red in panic, in the bustle and screams?
I woke up from a ray of sunlight filtering through the dim window of the pantry and poking into my eyes. Dust flickered in the beam like a midge. From somewhere it was applied by borrowing, arable land. I looked around, and my heart jumped joyfully: my grandfather’s old sheepskin coat was thrown over me. Grandfather arrived at night. Beauty!
In the kitchen, grandma was telling someone in detail:
-...Cultural lady, in a hat. “I’ll buy all these berries.” Please, I beg your mercy. The berries, I say, were picked by the poor orphan...
Then I fell through the ground along with my grandmother and could no longer and did not want to understand what she was saying next, because I covered myself with a sheepskin coat and huddled in it in order to die as soon as possible. But it became hot, deaf, I couldn’t breathe, and I opened up.
He always spoiled his own! - the grandmother thundered. - Now this! And he's already cheating! What will become of it later? Zhigan will be there! Eternal prisoner! I’ll take Levontiev’s ones, stain them, and I’ll take them into circulation! This is their certificate!..
The grandfather went into the yard, out of harm’s way, baling something under the canopy. Grandma can’t be alone for long, she needs to tell someone about the incident or smash the swindler, and therefore me, to smithereens, and she quietly walked along the hallway and slightly opened the door to the pantry. I barely had time to close my eyes tightly.
You're not sleeping, you're not sleeping! I see everything!
But I didn't give up. Aunt Avdotya ran into the house and asked how “theta” swam to the city. The grandmother said that she “sailed, thank you, Lord, and sold the berries,” and immediately began to narrate:
Mine! Little one! What have you done!.. Listen, listen, girl!
That morning many people came to us, and my grandmother detained everyone to say: “And mine! Little one!” And this did not in the least prevent her from doing household chores - she rushed back and forth, milked the cow, drove her out to the shepherd, shook out the rugs, did her various chores, and every time she ran past the pantry doors, she did not forget to remind:
You're not sleeping, you're not sleeping! I see everything!
Grandfather turned into the closet, pulled out the leather reins from under me and winked: “It’s okay, they say, be patient and don’t be shy!”, and even stroked me on the head. I sniffled and the tears that had been accumulating for so long, like berries, large strawberries, stained them, poured out of my eyes, and there was no way for them to stop them.
Well, what are you, what are you? - Grandfather reassured me, wiping away the tears from my face with his big hand. - Why are you lying there hungry? Ask for some help... Go, go,” my grandfather gently pushed me in the back.
Holding my pants with one hand and pressing the other to my eyes with my elbow, I stepped into the hut and began:
I’m more... I’m more... I’m more... - and couldn’t say anything further.
Okay, wash your face and sit down to chat! - still irreconcilably, but without a thunderstorm, without thunder, my grandmother cut me off. I obediently washed my face, rubbed my face with a damp rag for a long time, and remembered that lazy people, according to my grandmother, always wipe themselves with a damp one, because they wake up later than everyone else. I had to move to the table, sit down, look at people. Oh my God! Yes, I wish I could cheat at least once again! Yes I...
Shaking from the still lingering sobs, I clung to the table. Grandfather was busy in the kitchen, wrapping an old rope around his hand, which I realized was completely unnecessary to him, took something out of the floor, took an ax out from under the chicken coop, and tried the edge with his finger. He looks for and finds a solution, so as not to leave his miserable grandson alone with the “general” - that’s what he calls his grandmother in his heart or in mockery.
Feeling the invisible but reliable support of my grandfather, I took the crust from the table and began to eat it dry. Grandma poured out the milk in one fell swoop, placed the bowl in front of me with a knock, and put her hands on her hips:
My belly hurts, I'm staring at the edges! Ash is so humble! Ash is so quiet! And he won’t ask for milk!..
Grandfather winked at me - be patient. I knew even without him: God forbid I should contradict my grandmother now, doing something not at her discretion. She must unwind and must express everything that has accumulated in her heart, she must release her soul and calm it down.
And my grandmother put me to shame! And she denounced it! Only now, having fully understood into what a bottomless abyss trickery had plunged me and what “crooked path” it would lead me to, if I had taken up the ball game so early, if I had followed the dashing people into robbery, I began to roar, not just repenting, but afraid that he was lost, that there was no forgiveness, no return...
Even my grandfather could not stand my grandmother’s speeches and my complete repentance. Left. He left, disappeared, puffing on a cigarette, saying, I can’t help or cope with this, God help you, granddaughter...
Grandma was tired, exhausted, and maybe she sensed that she was trashing me too much.
It was calm in the hut, but it was still hard. Not knowing what to do, how to continue living, I smoothed out the patch on my pants and pulled out the threads from it. And when he raised his head, he saw in front of him...
I closed my eyes and opened my eyes again. He closed his eyes again and opened them again. A white horse with a pink mane galloped along the scraped kitchen table, as if across a vast land with arable fields, meadows and roads, on pink hooves.
Take it, take it, what are you looking at? You look, but even when you fool your grandmother...
How many years have passed since then! How many events have passed? My grandfather is no longer alive, my grandmother is no longer alive, and my life is coming to an end, but I still can’t forget my grandmother’s gingerbread - that marvelous horse with a pink mane.
1924–2001
In this book there is a story “Vasyutkino Lake”. His fate is curious. In the city of Igarka, Ignatiy Dmitrievich Rozhdestvensky, a later famous Siberian poet, once taught Russian language and literature. He taught, as I now understand, his subjects well, he forced us to “use our brains” and not lick expositions from textbooks, but write essays on free topics. This is how he once suggested that we, fifth graders, write about how the summer went. And in the summer I got lost in the taiga, spent many days alone, and I wrote about it all. My essay was published in a handwritten school magazine called “Alive.” Many years later I remembered it and tried to remember it. And so it turned out “Vasyutkino Lake” - my first story for children.
The stories included in this book were written at different times. Almost all of them are about my homeland - Siberia, about my distant rural childhood, which, despite the difficult time and difficulties associated with the early death of my mother, was still an amazingly bright and happy time for me.
Vasyutkino Lake
You won't find this lake on the map. It's small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Of course! It's no small honor for a thirteen-year-old boy to have a lake named after him! Even though it is not big, not like, say, Baikal, Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised and don’t think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great, and no matter how much you wander around it, you will always find something new and interesting.
The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka’s father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swollen the river, the water in it rose, and the fish began to be difficult to catch: they went deeper.
Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim out to the river. The fishermen fell asleep, became tired from idleness, and even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and seemed to smooth out people’s faces. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But the catches were still small.
“We don’t have any luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, we lived as God commanded, and the fish moved in clouds. And now the steamships and motorboats have scared away all the living creatures. The time will come - the ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon in books.
Arguing with grandfather is useless, that’s why no one contacted him.
The fishermen went far to the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped.
The boats were pulled ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.
Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-down tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.
Vasyutka was always a little timid in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.
- Sabbath, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich when the unloading was completed. “We won’t wander around anymore.” So, to no avail, you can walk to the Kara Sea.
He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, straightened the sheets of bark on the roof that had slid to the side. Having gone down the decrepit stairs, he carefully shook off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that they could calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, and in the meantime they could fish by ferry and siege. Boats, seines, floating nets and all other gear must be properly prepared for the big move of fish.
Monotonous days dragged on. Fishermen repaired seines, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, and pitched.
Once a day they checked the lines and paired nets - ferries, which were placed far from the shore.
The fish that fell into these traps were valuable: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, and often burbot, or, as they were jokingly called in Siberia, settler. But this is calm fishing. There is no excitement, daring and that good, hard-working fun that bursts out of the men when they pull out several centners of fish in a half-kilometer net for one ton.
Vasyutka began to live a very boring life. There is no one to play with - no friends, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would begin soon and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fish collection boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka will look into them out of boredom.
In the evenings the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and told tales. By nightfall there was a thick layer of nutshells on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice on puddles.
Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped all the nearby cedars. Every day we had to climb further and further into the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, hums, and sometimes fires a gun.
Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Afanasy went somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a piece of the calendar and happily noted that there were only ten days left until the first of September.
The mother said displeasedly:
“You have to prepare for school, but you disappear in the forest.”
-What are you doing, mom? Should someone get the nuts? Must. After all, fishermen want to click in the evening.
- “Hunting, hunting”! They need nuts, so let them go on their own. They got used to pushing the boy around and littering in the hut.
The mother grumbles out of habit because she has no one else to grumble at.
When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a cartridge belt on his belt, looking like a stocky little man, came out of the hut, his mother, as usual, sternly reminded:
“Don’t stray too far from your plans, you’ll perish.” Did you take any bread with you?
- Why do I need him? I bring it back every time.
- Don't talk! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. It has been this way since time immemorial; it is still too early to change the taiga laws.
You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: you go into the forest - take food, take matches.
Vasyutka obediently put the edge into the bag and hurried to disappear from his mother’s eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something else.
Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the marks on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with a rough road. A man will make a notch on one tree, move away a little, hit it again with an ax, then another. Other people will follow this person; They will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass and berry patches, make footprints in the mud - and you will get a path. The forest paths are narrow and winding, like the wrinkles on grandfather Afanasy’s forehead. Only some paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are unlikely to heal.
Vasyutka developed a penchant for lengthy reasoning, like any taiga dweller. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for the creaking quacking somewhere above his head.
“Kra-kra-kra!..” came from above, as if they were cutting a strong branch with a dull saw.
Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and screamed at the top of its lungs. Her friends responded to her in the same vociferous manner. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He didn't shoot. He had had his ears torn out more than once for wasted cartridges. The awe of the precious “supply” (as Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly drilled into Siberians from birth.
- “Kra-kra!” - Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.
The guy was annoyed that he couldn’t kill the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. The nutcracker stopped screaming, leisurely plucked itself, raised its head, and its creaky “kra!” rushed through the forest again.
- Ugh, damned witch! – Vasyutka cursed and walked away.
Feet walked softly on the moss. There were cones scattered here and there, spoiled by nutcrackers. They resembled lumps of honeycomb. In some of the holes of the cones, nuts stuck out like bees. But there is no use in trying them. The nutcracker has an amazingly sensitive beak: the bird does not even remove empty nuts from the nest. Vasyutka picked up one cone, examined it from all sides and shook his head:
- Oh, what a dirty trick you are!
Vasyutka scolded like that for the sake of respectability. He knew that the nutcracker is a useful bird: it spreads cedar seeds throughout the taiga.
Finally Vasyutka took a fancy to a tree and climbed it. With a trained eye, he determined: there, in the thick pine needles, were hidden entire broods of resinous cones. He began to kick the spreading branches of the cedar with his feet. The cones just started falling down.
Vasyutka climbed down from the tree and collected them in a bag. Then he looked around the surrounding forest and fell in love with another cedar.
“I’ll cover this one too,” he said. “It will probably be a little hard, but that’s okay, I’ll tell you.”
Suddenly, something clapped loudly in front of Vasyutka. He shuddered in surprise and immediately saw a large black bird rising from the ground. "Capercaillie!" – Vasyutka guessed, and his heart sank. He shot ducks, waders, and partridges, but he had never shot a wood grouse.
The capercaillie flew across a mossy clearing, swerved between the trees and sat down on a dead tree. Try sneaking up!
The boy stood motionless and did not take his eyes off the huge bird. Suddenly he remembered that wood grouse are often taken with a dog. Hunters said that a capercaillie, sitting on a tree, looks down with curiosity at the barking dog, and sometimes teases it. Meanwhile, the hunter quietly approaches from the rear and shoots.
Vasyutka, as luck would have it, did not invite Druzhka with him. Cursing himself in a whisper for his mistake, Vasyutka fell on all fours, barked, imitating a dog, and began to carefully move forward. His voice broke from excitement. The capercaillie froze, watching this interesting picture with curiosity. The boy scratched his face and tore his padded jacket, but did not notice anything. Before him in reality is a wood grouse!
... It's time! Vasyutka quickly got down on one knee and tried to land the worried bird on the fly. Finally, the trembling in my hands subsided, the fly stopped dancing, its tip touched the capercaillie... Bang! - and the black bird, flapping its wings, fell down. Without touching the ground, she straightened up and flew into the depths of the forest.
“Wounded!” – Vasyutka perked up and rushed after the wounded wood grouse.
Only now did he realize what the matter was and began to mercilessly reproach himself:
– He banged it with small shot. Why is he petty? He's almost like Druzhka!..
The bird left on short flights. They became shorter and shorter. The capercaillie was weakening. Now he, unable to lift his heavy body, ran.
“Now that’s it – I’ll catch up!” – Vasyutka decided confidently and started running harder. It was very close to the bird.
Quickly throwing the bag off his shoulder, Vasyutka raised his gun and fired. In a few leaps I found myself near the wood grouse and fell on my stomach.
- Stop, darling, stop! – Vasyutka muttered joyfully. – You won’t leave now! Look, he's so quick! Brother, I also run – be healthy!
Vasyutka stroked the capercaillie with a satisfied smile, admiring the black feathers with a bluish tint. Then he weighed it in his hand. “It will be five kilograms, or even half a pound,” he estimated and put the bird in the bag. “I’ll run, otherwise my mother will hit me on the back of the neck.”
Thinking about his luck, Vasyutka, happy, walked through the forest, whistling, singing, whatever came to mind.
Suddenly he realized: where are the lines? It's time for them to be.
He looked around. The trees were no different from those on which the notches were made. The forest stood motionless and quiet in its sad reverie, just as sparse, half-naked, entirely coniferous. Only here and there were frail birch trees with sparse yellow leaves visible. Yes, the forest was the same. And yet there was something alien about him...
Vasyutka turned sharply back. He walked quickly, carefully looking at each tree, but there were no familiar notches.
- Ffu-you, damn it! Where are the places? – Vasyutka’s heart sank, perspiration appeared on his forehead. - All this capercaillie! “I rushed like crazy, now think about where to go,” Vasyutka spoke out loud to drive away the approaching fear. - It’s okay, now I’ll think about it and find the way. Soooo... The almost bare side of the spruce means that direction is north, and where there are more branches - south. Soooo...
After that, Vasyutka tried to remember on which side of the trees the old notches were made and on which side the new ones were made. But he didn’t notice this. Stitch and stitch.
- Oh, dumbass!
Fear began to weigh even more heavily. The boy spoke out loud again:
- Okay, don't be shy. Let's find a hut. We have to go one way. We must go south. The Yenisei makes a turn at the hut, you can’t pass by it. Well, everything is fine, but you, weirdo, were afraid! – Vasyutka laughed and cheerfully commanded himself: “Arsh step!” Hey, two!
But the vigor did not last long. There were never any problems. At times the boy thought he could clearly see them on the dark trunk. With a sinking heart, he ran to the tree to feel with his hand a notch with droplets of resin, but instead he discovered a rough fold of bark. Vasyutka had already changed direction several times, poured pine cones out of the bag and walked, walked...
The forest became completely quiet. Vasyutka stopped and stood listening for a long time. Knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock... - the heart beat. Then Vasyutka’s hearing, strained to the limit, caught some strange sound. There was a buzzing sound somewhere.
It froze and a second later came again, like the hum of a distant plane. Vasyutka bent down and saw the rotted carcass of a bird at his feet. An experienced hunter - a spider stretched a web over a dead bird. The spider is no longer there - it must have gone away to spend the winter in some hollow, and abandoned the trap. A well-fed, large spitting fly got into it and beats, beats, buzzes with weakening wings.
Something began to bother Vasyutka at the sight of a helpless fly stuck in a snare. And then it hit him: he was lost!
This discovery was so simple and stunning that Vasyutka did not immediately come to his senses.
He had heard many times from hunters scary stories about how people wander in the forest and sometimes die, but this was not how he imagined it at all. It all worked out very simply. Vasyutka did not yet know that terrible things in life often begin very simply.
The stupor lasted until Vasyutka heard some mysterious rustling in the depths of the darkened forest. He screamed and started running. How many times he stumbled, fell, got up and ran again, Vasyutka did not know.
Finally, he jumped into a windfall and began to crash through the dry, thorny branches. Then he fell from the fallen trees face down into the damp moss and froze. Despair overwhelmed him, and he immediately lost his strength. “Come what may,” he thought detachedly.
Night flew into the forest silently, like an owl. And with it comes the cold. Vasyutka felt his sweat-soaked clothes getting cold.
“Taiga, our nurse, doesn’t like flimsy people!” – he remembered the words of his father and grandfather. And he began to remember everything that he had been taught, that he knew from the stories of fishermen and hunters.
First things first, you need to light a fire. It's good that I brought matches from home. Matches came in handy.
Vasyutka broke off the lower dry branches of the tree, groped for a bunch of dry bearded moss, chopped up the twigs into small pieces, put everything in a pile and set it on fire. The light, swaying, crawled uncertainly along the branches. The moss flared up and everything around became brighter. Vasyutka threw more branches. Shadows moved between the trees, the darkness receded further. Itching monotonously, several mosquitoes flew onto the fire - it’s more fun with them.
We had to stock up on firewood for the night. Vasyutka, not sparing his hands, broke branches, dragged dry dead wood, and turned out an old stump. Pulling a piece of bread out of the bag, he sighed and thought sadly: “He’s crying, go ahead, mother.”
He also wanted to cry, but he overcame himself and, plucking the capercaillie, began to gut it with a penknife. Then he raked the fire to the side, dug a hole in the hot spot and put the bird there. Covering it tightly with moss, sprinkled it with hot earth, ash, coals, put flaming brands on top and added firewood.
About an hour later he unearthed a wood grouse. The bird gave off steam and an appetizing smell: a capercaillie drowned in its own juice - a hunting dish! But without salt, what would the taste be? Vasyutka struggled to swallow the unleavened meat.
- Eh, stupid, stupid! How much of this salt is in barrels on the shore! What did it take to pour a handful into your pocket! - he reproached himself.
Then he remembered that the bag he took for the cones was from salt, and hastily turned it out. He picked out a pinch of dirty crystals from the corners of the bag, crushed them on the butt of the gun and smiled forcefully:
After dinner, Vasyutka put the rest of the food in a bag, hung it on a branch so that mice or anyone else wouldn’t get to the grub, and began to prepare a place to spend the night.
He moved the fire to the side, removed all the coals, threw on branches with pine needles, moss and lay down, covering himself with a padded jacket.
It was heated from below.
Busy with chores, Vasyutka did not feel loneliness so keenly. But as soon as I lay down and thought, anxiety began to overcome me with renewed vigor. The polar taiga is not afraid of animals. The bear is a rare resident here. There are no wolves. The snake too. Sometimes there are lynxes and lascivious arctic foxes. But in the fall there is plenty of food for them in the forest, and they could hardly covet Vasyutka’s reserves. And yet it was creepy. He loaded the single-barrel breaker, cocked the hammer and put the gun down next to him. Sleep!
Not even five minutes had passed when Vasyutka felt that someone was sneaking towards him. He opened his eyes and froze: yes, he’s sneaking! A step, a second, a rustle, a sigh... Someone walks slowly and carefully on the moss. Vasyutka fearfully turns his head and, not far from the fire, sees something dark and large. Now it stands and does not move.
The boy looks intensely and begins to distinguish either hands or paws raised towards the sky. Vasyutka is not breathing: “What is this?” My eyes ripple from tension, I can no longer hold my breath. He jumps up and points his gun at this dark one:
-Who is this? Come on, or I’ll hit you with buckshot!
There was no sound in response. Vasyutka stands motionless for some time, then slowly lowers the gun and licks his dry lips. “Really, what could be there?” – he suffers and shouts again:
– I say, don’t hide, otherwise it will get worse!
Silence. Vasyutka wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and, plucking up courage, resolutely heads towards the dark object.
- Oh, damned one! – he sighs with relief when he sees a huge inversion root in front of him. - Well, I’m a coward! I almost lost my mind over this kind of nonsense.
To finally calm down, he breaks off shoots from the rhizome and carries them to the fire.
The August night in the Arctic is short. While Vasyutka was busy with the firewood, the darkness, thick as pitch, began to thin out and hide deeper into the forest. Before it had time to completely dissipate, fog had already crawled out to replace it. It got colder. The fire hissed from the dampness, clicked, and began to sneeze, as if it was angry at the thick veil that shrouded everything around. The mosquitoes that had been bothering me all night had disappeared. Not a breath, not a rustle.
Everything froze in anticipation of the first sound of the morning. What kind of sound this will be is unknown. Perhaps the timid whistle of a bird or the light sound of the wind in the tops of bearded spruce trees and gnarled larches, perhaps a woodpecker knocking on a tree or a wild deer trumpeting.
Something must be born from this silence, someone must awaken the sleepy taiga. Vasyutka shivered chillily, moved closer to the fire and fell fast asleep, never waiting for the morning news.
The sun was already high. The fog fell like dew on the trees, on the ground, fine dust sparkled everywhere.
“Where am I?” – Vasyutka thought in amazement and, finally waking up, heard the lively taiga.
Throughout the forest, nutcrackers shouted anxiously in the manner of market women. Somewhere, Zhelna began to cry childishly. Above Vasyutka's head, titmice were gutting an old tree, squeaking busily. Vasyutka stood up, stretched and scared away the feeding squirrel. She, clattering in alarm, rushed up the trunk of the spruce, sat down on a branch and, without ceasing to clack, stared at Vasyutka.
- Well, what are you looking at? Didn't you recognize it? – Vasyutka turned to her with a smile.
The squirrel moved its fluffy tail.
- But I got lost. I foolishly ran after a wood grouse and got lost. Now they are looking for me all over the forest, my mother is roaring... You don’t understand anything, talk to you! Otherwise I would have run and told our people where I was. You are so agile! “He paused and waved his hand: “Get out, redhead, I’ll shoot!”
Vasyutka raised his gun and fired into the air. The squirrel, like a feather caught in the wind, darted and went to count the trees.
After watching her go, Vasyutka fired again and waited a long time for an answer. Taiga didn't respond. The nutcrackers were still annoyingly and discordantly bawling, a woodpecker was working nearby, and drops of dew were clicking as they fell from the trees.
There are ten cartridges left. Vasyutka no longer dared to shoot. He took off his padded jacket, threw his cap over it and, spitting on his hands, climbed up the tree...
Taiga... Taiga... She stretched endlessly in all directions, silent, indifferent. From above it seemed like a huge dark sea. The sky did not end immediately, as it happens in the mountains, but stretched far, far away, pressing closer and closer to the tops of the forest. The clouds overhead were sparse, but the longer Vasyutka looked, the thicker they became, and finally the blue openings disappeared completely. The clouds lay like compressed cotton wool on the taiga, and it dissolved in them.
For a long time Vasyutka looked with his eyes for a yellow strip of larch among the motionless green sea (deciduous forest usually stretches along the banks of the river), but all around there was dark coniferous forest. Apparently, the Yenisei, too, was lost in the remote, gloomy taiga. Vasyutka felt very small and cried out with anguish and despair:
- Hey, mom! Folder! Grandfather! I'm lost!..
Vasyutka slowly came down from the tree, thought and sat there for half an hour. Then he shook himself, cut off the meat and, trying not to look at the small edge of the bread, began to chew. Having refreshed himself, he collected a bunch of pine cones, crushed them and began to pour nuts into his pockets. The hands were doing their job, and the question was being solved in the head, one single question: “Where to go?” Now the pockets are full of nuts, the cartridges have been checked, a belt is attached to the bag instead of a strap, but the issue is still not resolved. Finally, Vasyutka threw the bag over his shoulder, stood for a minute, as if saying goodbye to the place he lived in, and went straight north. He reasoned simply: to the south the taiga stretches for thousands of kilometers, you will get completely lost in it. And if you go north, then after a hundred kilometers the forest will end and the tundra will begin. Vasyutka understood that going out into the tundra was not salvation. Settlements there are very rare, and you are unlikely to come across people soon. But at least he can get out of the forest, which blocks the light and oppresses him with its gloominess.
The weather was still good. Vasyutka was afraid to think about what would happen to him if autumn raged. By all indications, the wait won't be long.
The sun was setting when Vasyutka noticed skinny stems of grass among the monotonous moss. He quickened his pace. Grass began to appear more often and no longer in individual blades, but in bunches. Vasyutka became worried: grass usually grows near large bodies of water. “Is the Yenisei really ahead?” – Vasyutka thought with surging joy. Noticing birches, aspens, and then small bushes between the coniferous trees, he could not restrain himself, ran and soon burst into dense thickets of bird cherry, creeping willow, and currant. Tall nettles stung his face and hands, but Vasyutka did not pay attention to this and, protecting his eyes from the flexible branches with his hand, made his way forward with a crash. A gap flashed between the bushes.
The shore is ahead... Water! Not believing his eyes, Vasyutka stopped. He stood like that for some time and felt that his legs were getting stuck. Swamp! Swamps most often occur near the shores of lakes. Vasyutka’s lips trembled: “No, it’s not true! There are swamps near the Yenisei too.” A few jumps through thicket, nettles, bushes - and here he is on the shore.
No, this is not the Yenisei. Before Vasyutka’s eyes is a small, dull lake, covered with duckweed near the shore.
Vasyutka lay down on his stomach, scooped up the green mush of duckweed with his hand and greedily pressed his lips to the water. Then he sat down, with a tired movement took off the bag, began to wipe his face with his cap, and suddenly, clinging to it with his teeth, he burst into tears.
... Vasyutka decided to spend the night on the shore of the lake. He chose a drier place, hauled in some wood, and lit a fire. It's always more fun with a light, and even more so alone. Having fried the cones in the fire, Vasyutka rolled them out of the ash with a stick, one after another, like a baked potato. His tongue was already hurting from the nuts, but he decided: as long as he had enough patience, not to touch the bread, but to eat nuts and meat, whatever he had to.
Evening was falling. Through the dense coastal thickets, reflections of the sunset fell on the water, stretched in living streams into the depths and were lost there, without reaching the bottom. Saying goodbye to the day, here and there titmice tinkled sadly, a jay cried, and loons moaned. And yet, it was much more fun by the lake than in the thick of the taiga. But there are still many mosquitoes here. They began to pester Vasyutka. Waving them off, the boy carefully watched the ducks diving on the lake. They were not at all frightened and swam near the shore with a masterly quack. There were a lot of ducks. There was no reason to shoot one at a time. Vasyutka, grabbing a gun, went to the toe that jutted into the lake and sat down on the grass. Next to the sedge, on the smooth surface of the water, circles kept blurring. This caught the boy's attention. Vasyutka looked into the water and froze: fish were swarming around the grass, densely, one next to the other, moving their gills and tails. There were so many fish that Vasyutka began to doubt: “Algae, probably?” He touched the grass with a stick. Schools of fish moved away from the shore and stopped again, lazily working with their fins.
Vasyutka has never seen so many fish before. And not just any lake fish - pike, sorog or perch - no, by their wide backs and white sides he recognized peleds, whitefish, and whitefish. This was the most amazing thing. There are white fish in the lake!
Vasyutka knitted his thick eyebrows, trying to remember something. But at that moment a herd of wigeon ducks distracted him from his thoughts. He waited until the ducks were level with the cape, singled out a pair and fired. Two elegant wigeons turned upside down with their bellies and often moved their paws. Another duck, with its wing protruding, swam sideways from the shore. The rest were alarmed and noisily flew to the other side of the lake. For about ten minutes, herds of frightened birds flew over the water.
The boy pulled out a couple of ducks with a long stick, but the third managed to swim far away.
“Okay, I’ll get it tomorrow,” Vasyutka waved his hand.
The sky had already darkened and twilight was falling in the forest. The middle of the lake now resembled a hot stove. It seemed that if you put slices of potatoes on the smooth surface of the water, they would instantly bake and smell burnt and delicious. Vasyutka swallowed his saliva, looked again at the lake, at the bloody sky and said with alarm:
- There will be wind tomorrow. What if it still rains?
He plucked the ducks, buried them in the hot coals of the fire, lay down on the fir branches and began to crack nuts.
The dawn has burned out. There were sparse motionless clouds in the darkened sky. The stars began to appear. A small, nail-like moon appeared. It became lighter. Vasyutka remembered his grandfather’s words: “Started - to the cold!” – and his soul became even more anxious.
To drive away bad thoughts, Vasyutka tried to think first about home, and then he remembered school and comrades.
How much in life did Vasyutka want to know and see? Many. Will he find out? Will he get out of the taiga? Lost in it like a grain of sand. What now at home? There, behind the taiga, people seem to be in another world: they watch movies, eat bread... maybe even candy. They eat as much as they want. The school is probably now preparing to welcome students. A new poster has already been hung above the school doors, on which it is written in large letters: “Welcome!”
Vasyutka was completely depressed. He felt sorry for himself and began to feel remorse. So he didn’t listen in class and during recess he almost walked on his head... Children from all over the area come to school: here are the Evenks, here are the Nenets, and the Nganasans. They have their own habits. It happened that one of them would take out a pipe during class and light a cigarette without further consideration.
First-graders are especially guilty of this. They just came from the taiga and don’t understand any discipline. If teacher Olga Fedorovna begins to explain to such a student about the harmfulness of smoking, he becomes offended; If the phone is taken away, it roars. Vasyutka himself smoked and gave them tobacco.
“Oh, I wish I could see Olga Fedorovna now...” Vasyutka thought out loud. “I wish I could shake out all the tobacco.”
Vasyutka was tired during the day, but sleep did not come. He added some wood to the fire and lay down on his back again. The clouds have disappeared. Distant and mysterious, the stars winked, as if calling me somewhere. One of them rushed down, traced the dark sky and immediately melted away. “The star went out, which means someone’s life was cut short,” Vasyutka recalled the words of grandfather Afanasy.
Vasyutka felt completely sad.
“Maybe ours saw her?” - he thought, pulling his padded jacket over his face, and soon fell into a restless sleep.
Vasyutka woke up late, from the cold, and saw neither the lake, nor the sky, nor the bushes. Again there was a sticky, motionless fog all around. Only loud and frequent slaps were heard from the lake: it was fish playing and feeding.
Vasyutka stood up, shivered, dug out the ducks, fanned the coals. When the fire flared up, he warmed his back, then cut off a piece of bread, took one duck and began to eat quickly. The thought that bothered Vasyutka last night came into his head again: “Where are there so many white fish in the lake?” He had heard more than once from fishermen that some lakes supposedly contained white fish, but these lakes should be or were once flowing. “What if?...”
Yes, if the lake is flowing and a river flows out of it, it will eventually lead it to the Yenisei. No, it's better not to think. Yesterday I was overjoyed - Yenisei, Yenisei - and saw a marsh cone. No, it’s better not to think.
Having finished with the duck, Vasyutka still lay by the fire, waiting for the fog to subside. The eyelids were stuck together. But even through the viscous, dull drowsiness it was possible to say: “Where did the river fish come from in the lake?”
- Ugh, evil spirits! – Vasyutka cursed. – I’m attached like a leaf. “Where from, where from? Well, maybe the birds brought caviar on their feet, well, maybe they brought fry, well, maybe... Oh, that’s it for the leshaks! - Vasyutka jumped up and, angrily cracking the bushes, bumping into fallen trees in the fog, began to make his way along the shore. I didn’t find yesterday’s killed duck on the water, I was surprised and decided that it had been dragged away by a kite or eaten by water rats.
It seemed to Vasyutka that in the place where the shores meet was the end of the lake, but he was mistaken. There was only an isthmus there. When the fog dissolved, a large, sparsely overgrown lake opened in front of the boy, and the one near which he spent the night was just a bay - an echo of the lake.
- Wow! – Vasyutka gasped. “That’s where the fisheries are, probably... Here we wouldn’t have to waste water with nets.” I wish I could get out and tell you. “And, encouraging himself, he added: “What?” And I will go out! I’ll go, I’ll go and...
