The story "Vasyutkino Lake" by Astafyev, written in 1952, is largely autobiographical, and is based on the writer's childhood memories. In his book, Viktor Petrovich fully managed to convey the experiences of a boy who was lost in the taiga.
For better preparation for the 5th grade literature lesson, we recommend reading the Vasyutkino Lake summary online. Also, a brief retelling is useful for a reader's diary.
main characters
Vasyutka- a brave, kind, intelligent boy of thirteen years.
Other characters
Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin- Vasya's father, foreman of the fishing brigade.
Athanasius Vasyutka's grandfather.
Uncle Kolyada- foreman of the fishing boat.
Brief retelling
"Fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin" go fishing in the lower reaches of the Yenisei and stop in a hut built "several years ago by a scientific expedition." The thirteen-year-old son of the foreman, Vasyutka, is sent along with them.
The fishermen mend the nets, make anchors, caulk the boats, and once a day they check the "strings and paired nets" set far from the shore. Valuable fish often fall into traps, but there is no "excitement, dashing" in such a calm fishing. Grandfather Athanasius often complains that "Father Yenisei has become impoverished."
Vasyutka amuses herself by collecting pine nuts for the fishermen. Soon all nearby cedars are left without cones, and the boy has to "climb farther and farther into the depths of the forest."
Ten days before the start of the school year, Vasyutka decides to go on a real hike for nuts. He thoroughly prepares for it - he takes with him bread, matches and a gun with a bandolier.
Walking through the taiga, the boy does not forget to follow "the marks on the trees", out of boredom he begins to mentally talk about "the road and all sorts of taiga differences."
On top of an old spruce, Vasyutka notices a nutcracker “screaming” at the top of its lungs. He wants to shoot her, but he remembers in time that in the taiga, in no case should one waste cartridges. This law is "strongly hammered into Siberians from birth".
Vasyutka notices a cedar, in which "whole broods of resinous cones hid", and climbs onto it. With all his might, he taps his feet “on the spreading branches of the cedar”, and the cones rain down on the ground. After collecting them in a bag, the boy thinks about how to "rob" another tree.
At this moment, Vasyutka notices a huge capercaillie. He regrets that this time he did not call his faithful Druzhok - it is much more convenient to hunt this bird with a dog. Getting closer, Vasyutka shoots and injures the bird. He catches up with the weakened capercaillie and twists his neck, but he does not notice how he finds himself in a dense forest without a single familiar notch on the tree.
Panic seizes Vasyutka. In order to somehow cope with fear, he begins to speak out loud, but this does not help. Hearing "some mysterious rustle to the depths of the darkened forest", the boy runs in horror wherever his eyes look.
With the onset of night, Vasyutka tries to remember everything that his father and grandfather told him about the taiga. He manages to kindle a fire and cook wood grouse meat. After dinner, the boy shifts aside the embers from the fire, and he builds himself a couch of moss and branches on the warm earth after the fire.
The night in the taiga is very disturbing. In the morning Vasyutka climbs the tallest tree and peers into the silent, indifferent taiga. Not finding familiar places, the boy decides to go north.
By evening, Vasyutka begins to notice “skinny stalks of grass among the monotonous moss” - which means that there is water somewhere nearby. He hopes that he will soon reach the Yenisei, but stumbles only on "a dull lake, covered with duckweed near the shore." Looking around, Vasyutka is surprised at the large number of fearless ducks on the lake, but even more so at the great variety of fish, among which there is also a valuable white fish.
The next day, Vasyutka carefully inspects a large lake, and comes to the conclusion that there is "a traction lake, a flowing lake" in it. This means that the reservoir is connected with a small river, which, in turn, is connected to the Yenisei.
During the day, the weather changes - it becomes "gloomy, uncomfortable", it is a cold autumn rain. Vasyutka hides under a spreading fir, eats a precious piece of bread and falls asleep. Waking up, he begins to kindle a fire, when he suddenly hears a faint steamship whistle coming from afar. Not believing his luck, Vasyutka runs towards this sound.
The boy runs out to the Yenisei and notices a small smoke, "as if from a cigarette" - the ship is approaching. In desperation, he screams and waves his arms, but the captain takes him for a local resident and does not stop.
Vasyutka has no choice but to spend the night at this place. In the morning, he hears the sound of a "boat fishing boat" exhaust pipe. The boy kindles a stronger fire, shoots a gun, and they notice him. The captain of the boat, well-known uncle Kolyada, safely delivers Vasyutka to his relatives, who have been unsuccessfully looking for him in the taiga for the fifth day already.
Two days later, the boy took the entire fishing team to the lake, which the fishermen called Vasyutkin. There were so many fish there that Shadrin's team completely switched to lake fishing.
Over time, a tiny blue spot appeared on the regional map with the inscription "Vasyutkino Lake." . On the regional map, it was already listed without a name, and on the map of the country, "this lake can only be found by Vasyutka himself."
Conclusion
In his story, Astafiev highlights the main idea - even in the most difficult situation, you should never give up. You need to overcome your fear and look for ways to solve the problem - only then can you hope for success.
A brief retelling of "Vasyutkino Lake" will be useful for the reader's diary. After reading it, we recommend that you read Astafiev's story in the full version.
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Watch and listen to the audiobook "Vasyutkino Lake"
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This lake cannot be found on the map. It is small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! What an honor for a thirteen-year-old boy - a lake named after him! Even if it is not large, not like, say, Baikal, but Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, do not be surprised and do not 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 through 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 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 now, - Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy grumbled. - 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 also be transferred, and they will read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon only 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.
Sabbath, guys! - Grigory Afanasyevich said when the unloading was over. - We will no longer wander. 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 paired 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 learning, 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.
- "Hunting, hunting"! 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 ventures - 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 sack and hurried 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 skids. 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. Trembling before 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!" rushed through the forest again.
Ugh, cursed witch! - swore Vasyutka 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 bastard!
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 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 my hands subsided, the fly stopped dancing, its tip touched the capercaillie ... Thr-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!" - confidently decided Vasyutka and started up stronger. 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, darling, 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 in a bag.
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.
Fu-you, damn! Where are the grips? - Vasyutka's heart sank, perspiration appeared 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 - it 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.
Eh, bastard!
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 chuckled 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 despondently.
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, plucked 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. Monotonously 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 out a piece of bread from 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:
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. "Really, what could be there?" - he suffers 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 damn! - 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 here I am 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, come on, 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... Without end and edge it stretched 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 of pressed cotton wool lay on the taiga, and it dissolved in them.
For a long time Vasyutka searched 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, mommy! Folder! Grandfather! I got lost!..
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 decided 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 yet 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 among the coniferous trees birch, aspen, and then a small shrub, he could not restrain himself, ran and soon burst into dense thickets of bird cherry, creeping willow, 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.
Ahead is the shore ... 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.
See also: "Vasyutkino Lake" Viktor Astafiev
This lake cannot be found on the map. It is small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! What an honor for a thirteen-year-old boy - a lake named after him! Even if it is not large, not like, say, Baikal, but Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, do not be surprised and do not 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 through 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 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 now, - Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy grumbled. - 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 also be transferred, but they will read about omul only 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.
Sabbath, guys! - Grigory Afanasyevich said when the unloading was over. - We will no longer wander. 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 paired networks - ferries that were set far from the coast.
Valuable fish fell into these traps: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, often, 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 learning, 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.
- "Hunting, hunting"! 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 ventures - 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 sack and hurried 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 skids. 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! - swore Vasyutka 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 bastard!
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 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 my hands subsided, the fly stopped dancing, its tip touched the capercaillie ... Thr-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!" - confidently decided Vasyutka and started up stronger. 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, darling, 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 in a 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.
Fu-you, damn! Where are the grips? - Vasyutka's heart sank, perspiration appeared 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 - it 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.
Eh, bastard!
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 chuckled 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 first edition of the book Vasyutkino Lake, 1956. Molotov. 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
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 vaguely.
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, plucked 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. Monotonously 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:
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 Vasyutkin's stocks. 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 suffers 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 damn! - 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 . 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, gutted
titmouse 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 here I am 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, come on, 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... Without end and edge it stretched 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 of pressed cotton wool lay on the taiga, and it dissolved in them.
For a long time Vasyutka searched 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, mommy! Folder! Grandfather! I got lost!..
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, it will begin. Vasyutka understood that going out into the tundra was not yet 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 among the coniferous trees birch, aspen, and then a small shrub, he could not restrain himself, ran and soon burst into dense thickets of bird cherry, creeping willow, 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.
Ahead is the shore ... 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, tomorrow I'll get it, - 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 became even more anxious.
To drive away evil thoughts, Vasyutka tried to think first about the house, and then he remembered the school, comrades.
How much did Vasyutka want to know and see in life? Lot. 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. The teacher Olga Fedorovna will begin 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.
Eh, now I would like to see Olga Fedorovna ... - Vasyutka thought aloud. - 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. "Got out
an asterisk means 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 more than once from fishermen that white fish were found in some lakes, 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! - swore Vasyutka. - Attached like a bath sheet. "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 the fallen trees in the fog, began to make his way along the coast. 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 just a bay - an echo of the lake.
Blimey! gasped Vasyutka. - That's where the fish are, probably ... Here you 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 bag. - My duck! - He even began to have a fever. - Since there was no wind, and the duck was carried away, it means that there is a drag, 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 this? 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 around, poured, poured .... Vasyutka noticed a fir tree 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, damn! 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 buzzing! 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 his nose 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 do not often swim in the lower reaches of the Yenisei ...
Vasyutka looks up and down the river. The shores stretch towards each other, they want to close and are lost in space. Over there, in the upper reaches of the river, there was smoke. Small, as if from a cigarette. The smoke is getting bigger and bigger... A dark dot has appeared under it. The steamer is coming. It's a long time to wait for him. In order to somehow pass the time, Vasyutka decided to wash himself. A boy with pointed cheekbones looked at him from the water. The smoke, mud, and wind made his eyebrows even darker, and his lips chapped.
Well, you've made it, my friend! Vasyutka shook his head.
What if it took longer to wander?
The ship was getting closer and closer. Vasyutka had already seen that this was not an ordinary steamship, but a double-deck passenger ship. Vasyutka tried to make out the inscription, and when he finally succeeded, he read aloud with pleasure:
- Sergo Ordzhonikidze.
Dark figures of passengers loomed on the ship. Vasyutka rushed about on the shore.
Hey, come on! Take me! Hey!.. Listen!..
One of the passengers noticed him and waved his hand. Vasyutka followed the ship with a bewildered look.
Oh, you-s, still called captains! “Sergo Ordzhonikidze”, but you don’t want to help a person ...
Vasyutka understood, of course, that during the long journey from Krasnoyarsk, the "captains" saw a lot of people on the shore, you didn't stop near everyone - and yet it was insulting. He began collecting firewood for the night.
This night was especially long and unsettling. It seemed to Vasyutka that someone was floating down the Yenisei. Now he heard the paddling of oars, now the clatter of motorboats, now steamship whistles.
In the morning, he really caught evenly repeating sounds: boot-boot-boot-boot ... Only the exhaust pipe of a fishing boat-boat could knock like that.
Did you wait? - Vasyutka jumped up, rubbed his eyes and shouted: - Knocking! - and again he listened and began, dancing, humming: - The bot is knocking, knocking, knocking! ..
He immediately came to his senses, grabbed his belongings and ran along the shore towards the boat. Then he rushed back and began to put all the stored firewood into the fire: he guessed that they would soon notice him by the fire. Sparks shot up, flames rose high. Finally, a tall, clumsy silhouette of a boat emerged from the predawn haze.
Vasyutka desperately shouted:
On the bot! Hey, on the bot! Stop! I got lost! Hey! Uncles! Who is alive there? Hey, helmsman!..
He remembered the gun, grabbed it and started firing upwards: bang! bang! bang!
Who is shooting? came a booming, stifled voice, as if the man were speaking without parting his lips. It was asked in a shout from a bot.
Yes, it's me, Vaska! I got lost! Get up, please! Come soon!..
But Vasyutka could not believe it and fired the last bullet.
Uncle, don't go! he shouted. - Take me! Take!..
The boat left the boat.
Vasyutka rushed into the water, wandered towards it, swallowing his tears and saying:
I'm lost, I'm completely lost...
Then, when they dragged him into the boat, he hurried:
Hurry, uncles, swim quickly, otherwise another boat will leave! There yesterday the steamer only flashed-street ...
You, little one, what are you talking about?! - a thick bass was heard from the stern of the boat, and Vasyutka recognized the foreman of the boat "Igarets" by his voice and funny Ukrainian accent.
Uncle Kolyada! It is you? And it's me, Vaska! The boy stopped crying.
Yaky Vaska?
Yes, Shadrinskiy. Grigory Shadrin, fish foreman, you know?
Whoo! And how did you get here?
And when in the dark cockpit, eating bread with dried sturgeon on both cheeks, Vasyutka told about his adventures, Kolyada slapped his knees and exclaimed:
Hey, said lad! That on scho toby that capercaillie surrendered? In nalyakav Ridna mats and dad ...
Also grandpa...
Kolyada shook with laughter:
Oh, sho toby! He remembered Dida too! Ha ha ha! Well, an encore soul! Do you know, did you get carried away?
I will be sixty kilometers below yours.
Otse toby and well! Lie down, let's sleep, you are my bitter grief.
Vasyutka fell asleep on the sergeant's bunk, wrapped in a blanket and in the clothes that were in the cockpit.
And Kolyada looked at him, shrugged and muttered:
In, the capercaillie hero sleeps sobi, and the father with the uterus from the gluzdu zikhaly ...
Without ceasing to mutter, he went up to the helm and ordered:
There will be no stopping on Sandy Island and Korashikha. Accelerate straight to Shadrin.
It's clear, comrade foreman, we'll house the lad in an instant!
Approaching the parking lot of foreman Shadrin, the helmsman turned the siren knob. A piercing howl swept over the river. But Vasyutka did not hear the signal.
Grandfather Afanasy went down to the shore and took the chalk from the boat.
What are you all alone today? - asked the sailor on duty, dropping the ladder.
Don't talk, boy, - the grandfather answered dejectedly. - We have trouble, oh trouble! .. Vasyutka, my grandson, is lost. We are looking for the fifth day. Oh-ho-ho, what a boy he was, what a boy, smart, sharp-eyed! ..
What is it? - Grandfather started up and dropped the pouch from which he scooped up tobacco with a pipe. - You ... you, boy, don't laugh at the old man. Where did Vasyutka come from?
I tell the truth, we picked him up on the shore! He arranged such a half-heartedness there - all the devils hid in the swamp!
Don't freak out! Where is Vasyutka? Let's get it quick! Is he whole!
Tse-ate. The foreman went to wake him up.
Grandfather Athanasius rushed to the ladder, but immediately turned sharply and trotted upstairs to the hut:
Anna! Anna! Found a minnow! Anna! Where are you? Rather run! He found...
Vasyutka's mother appeared in a flowery apron, with a handkerchief tucked to one side. When she saw the ragged Vasyutka descending the ladder, her legs buckled. She sank down on the stones with a groan, holding out her hands towards her son.
And here is Vasyutka at home! The hut is heated so that there is nothing to breathe. They covered him with two quilted blankets, a reindeer coat, and even tied a downy shawl.
Vasyutka is lying on the trestle bed, frazzled, and his mother and grandfather are fussing about, the cold is being kicked out of him. His mother rubbed him with alcohol, grandfather steamed some bitter roots like wormwood and forced him to drink this potion.
Maybe something else to eat, Vasenka? - gently, like a patient, asked the mother.
Yes, mom, there is nowhere ...
And if blueberry jam? You do love him!
If blueberry, two spoons, perhaps, will go in.
Eat, eat!
Oh, Vasyukha, Vasyukha! - grandfather stroked his head, - How did you blunder? Since this is the case, there was no need to rush about. We would find you soon. Well, okay, it's a thing of the past. Flour - forward science. Yes, capercaillie, you say, did you fail after all? Case! We'll buy you a new gun for next year. You're still slamming a bear. Mark my word!
Not my God! - the mother was indignant. - Close to the hut I will not let you in with a gun. Buy an accordion, buy a receiver, and so that there is no spirit!
Let's go baby talk! - Grandpa waved his hand, - Well, a little guy got lost. So now, in your opinion, do not go into the forest?
Grandfather winked at Vasyutka: they say, do not pay attention, there will be a new gun - and the whole story!
Mother wanted to say something else, but Druzhok barked in the street, and she ran out of the hut.
Grigory Afanasyevich walked out of the forest, his shoulders wearily slumped, in a wet raincoat. His eyes were sunken, his face, overgrown with thick black bristles, was gloomy.
All in vain, - he waved his hand dismissively. No, the guy is missing...
Found! At home he...
Grigory Afanasyevich took a step towards his wife, stood for a moment, bewildered, then spoke, restraining his excitement:
Well, why cry? Found it and it's good. Why wet something to breed? Is he well? - and, without waiting for an answer, went to the hut. His mother stopped him
You, Grisha, are not particularly strict with him. He's been through so much. He told me, so goosebumps ...
Okay, don't study!
Grigory Afanasyevich went into the hut, put his gun in the corner, and took off his raincoat.
Vasyutka, sticking his head out from under the covers, watched his father expectantly and timidly. Grandfather Athanasius, puffing on his pipe, coughed.
Well, where are you, tramp? - the father turned to Vasyutka, and his lips were touched by a slightly perceptible smile.
Here I am! Vasyutka jumped up from the couch, bursting into happy laughter. - Mom wrapped me up like a girl, but I didn’t catch a cold at all. Here, feel it, dad. He extended his father's hand to his forehead.
Grigory Afanasyevich pressed his son's face to his stomach and lightly patted his back:
Chattered, varnak! Oooh, swamp fever! You made us trouble, spoiled the blood! .. Tell me where you were?
He keeps talking about some kind of lake, - Grandfather Athanasius spoke up. - Pisces, he says, is apparently invisible in him.
We know a lot of fish lakes even without it, but you won’t suddenly get on them.
And to this, folder, you can swim, because the river flows out of it.
River, you say? Grigory Afanasyevich perked up. - Interesting! Come on, come on, tell me what you found over the lake there ...
Two days later, Vasyutka, like a real guide, walked up the bank of the river, and a team of fishermen in boats followed him up.
The weather was most autumn. Shaggy clouds were rushing somewhere, almost touching the tops of the trees; the forest rustled and swayed; in the sky there were alarming cries of birds moving south. Vasyutka now any bad weather was uneasy. In rubber boots and a canvas jacket, he kept close to his father, adjusting to his step, and slandered:
They, geese, how to take off-at all at once, I'll give you a ka-ak! Two fell on the spot, and one more hobbled, hobbled and fell down in the forest, but I did not follow him, I was afraid to leave the river.
Mud clods stuck to Vasyutka's boots, he was tired, sweaty and, no, no, yes, and switched to a trot in order to keep up with his father.
And after all, I hit them in flight, geese, then ...
The father did not respond. Vasyutka minced silently and began again:
And what? Flying in is even better, it turns out, to shoot: I immediately slammed a few!
Don't brag! said the father, and shook his head. - And who are you growing into such a braggart? Trouble!
Yes, I’m not boasting: if it’s true, then I should boast, - Vasyutka muttered in embarrassment and turned the conversation to something else. - And soon, dad, there will be a fir under which I spent the night. Oh, and I'm cold then!
But now, I see, all soprel. Go to your grandfather in the boat, boast about the geese. He loves to listen to stories. Get up, get up!
Vasyutka lagged behind his father and waited for a boat pulled by towline fishermen. They were very tired and wet, and Vasyutka felt ashamed to swim in the boat and also took up the line and began to help the fishermen.
When a wide lake, lost among the deaf taiga, opened up ahead, one of the fishermen said:
Here is Lake Vasyutkino ...
Since then, it has gone: Vasyutkino Lake, Vasyutkino Lake.
There were really a lot of fish in it. The brigade of Grigory Shadrin, and soon another collective farm brigade, switched to lake fishing.
In winter, a hut was built near this lake. Through the snow, collective farmers threw fish containers, salt, nets there and opened a permanent fishery.
On the regional map, another blue speck appeared, with the size of a fingernail, under the words: "Vasyutkino Lake." On the regional map, this speck is only the size of a pinhead, already without a name. On the map of our country, Vasyutka himself will be able to find this lake.
Maybe you saw spots on the physical map in the lower reaches of the Yenisei, as if a careless student splashed blue ink from a pen? Here, somewhere among these blots, there is one that is called Vasyutkin Lake.
Astafiev V.P. Collected works in 15 volumes, 1997, Krasnoyarsk, volume 1, pp. 128-151
Vasyutkino Lake is the name of the lake, which was discovered by the thirteen-year-old boy Vasyutka. It really was not on the map, it was relatively small, for example, compared to Baikal, but the boy himself discovered it.
The boy's father and grandfather were fishermen. They even had a whole brigade. Father's name was Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin, grandfather, respectively, Afanasy.
The father for the boy always seemed big and taciturn. The boy was always shy at the sight of his father.
Shadrin's team was in search of fish on the Yenisei River, however, frequent autumn rains did their job, and the fish went to the bottom, the catch was small.
The fishermen went far down the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were put ashore, the luggage was brought into a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.
Grigory Afanasyevich gave an order to his fishing brigade, said that they would no longer roam this year, it was time to stop and wait out the wrong time of the year. He examined the hut and said that they would live here, but for now they would prepare tackle and fish with ferries and slings.
Then the whole brigade began monotonous everyday life. The fishermen put their tackle in order and once a day checked the nets, which always had a valuable catch. But he did not bring such pleasure, which would have been if he had been in such numbers, and as they were used to seeing him. And the brigade had no labor fun, excitement and dashing.
And Vasyutka had a very boring life. There is no one to play with, walk and talk with. Only one thought reassured the boy that the school year was coming soon and his parents would send him home soon. The foreman of the fishing boat, Uncle Kolyada, even brought him new textbooks, and Vasyutka, out of boredom, periodically looked into them. But the most interesting activity for him was picking up nuts for the team. He was very fond of walking through the woods alone, singing different tunes and sometimes firing a gun.
Once Vasyutka woke up, and there was no one in the hut except his mother. He, as usual, noted in his calendar that there were 10 days left until the first of September, and began to gather in the forest for cedar cones. Mom began to grumble, said that her son, instead of preparing for school, was only walking in the forest. And she added that if the men want nuts so much, then let them go after them themselves, otherwise they not only force the boy, they also litter. In general, out of habit, motherly, she scolded him. She told Vasyutka to be careful, not to go far, and took a piece of bread, no matter how the boy objected, he still did as his mother said.
Vasyutka walked through the taiga and thought about how I make notches and paths, and compared the paths with the wrinkles of his grandfather Athanasius. From an early age he loved such arguments, and he would have continued them, but only heard a nasty croak. It was a nutcracker, a bird that is useful in that it spreads cedar seeds through the forest, but is nasty and annoying. Vasyutka wanted to shoot her with a gun, but remembered that they were cursing him for uselessly spent cartridges. He was looking for cedar fruits, but he found only pine cones that had been eaten by nutcrackers. And suddenly he saw growing nuts in large numbers. He climbed a tree, trotted it, then collected the cones. And suddenly he sees a tree with the same number of fruits. He wanted to climb on it, but suddenly he saw a capercaillie bird in front of him. Previously, he had heard that it was a big and cunning bird, but it could be lured by a dog, the bird began to watch the dog, and at that time it could be killed. Frustrated that he did not take his dog, Vasyutka himself began to pretend to be her. He began to run around on all fours, barking, scratching his face and tearing his T-shirt. And the capercaillie watched him with interest. And then, taking will into a fist, Vasyutka shot at the bird, and shot it. The capercaillie flew away in fright, and Vasyutka followed him. He ran while he was flying, but when the capercaillie had less strength, he also began to run. As a result, the five-kilogram bird ended up in the boy's bag. He happily went further through the forest, whistling some song and thinking about his luck. And then his joy was replaced by anxiety. He does not see the notches in the trees and in a panic begins to look for them, determining the north and south. He understands that he is lost. Vasyutka could not believe it and was in a daze. He often heard stories of people getting lost, but he never imagined that it was so easy.
Vasyutka was in shock until he heard strange rustles. He got scared and started to run. He ran quickly, breaking through the branches of dry and thorny trees. Then he fell and gave up. “Whatever happens,” he thought.
From the desire not to freeze and die, the boy began to remember everything that his father and grandfather had once told him. And, remembering the stories, he made a fire and cooked the capercaillie, but he ate it through force, since it was not at all salty. He remembered that he took a bag that once contained salt, he scraped a pinch from the corners of the bag and then ate with pleasure. He began to prepare a lodging for the night, and these worries distracted him a little, but as soon as he lay down, fear and thoughts overcame him. He knew that wolves, snakes and bears were rare in this forest, but he decided to play it safe and went to bed with his weapons. Less than five minutes later, Vasyutka heard that someone was sneaking up to him. He heard steps on the moss, it was something black, with raised paws or hands. He jumped up and in a panic began to ask "who is this?" and threaten to shoot, but this big and black one did not respond. Looking closer, he realized that it was an ordinary root-eversion. Vasyutka told himself that he was a coward, and decided to cut off the offshoot so that he would no longer be frightened.
The night in August is short in these places, and while Vasyutka managed with firewood, it began to get light. It was foggy and cold. Vasyutka sat down next to the fire, warmed himself and fell asleep. I woke up when the forest was shrouded in sunlight. The boy could not understand where he was for a long time. The birds did not stop singing and screaming. He had 10 rounds left, and he did not dare to shoot anymore. He took off his padded jacket and climbed a tree, he wanted to see a yellow strip of deciduous forest, but there was only conifer around. Vasyutka felt small, small and shouted at the top of his voice: “mother, father, grandfather, I got lost!”. The boy fell down from the tree and thought for half an hour, then had a bite to eat and began to get ready. He put the nuts in his pocket and set off to the north, precisely to the north, and not to the south, since in this way he would sooner be out of the forest, hoping to get at least into the tundra.
He wandered off. He walked and walked, and suddenly the grass began to appear more often, more and more richly. Vasyutka saw a birch, a wild cherry, a nettle, a currant, he hoped that the Yenisei was ahead. There was a gap between the bushes. There really was a coast ahead, but not the Yenisei. There was a swamp ahead, the boy remembered that swamps are ahead of lakes. His lips trembled, he began to calm himself, telling himself that there was also a swamp near the Yenisei. He ran a little more and saw a small lake.
Vasyutka, glaring at his cap, burst into tears. He decided to spend the night on the shore, chose a drier place, lit a fire, fried the cones like potatoes, and promised himself that he would not eat the bread that his mother gave him until he had absolutely nothing to eat.
Evening was falling, he was tormented by mosquitoes. Vasyutka watched the ducks that swam on the lake and felt like mistresses. It was foolish to shoot at one of the ducks, as there were so many of them. Taking a weapon, Vasyutka went to the adjacent cape and saw a large number of fish there, and not just any, but white lake fish. Then he shot a couple of ducks, but one managed to fly away wounded, but he got the rest and roasted them. At the same time, he cracked nuts.
The sky was red, and the boy assumed that the next day there would be wind and rain. Night was falling, and after Vasyutka thought about his parents, about the house, about school, and how he would get out of the forest, feeling homesick, he fell asleep.
He woke up cold. From the beginning he ate ducks, and then he began to warm his back and began to think where the white fish came from in the lake. He remembered that once the fishermen told him that if there is a white fish in the lake, then it flows into the river, and Vasyutka was delighted, because he hoped that this was the Yenisei River, but began to hold back his thoughts, because he did not want to be upset later. This news haunted the boy, he decided to go to the place where he killed the ducks earlier. And there he found out there was a big lake on the other side, and that's where he finds that duck that was shot. He does not understand how this duck could be there. And suddenly Vasyutka realizes that the lake is really flowing, i.e. flows into the river. And then the boy ran through the hummocks, bushes and trees, and in the distance he noticed a piece of yellow deciduous forest and realized that a river was flowing there, but did not leave him for doubt.
His throat was dry, but he was afraid to stop. The boy reached the river and hoped that he would lead him to the Yenisei. Vasyutka wanted to eat and only currants saved him. It began to rain and from hunger he ate the bread that his mother gave him on the road. He fell asleep, and when he woke up, it was already dark, and, cursing the rain, he fell asleep again. Waking up from the rain, the boy began to look for dry branches for a fire. After warming his feet, he dried his boots and footcloths. And suddenly the whistle of the steamer was heard, Vasyutka began to run, before that he fried the duck and he ran out of strength and matches, he ran and was afraid to lose sight of the river. The boy wandered, falling from fatigue, but eventually ended up on the banks of his native Yenisei River. He began to greedily drink water from the reservoir and enjoy the beautiful view, which had previously seemed dull to him.
He thought to go home up or down, because he was afraid that either someone would not swim, or the house was close, and he would go the wrong way. In the distance he saw a steamer and began to wait for it. It was a double-deck passenger ship. Vasyutka began to shout and wave his arms, but he saw nothing but return greetings. The boy began to prepare for the night, but the night was disturbing, as he was afraid that someone would swim while he was sleeping. And as soon as Vasyutka woke up, he heard the sounds of an approaching fishing boat. The boy quickly gathered himself and began to throw firewood into the fire so that he would be noticed sooner.
Vasyutka desperately shouted, remembering the gun, he fired, thereby attracting attention. As a result, the boat began to moor to the shore, and Vasyutka swam towards him, crying from resentment and saying that he was lost. And there he saw the same uncle Kolyada, who recently bought him books. The boy told everything to his friend, who laughed and said that Vasyutka had gone sixty kilometers from home. After this conversation, the boy fell asleep.
Having rushed Vasyutka to the house, they gave a piercing sound on the boat. Grandfather Athanasius came out, he was all sad. He told about his grief that they were looking for a grandson for the fifth day already. But he was told in response that their loss was sleeping in the cockpit. Grandfather could not believe it and doubted for a long time, called Anka (the boy's mother).
The meeting of parents with their son looked very touching.
The house was very hot. The boy was laid on a trestle bed and covered. Grandfather and mother took care of Vasyutka, trying to beat a cold out of him. Grandfather respected his grandson's love for the forest, he even promised to buy a new gun. And the mother argued, and their argument with grandfather would have continued if the father had not returned, all wet and desperate.
Father went into the house and Vaska jumped up in joy, dad tightly pressed his son to him. Vasyutka told his father about the miracle lake, and two days later, as a leader, he led the whole brigade to show him.
Any weather now was the boy for nothing. All the way he tried to brag to his father, but he did not give in. They walked and walked and, finally, before them opened a view of the lake.
One of the fishermen said: "Well, here is Vasyutkino Lake." Since then it has been called that. There are really a lot of fish there. In winter, a hut was built there and a permanent fishery was opened there.
VICTOR PETROVICH ASTAFYEV
VASYUTKINO LAKE
This lake cannot be found on the map. It is small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! What an honor for a thirteen-year-old boy - a lake named after him! Even if it is not large, not like, say, Baikal, but Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, do not be surprised and do not 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 through 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 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 sack and hurried 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 skids. 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 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 my hands subsided, the fly stopped dancing, its tip touched the capercaillie ... Thr-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, plucked 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.
