The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka's father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swelled the river, the water rose in it, and the fish began to catch badly: they went to the depths.
Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim into the river. The fishermen overslept, malted from idleness, they even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and smoothed people's faces as if. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But catches were still small.
“We don’t have luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, they lived as God commands, and the fish walked in clouds. And now steamboats and motorboats have scared away all living creatures. The time will come - ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon in books.
Arguing with grandfather is useless, because no one contacted him.
The fishermen went far in the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were dragged ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.
Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-up tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.
Vasyutka was always a little shy in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.
— Sabbat, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich, when the unloading was over. “We won’t roam any more. So, to no avail, you can reach the Kara Sea.
He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, correcting the bark on the roof that had moved to the side. Going down the decrepit stairs, he carefully dusted off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that it was possible to calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, but for now to fish by ferries and ropes. Boats, nets, flowing nets and all other tackle must be properly prepared for the big move of the fish.
The monotonous days dragged on. The fishermen repaired the seine, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, pitched.
Once a day, they checked the crossings and twin networks - ferries that were set far from the coast.
Valuable fish fell into these traps: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, often burbot, or, as it was jokingly called in Siberia, a settler. But it's quiet fishing. There is no excitement in it, dashing and that good, labor fun that is torn out of the peasants when they pull out several centners of fish with a half-kilometer net for one ton.
A completely boring life began at Vasyutka's. There is no one to play with - no comrades, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would soon begin, and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fishing boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka no, no, and even looks into them out of boredom.
In the evenings, the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and there were stories told. By nightfall, a thick layer of walnut shells lay on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice in puddles.
Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped off all the nearby cedars. Every day I had to climb further and further into the depths of the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, sings, sometimes fires from a gun.
Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Athanasius has gone somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a sheet of the calendar and noted with joy that there were only ten days left until the first of September. Then he got busy with cedar cones.
The mother said unhappily:
- You have to prepare for the study, and you disappear into the forest.
- What are you, mom? Who needs to get the nuts? Must. After all, the fishermen want to click in the evening.
"Hunt, hunt!" We need nuts, so let them go. They got used to pushing around the boy and littering in the hut.
Mother grumbles but out of habit, because she has no one else to grumble at.
When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a bandolier on his belt, resembling a stocky, little peasant, left the hut, his mother habitually strictly reminded:
“You don’t go far from the plots - you will perish.” Did you take bread with you?
- Why is he to me? I bring it back every time.
- Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. For centuries it has been so established, it is still small 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 piece of bread into the bag and hastened to disappear from his mother's eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something.
Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the markings on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with veins. A man makes a notch on one tree, moves away a little, pokes another ax 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, berry bushes, imprint footprints in the mud, and a path will turn out. The forest paths are narrow, winding, like wrinkles on the forehead of grandfather Athanasius. Only other paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are hardly overgrown.
Vasyutka's propensity for lengthy reasoning, like any taiga dweller, appeared early. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for a creaky quacking somewhere above his head.
"Kra-kra-kra! .." - rushed from above, as if a strong bough was being cut with a blunt 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 yelled at the top of its voice. Her friends responded to her in the same way. 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 did not shoot. His ears have already been flogged more than once for wasted cartridges. The thrill of the precious "supply" (as the Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly driven into Siberians from birth.
- Kra-kra! Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.
The guy was annoyed that he could not beat the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. Nutcracker stopped screaming, slowly plucked herself, lifted her head, and her creaking “kra!” again rushed through the forest.
"Ugh, cursed witch!" - Vasyutka swore and went.
Feet trod softly on the moss. Cones, spoiled by nutcrackers, lay here and there on it. They looked like clumps of honeycombs. In some holes of the cones, like bees, nuts stuck out. But trying them is useless. The Nutcracker has a surprisingly sensitive beak: the bird does not even take empty nuts out of the nest. Vasyutka picked up one cone, examined it from all sides and shook his head:
- Oh, and you are a dirty trick!
Vasyutka scolded so, for solidity. After all, he knew that the nutcracker is a useful bird: it spreads cedar seeds throughout the taiga.
Finally Vasyutka took a fancy to the tree and climbed on it. With a trained eye, he determined: there, in the thick needles, whole broods of resinous cones hid. He began to beat with his feet on the spreading branches of the cedar. The cones just fell down.
Vasyutka climbed down from the tree, collected them in a sack and lit a cigarette without haste. Puffing on a cigarette, he looked around the surrounding forest and chose another cedar.
“I’ll take this one too,” he said. - It will be hard, perhaps, but nothing, I will inform.
He carefully spat on the cigarette, pressed it down with his heel, and left. Suddenly, ahead of Vasyutka, something clapped loudly. 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, and waders, and partridges, but he had not yet had a chance to shoot a capercaillie.
The capercaillie flew over a mossy clearing, dodged between the trees and sat down on a dry land. Try sneak up!
The boy stood motionless and did not take his eyes off the huge bird. Suddenly he remembered that the capercaillie is often taken with a dog. The hunters said that the capercaillie, sitting on a tree, looks down with curiosity at the barking dog, and sometimes even teases it. The hunter, meanwhile, imperceptibly approaches from the rear and shoots.
Vasyutka, as luck would have it, did not invite Druzhka with him. Cursing himself in a whisper for the mistake, Vasyutka fell on all fours, barked, imitating a dog, and began to carefully move forward. His voice broke from excitement. Capercaillie froze, observing this interesting picture with curiosity. The boy scratched his face, tore his quilted jacket, but did not notice anything. In front of him is a capercaillie!
...It's time! Vasyutka quickly got down on one knee and tried to put the worried bird on the fly with a flurry. Finally, the trembling in the hands subsided, the fly stopped dancing, the tip of it touched the capercaillie ... Tr-rah! - and the black bird, flapping its wings, flew into the depths of the forest.
"Wounded!" - Vasyutka started up and rushed after the padded capercaillie.
Only now did he guess what was the matter, and he began to reproach himself mercilessly:
- He rumbled with small shots. And what is small for him? He is almost with Druzhka! ..
The bird left in small flights. They got shorter and shorter. The capercaillie was weakening. Here he is, no longer able to lift a heavy body, ran.
"Now everything - I'll catch up!" - Vasyutka confidently decided and started faster. The bird was very close.
Quickly throwing off the bag from his shoulder, Vasyutka raised his gun and fired. In a few jumps, he found himself near the capercaillie and fell on his stomach.
- Stop, my dear, stop! Vasyutka muttered happily. - Don't leave now! Look, how quick! I, brother, 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. “There will be five kilograms, or even half a pood,” he estimated and put the bird into the bag. “I’ll run, otherwise my mother will kick in the back of the neck.”
Thinking about his luck, Vasyutka, happy, walked through the forest, whistled, sang whatever came to mind.
Suddenly he caught himself: where are the winds? It's time to be.
He looked around. The trees were no different from those on which the notches had been made. The forest stood motionless, quiet in its dull pensiveness, just as sparse, half-naked, entirely coniferous. Only here and there could be seen frail birch trees with rare yellow leaves. Yes, the forest was the same. And yet something else blew from him ...
Vasyutka abruptly turned back. He walked quickly, carefully looking at each tree, but there were no familiar notches.
- Fuck you, damn it! Where are the grips? Vasyutka's heart sank, and sweat broke out on his forehead. - All this capercaillie! Rushed like a goblin, now think about where to go, - Vasyutka spoke aloud to drive away the approaching fear. “Nothing, I’ll think about it and find a way.” So-so ... The almost bare side of the spruce means that the north is in that direction, and where there are more branches - the south. So-so...
After that, Vasyutka tried to remember on which side of the trees the old notches were made and on which side the new ones. But he did not notice this. Push and push.
- Oh, cudgel!
Fear began to press even harder. The boy spoke again.
- Okay, don't be shy. Let's find a hut. You have to go in one direction. You have to go south. At the hut, the Yenisei makes a turn, you can’t pass by. Well, everything is in order, and you, an eccentric, were afraid! - Vasyutka laughed and cheerfully commanded himself: - Step arsh! Hey, two!
But the vigor did not last long. There weren't any, and there weren't any. At times it seemed to the boy that he could clearly see them on the dark trunk. With a beating heart, he ran to the tree to feel with his hand a notch with drops of resin, but instead of it he found a rough fold of bark. Vasyutka had already changed direction several times, poured the bumps out of the sack, and walked and walked...
The forest became very quiet. Vasyutka stopped and stood listening for a long time. Knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock ... - my heart beat. Then Vasyutka's hearing, strained to the limit, caught some strange sound. There was a buzz somewhere. Here it froze and a second later it came again, like the hum of a distant plane. Vasyutka bent down and saw at his feet the decayed carcass of a bird. An experienced hunter - a spider stretched a web over a dead bird. The spider is no longer there - it must have gone to spend the winter in some kind of hollow, and abandoned the trap. A well-fed, large spit fly caught in it and beats, beats, buzzes with weakening wings. Something began to disturb Vasyutka at the sight of a helpless fly stuck in a net. And then it seemed to hit him: why, he got lost!
This discovery was so simple and amazing that Vasyutka did not immediately come to his senses.
He heard terrible stories from hunters many times about how people wander in the forest and sometimes die, but he did not imagine it at all. It all worked out very simply. Vasyutka did not yet know that the terrible things in life often begin very simply.
The stupor lasted until Vasyutka heard some mysterious rustling towards the depths of the darkened forest. He screamed and took off running. How many times he stumbled, fell, got up and ran again, Vasyutka did not know. Finally, he jumped into the windbreak and began to crash through the dry thorny branches. Then he fell face down from the deadwood into the damp moss and froze. Despair seized him, and immediately there was no strength. Come what may, he thought thoughtfully.
Night flew silently into the forest like an owl. And with it, the cold. Vasyutka felt his clothes soaked with sweat get cold.
“Taiga, our nurse, doesn’t like flimsy ones!” he remembered the words of his father and grandfather. And he began to remember everything he was taught, what he knew from the stories of fishermen and hunters. First things first, you need to make a fire. It's good that he grabbed the matches from home. Matches came in handy.
Vasyutka broke off the lower dry branches near the tree, tore off a bunch of dry bearded moss with his touch, crumbled the knots finely, put everything in a pile and set it on fire. The light, swaying, crept uncertainly through the branches. The moss flared up - it brightened around. Vasyutka threw more branches. Shadows shivered between the trees, the darkness receded further away. With monotonous itching, several mosquitoes flew into the fire - more fun with them.
We had to stock up on firewood for the night. Vasyutka, not sparing his hands, broke the boughs, dragged dry deadwood, twisted the old stump. Pulling a piece of bread out of the bag, he sighed and thought with anguish: “Crying, come on, mother.” He, too, wanted to cry, but he overcame himself and, having plucked the capercaillie, began to gut him with a penknife. Then he raked the fire aside, dug a hole in the hot spot and put the bird in it. Having tightly covered it with moss, sprinkled it with hot earth, ash, coals, put flaming brands on top and threw up firewood.
About an hour later, he unearthed the capercaillie. There was steam and an appetizing smell from the bird: the capercaillie stole in its own juice - a hunting dish! But without salt, what a taste! Vasyutka swallowed the insipid meat through force.
- Oh, stupid, stupid! How much of this salt is in barrels on the shore! That it cost a handful to pour into your pocket! he reproached himself.
Then he remembered that the sack he had taken for the cones was salted, and hastily turned it inside out. He dug out a pinch of dirty crystals from the corners of the bag, crushed them on the butt of his gun, and smiled through force:
- We live!
After supper, Vasyutka put the rest of the food in a bag, hung it on a bough so that the mice or someone else would not get to the grubs, and began to prepare a place for the night.
He moved the fire aside, removed all the coals, threw in branches with needles, moss and lay down, covering himself with a padded jacket.
Warmed up from below.
Busy with chores, Vasyutka did not feel loneliness so acutely. But it was worth lying down and thinking, as anxiety began to overcome with renewed vigor. The polar taiga is not afraid of the beast. The bear is a rare resident here. There are no wolves. The snake too. Sometimes, there are lynxes and lascivious foxes. But in autumn there is plenty of food for them in the forest, and they could hardly covet Vasyutka's reserves. And yet it was terrible. He loaded the single-barrel break, cocked the hammer, and placed the gun beside him. Sleep!
Less than five minutes later, Vasyutka felt that someone was sneaking up on him. He opened his eyes and froze: yes, sneaking! A step, a second, a rustle, a sigh... Someone slowly and carefully walks over the moss. Vasyutka fearfully turns her head and sees something dark and large not far from the fire. Now it is standing, not moving.
The boy peers tensely and begins to distinguish between arms raised to the sky, or paws. Vasyutka is not breathing: “What is this?” In the eyes of tension ripples, there is no more strength to hold back the breath. He jumps up, points his gun at this dark:
- Who it? Well, come on, or I’ll hit you with buckshot!
Not a sound in reply. Vasyutka stands still for some time, then slowly lowers the gun and licks her parched lips. "Indeed, what could be there?" - he is tormented and shouts again:
- I say, do not hide, otherwise it will be worse!
Silence. Vasyutka wipes sweat from her forehead with her sleeve and, plucking up courage, resolutely heads towards the dark object.
— Oh, damned! - he sighs with relief, seeing a huge root-eversion in front of him. - Well, I'm a coward! I almost lost my mind because of this nonsense.
To finally calm down, he breaks off the shoots from the rhizome and carries them to the fire.
A short August night in the Arctic. While Vasyutka finished with the firewood, the pitch-thick darkness began to thin out, to hide in the depths of the forest. Before it had time to completely dissipate, a fog had already crawled out to replace it. It got colder. The fire hissed from dampness, clicked, began to sneeze, as if angry at the wet veil that enveloped everything around. Mosquitoes, annoying all night, disappeared somewhere. No breath, no rustle.
Everything froze in anticipation of the first morning sound. What that sound will be is unknown. Maybe the timid whistle of a bird or the slight noise of the wind in the tops of bearded firs and gnarled larches, maybe a woodpecker will knock on a tree or a wild deer will trumpet. Something must be born from this silence, someone must wake up the sleepy taiga. Vasyutka shivered shiveringly, moved closer to the fire and fell asleep soundly, without 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, finally waking up, he heard the revived taiga.
Throughout the forest, Nutcrackers were anxiously shouting in the manner of bazaar traders. Somewhere, a zhelna began to cry like a child. Above Vasyutka's head, squeaking busily, the titmouse gutted an old tree. Vasyutka got up, stretched, and frightened off a feeding squirrel. She, clattering excitedly, rushed up the trunk of the spruce, sat down on a twig and, without ceasing clattering, stared at Vasyutka.
- Well, what are you looking at? I did not recognize? Vasyutka turned to her with a smile.
The squirrel wagged its fluffy tail.
- And I got lost. Foolishly rushed after the capercaillie 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, she would have run away, 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 by the wind, darted and went to count the trees. Following her with his eyes, Vasyutka fired again and waited a long time for an answer. Taiga didn't respond. Nutcrackers were still annoyingly, at random, bawling, a woodpecker was working nearby and drops of dew were clicking, falling from the trees.
There are ten cartridges left. Vasyutka no longer dared to shoot. He took off his padded jacket, threw his cap on it and, spitting on his hands, climbed up a tree.
Taiga... Taiga... It stretched endlessly in all directions, silent, indifferent. From above, it looked like a huge dark sea. The sky did not break off immediately, as it happens in the mountains, but stretched far, far away, closer and closer to the tops of the forest. The clouds overhead were rare, but the farther Vasyutka looked, the thicker they became, and finally the blue openings disappeared altogether. Clouds like compressed cotton wool fell on the taiga, and it dissolved in them.
Vasyutka searched for a long time with his eyes for a yellow strip of larch in the midst of a motionless green sea (a deciduous forest usually stretches along the banks of a river), but all around darkened solid conifer. It can be seen that the Yenisei was also lost in the deaf, gloomy taiga. Vasyutka felt like a little, little and cried out with anguish and despair:
- Hey, mom! Folder! Granddad! I got lost!..
His voice flew a little over the taiga and fell weightlessly - like a cedar cone into the moss.
Vasyutka slowly descended 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 piece of bread, began to chew. Having refreshed himself, he collected a bunch of cedar 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, the one and only question: “Where to go?” So the pockets are full of nuts, the cartridges are checked, a belt is attached to the bag instead of a strap, and the issue is still not resolved. Finally Vasyutka threw the bag over his shoulder, stood for a minute, as if saying goodbye to the habitable place, and went straight north. He reasoned simply: to the south, the taiga stretches for thousands of kilometers, you can completely get lost in it. And if you go north, then after a hundred kilometers the forest will end, the tundra will begin. Vasyutka understood that going out into the tundra was not salvation. Settlements there are very rare, and it is unlikely that you will soon stumble upon people. But he should at least get out of the forest, which blocks the light and crushes with its gloom. The weather was still good. Vasyutka was also afraid to think about what would happen to him if autumn rages. By all indications, it won't be long before that happens. The sun was setting when Vasyutka noticed scrawny stalks of grass among the monotonous moss. He stepped up. Grass began to come across more often and no longer in individual blades of grass, but in bunches. Vasyutka became agitated: grass usually grows near large bodies of water. “Is it really ahead of the Yenisei?” Vasyutka thought with surging joy. Noticing birches, aspens, and then small shrubs among 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 paid no attention to this and, protecting his eyes from the flexible branches with his hand, pushed his way forward with a crash. There was a gap between the bushes. The coast is ahead... Water! Not believing his eyes, Vasyutka stopped. So he stood for some time and felt that his legs were aching. Swamp! Swamps are most often found 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 the thicket, nettles, bushes - and here he is on the shore. No, this is not the Yenisei. In front of Vasyutka's eyes is a small dull lake, covered with duckweed near the shore. Vasyutka lay down on his stomach, scraped off the green slurry of duckweed with his hand, and greedily pressed his lips to the water. Then he sat down, with a weary movement took off his sack, began to wipe his face with his cap, and suddenly, clutching it with his teeth, burst into tears.

Vasyutka decided to spend the night on the shore of the lake. He chose a drier place, dragged firewood, lit a fire. With a spark is always more fun, and alone - even more so. Having roasted the cones in the fire, Vasyutka rolled them out of the ashes one by one with a stick, like a baked potato. The nuts were already hurting his tongue, but he decided: as long as he had enough patience, do not touch the bread, but eat nuts, 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, not reaching the bottom. Saying goodbye to the day, here and there titmouse tinkered sadly, jays wept, loons groaned. And yet it was much more fun by the lake than in the thick of the taiga. But there are still a lot of mosquitoes here. They started pestering Vasyutka. Waving them off, the boy carefully watched the ducks diving into the lake. They were not at all frightened and swam near the shore with a master's grunt. There were plenty of ducks. There was no point in shooting one at a time. Vasyutka, taking a gun, went to a cape that jutted out into the lake, and sat down on the grass. Next to the sedge, on the smooth surface of the water, circles blurred every now and then. This got the boy's attention. Vasyutka looked into the water and froze: near the grass, densely, one to the other, moving their gills and tails, the fish were swarming. There were so many fish that Vasyutka had doubts: “Algae, probably?” He touched the grass with a stick. Schools of fish moved away from the shore and stopped again, lazily working their fins. Vasyutka has never seen so many fish before. And not just any lake fish: pike there, horned or perch. No, but he recognized the broad backs and white sides as peleds, broad whitefish, whitefish. It was the most amazing thing. There are white fish in the lake! Vasyutka twitched 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, aimed a couple and fired. Two well-dressed wigeons tipped over with their bellies up and often, often moved their paws. Another duck, with its wing protruding, swam sideways away from the shore. The rest were alarmed and flew noisily to the other side of the lake. For about ten minutes herds of frightened birds rushed over the water. The boy got a couple of dead ducks with a long stick, and the third managed to swim far away. “Okay, I’ll get it tomorrow,” Vasyutka waved his hand. The sky had already darkened, dusk was descending into the forest. The middle of the lake now resembled a red-hot stove. It seemed that if you put slices of potatoes on the smooth surface of the water, they would be baked in an instant, smelling burnt and delicious. Vasyutka swallowed his saliva, looked once more at the lake, at the bloody sky, and said anxiously: "There will be wind tomorrow." How about some more rain? He plucked the ducks, buried them in the hot coals of the fire, lay down on the fir branches and began cracking nuts. Dawn burned out. In the darkened sky, there were rare motionless clouds. The stars began to erupt. A small, fingernail-like moon appeared. It got brighter. Vasyutka remembered the words of his grandfather: “Started - to the cold!” And his heart grew even more uneasy. To drive away evil thoughts, Vasyutka tried to think first about the house, and then he remembered the school, comrades. Vasyutka has never been further than the Yenisei and has seen only one city - Igarka. How much did Vasyutka want to know and see in life? Many. Will he know? Will he get out of the taiga? Lost in it like a grain of sand. What's at home now? There, beyond the taiga, people seem to be in another world: they watch movies, eat bread... maybe even sweets. They eat as much as they want. The school is now preparing to welcome the students. A new poster has already been hung over the school doors, on which is written in large words: "Welcome!" Vasyutka was completely depressed. He felt sorry for himself, began to pester remorse. He didn’t listen at the lessons and during recess he almost walked on his head, smoked secretly. Children from all over the district come to the school: there are Evenks, here are Nenets, and Nganasans. They have their own habits. It used to happen that one of them would take out a pipe during the lesson and light it up without further ado. This is especially true for toddlers - first-graders. They have just come from the taiga and do not understand any discipline. If the teacher Olga Fedorovna begins to interpret to such a student about the harmfulness of smoking - he is offended; the tube will be taken away - roars. Vasyutka himself also smoked and gave them tobacco. "Oh, I wish I could see Olga Fyodorovna now..." Vasyutka thought aloud. - I would shake out all the tobacco ... Vasyutka was tired during the day, but sleep did not go. He threw wood on the fire and lay down on his back again. The clouds have disappeared. Distant and mysterious, the stars winked, as if calling somewhere. Here one of them rushed down, traced the dark sky and immediately melted. “The asterisk went out - it means that someone’s life was cut short,” Vasyutka recalled the words of grandfather Athanasius. Vasyutka became quite bitter. “Maybe ours saw her?” he thought, pulling on his quilted jacket over his face, and soon fell into an uneasy sleep.

Vasyutka woke up late, from the cold, and saw no lake, no sky, no bushes. Again there was a sticky, motionless fog all around. Only loud and frequent slaps were heard from the lake: it was the fish playing and feeding. Vasyutka got up, shivered, dug up 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 hastily. The thought that had bothered Vasyutka last night popped into his head again: “Why are there so many white fish in the lake?” He heard from fishermen more than once that in some lakes white fish are supposed to be found, but these lakes must 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 he was delighted - Yenisei, Yenisei - and he saw a swamp cone. No, it's better not to think.
Having finished with the duck, Vasyutka lay still by the fire, waiting for the fog to subside. Eyelids stuck together. But even through the lingering, despondent drowsiness, one could hear: “Where did the river fish come from in the lake?”
- Ugh, evil spirit! Vasyutka cursed. - Attached like a bath leaf. "Where, where"! Well, maybe the birds brought caviar on their paws, well, maybe fry, well, maybe ... Ah, that’s all 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 dead duck on the water, I was surprised and decided that the kite had dragged it away or been eaten by water rats.
It seemed to Vasyutka that in the place where the shores meet, there is the end of the lake, but he was mistaken. There was only an isthmus. When the fog cleared, a large, sparsely overgrown lake opened before the boy, and the one near which he spent the night was only a bay - an echo of the lake.
- Blimey! gasped Vasyutka. - That's where the fish are, probably ... Here, one wouldn't have to strain water with nets in vain. Get out, tell. - And, encouraging himself, he added: - And what? And I'll get out! I'll go, I'll go and...
Then Vasyutka noticed a small lump floating near the isthmus, came closer and saw a dead duck. He was stunned: “Is it really mine? How did you bring her here?!” The boy quickly broke off the stick and scooped the bird up to him. Yes, it was a wigeon duck with a cherry-colored head.
- My! My! Vasyutka muttered in excitement, throwing the duck into the sack. - My duck! - He even began to have a fever. “Since there was no wind, and the duck was blown away, it means that there is a draft, a flowing lake!”
It was both joyful and somehow scary to believe in it. Hastily stepping from hummock to hummock, Vasyutka pushed his way through the windbreak, thick berry bushes. In one place, a hefty capercaillie shot up almost from under his feet and sat down nearby. Vasyutka showed him the cookie:
- Don't you want that? I'll fail if I still contact your brother!
The wind was up.
The dry trees that had outlived their time swayed and creaked. Leaves raised from the ground and plucked from trees swirled over the lake in a swarming flock. Loons groaned, predicting bad weather. The lake was covered with wrinkles, the shadows on the water swayed, the clouds covered the sun, it became gloomy, uncomfortable around.
Far ahead, Vasyutka noticed a yellow furrow of a deciduous forest going deep into the taiga. So there is a river. His throat was dry with excitement. “Again, some kind of lake gut. He imagines, and that's it, ”Vasyutka doubted, but he went faster. Now he was even afraid to stop to drink: what if he leaned towards the water, raised his head and did not see a bright furrow ahead?
Having run a kilometer along a barely noticeable bank, overgrown with reeds, sedge and small shrubs, Vasyutka stopped and took a breath. The thickets disappeared, and instead of them high steep banks appeared.
- Here it is, the river! Now no cheating! Vasyutka rejoiced.
True, he understood that rivers could flow not only into the Yenisei, but also into some other lake, but he did not want to think about it. The river, which he has been looking for for so long, must lead him to the Yenisei, otherwise ... he will become exhausted and disappear. Wow, something is really sick...
To quench his nausea, Vasyutka would pluck bunches of red currants as he walked, popping them into his mouth along with the stems. His mouth was sour and his tongue, scratched by nutshells, stung.
Rain is coming. At first, the drops were large, rare, then it thickened all around, poured, poured .... Vasyutka noticed a fir that had grown widely among a small aspen forest, and lay down under it. There was no desire, no strength to move, to make a fire. I wanted to eat and sleep. He tore off a small piece from the stale edge and, in order to prolong the pleasure, did not swallow it right away, but began to suck. I wanted to eat even more. Vasyutka snatched the rest of the crust from the bag, grabbed it with his teeth and, chewing badly, ate it all.
The rain didn't let up. From strong gusts of wind the fir swayed, shaking cold drops of water behind Vasyutka's collar. They crawled up the back. Vasyutka writhed, pulled his head into his shoulders. His eyelids began to close by themselves, as if heavy weights were hung on them, which are tied to fishing nets.
When he woke up, darkness, mixed with rain, was already descending on the forest. It was all the same dreary; it got even colder.
- Well, loaded, accursed! Vasyutka scolded the rain.
He thrust his hands into his sleeves, snuggled closer to the trunk of a fir, and again forgot himself in a heavy sleep. At dawn, Vasyutka, teeth chattering from the cold, crawled out from under the fir, breathed on his chilled hands and began to look for dry firewood. Aspen undressed almost naked during the night. Like thin plates of beets, dark red leaves lay on the ground. The water in the river has noticeably increased. Forest life is silent. Even the nutcrackers did not give a voice.
Having straightened the floors of the padded jacket, Vasyutka protected a bunch of branches and a piece of birch bark from the wind. There are four matches left. Without breathing, he struck a match on the box, let the flame flare up in his palms and brought it to the birch bark. She began to writhe, curled up into a tube and began to work. A puff of black smoke billowed out. The knots, hissing and crackling, flared up. Vasyutka took off his leaky boots and unwound the dirty footcloths. The legs were emaciated and wrinkled from the dampness. He warmed them up, dried his boots and footcloths, tore off the ribbons from his underpants and tied the sole of his right boot, which was held on three nails, with them.
Basking near the fire, Vasyutka suddenly caught something like a mosquito squeak and froze. A second later the sound was repeated, at first drawn out, then several times briefly.
“Beep! Vasyutka guessed. - The ship is humming! But why is it heard from there, from the lake? Oh, I see".
The boy knew these tricks of the taiga: the horn always responds to a nearby body of water. But the ship on the Yenisei is buzzing! Vasyutka was sure of this. Hurry, hurry, run there! He was in such a hurry, as if he had a ticket for this very ship.
At noon, Vasyutka picked up a herd of geese from the river, hit them with grapeshot and knocked out two. He was in a hurry, so he roasted one goose on a spit, and not in a hole, as he had done before. There were two matches left, and Vasyutka's strength was running out. I wanted to lie down and not move. He could move two or three hundred meters from the river. There, through the woodlands, it was much easier to make his way, but he was afraid to lose sight of the river.
The boy plodded on, almost collapsing from exhaustion. Suddenly, the forest parted, revealing the sloping bank of the Yenisei in front of Vasyutka. The boy froze. It even took his breath away - so beautiful, so wide was his native river! And before that, for some reason, she seemed ordinary and not very friendly to him. He rushed forward, fell on the edge of the shore and began to grab water in greedy gulps, slap on it with his hands, dip his face in it.
- Yeniseyushko! Glorious, good ... - Vasyutka sniffed and smeared his dirty, smoke-scented hands with tears on his face. Vasyutka went crazy with joy. He began to jump, tossing handfuls of sand. Flocks of white gulls rose from the shore and circled over the river with displeased cries.
Just as unexpectedly, Vasyutka woke up, stopped making noise and even became somewhat embarrassed, looking around. But no one was anywhere, and he began to decide where to go: up or down the Yenisei? The place was unfamiliar. The boy never came up with anything. It's a shame, of course: maybe the house is close, there is a mother, grandfather, father, food - as much as you want, but here you sit and wait for someone to swim, and people don't swim in the lower reaches of the Yenisei often ...
Vasyutka looks up and then out

"Mumu" (Story) Retelling In Moscow, there lived an old lady, a widow, whom everyone left. Among her servants, one man stood out - a hero, gifted with an extraordinary layer, but dumb, he served as a janitor for the mistress. This hero's name was Gerasim. They brought him to the lady from the village.