III. “The night creeps, melting a terrible face in the darkness...” The night creeps, melting a terrible face in the darkness. I will open my heavy eyelids for a moment. On the prison wall a black and gigantic sentry dances before me like a black shadow. A light flickers slightly in the dungeon. The body aches, numb from the boards. Low stone vaults,

27. “Am I not a beast? And the night is still the same...” Am I not a beast? And the night is still the same... It blows quietly over my heart. Still the same night, still the same guard, numb in silence. Hunger is creeping in, fear is coming, Samum is walking in my ears. Now the rat's call, now the rat's spirit: He who breathes

48. “I am a mad beast, a sacred beast...” I am a mad beast, a sacred beast, I am waiting for you in the silence of the midnight enchantment. The law of love that reigns in the universe promised me a wondrous gift of bliss. I was choked by thunderstorms of lust, sleepless nights by greedy melancholy. Passion has matured without will, without

The most terrible beast

We have a beast in our world: strong, brave and cunning, with sharp features of a predator, fast and animal-like dexterous, the most terrible beast that humanity has ever known - mortis. These creatures are similar in appearance to us humans, but instead of nails they have neat grayish claws. Hard to the touch, small and slightly curved, they can be fearsome weapons. Second distinguishing feature: if you approach them at arm's length, you will smell a slight, almost imperceptible whiff of carrion. That's what we called them - the dead.

No one knew where they came from, but various assumptions were made: one of the most popular was the zombie apocalypse. This version, in fact, did not stand up to any criticism, but was extremely popular, taking first place. The only thing that spoke in favor of zombies was that the Mortis were not alive. This hair-raising fact was discovered completely by accident.

I have already said that we are similar in appearance. So, somehow Mortis’s child ended up in the hospital. That is, then they thought that it was a person, without focusing on the unusual deformation of the nails, which, in comparison with cardiac arrest, looked like an insignificant trifle. His heart did not beat, and the doctors tried with all their might to bring him back to life. Suddenly, the child opened his eyes, asked where his mother was, got up and left. By the way, the doctors never started the heart.

From this case, targeted research began. Mortis, both large and small, began to be caught and examined. First of all, the heart function was checked. It didn't beat. Not a single one. Even in the fetus in the womb (then we were lucky and caught a pregnant female Mortis).

In all other respects, these creatures did not look like the living dead: there was no cadaveric decomposition, except for a slight smell, they ate the same way as people, raw meat They didn’t eat anything rotten, they didn’t bite people or their own kind.

The second most popular version: gene mutation. It was intertwined with genetic modification, and the lines between the two were blurred. Either scientists have done something wrong and are now just making square eyes, or evolution has failed somewhere.

The third version was that the Mortis are not of this world. Yes Yes! Moreover, this assumption was only a small percentage behind the previous two. It's as if they entered through some mythical portals or like mmm...devices. Despite the apparent absurdity, the version took root, and now society is divided into three camps: according to the number of popular interpretations of one specific fact - the existence of a life form different from the human one.

And then people started disappearing. Mostly children from remote villages. Previously, they would have thought of wild animals; in those places there were bears, wolves, and lynxes, but there were witnesses who claimed to have seen the dead nearby. And once the crazy father of a missing girl of about seven, foaming at the mouth, proved that the dead man was holding his daughter on his lap, her side was torn, his hands were covered in blood up to the elbows, and his mouth was also smeared with blood.

Rumors rolled faster than a snowball during an avalanche, and groups of hunters began to be organized to shoot the Mortis. They consisted mainly of wolf and bear hunters: having seen a lot in their lives, they were not afraid of either the dead or other animals.

Our group went hunting at night at the request of the parents about their missing son: the boy walked across the field to the neighboring village in one street, but never reached it. The parents thought that he was with the neighbors, and they thought that the boy simply changed his mind and did not come. They grabbed it in the evening, and, consider it, the whole day was lost.

Our permanent detachment gathered quickly: in Lately disappearances happened often, twice a week, and we were ready for anything.

Almost immediately we were on the trail of an adult ghoul: he took us down the river, to where the missing boy lived.

Hoarse breathing struggled through my throat. The nostrils flared, sniffing the scent-filled air.

Lead away the predators.

The pungent human smell hurt the sense of smell, causing nausea.

Down along the river, as long as they don’t notice the trail leading to the mountains.

We got lost a lot, in zigzags, constantly returning to the same place, and walking in circles. No matter what kind of beast this ghoul was, he was a master in the art of confusing tracks.

We tailed him for two days. Then, suddenly, the trail split: one went into the mountains, the other wound the same way down the river. Having carefully studied both, we came to the conclusion that the trail belongs to the same dead man, and a fresh one at that.

Then the commander of the detachment, an inveterate bear hunter, decided to split up: four go down the river, and the remaining four go up the mountains.

It must be said that these Mortis are strong and hardy beasts: in order to gallop through the mountains like we did, hardy and seasoned men, you need to have remarkable strength and dexterity.

Noticed!

And they separated.

One, two, three, four predators went down the river, and the same number began to climb up the mountain.

Cunning creatures.

Sometimes we saw in the distance the blurred silhouette of an adult man. Then we accelerated our pace, and, having reached the supposed place where we had seen him, we found traces of a recent foreign presence: a broken fresh branch, a fuzzy footprint, slightly trampled grass, indicating that a person had passed here. Or dead.

The most amazing thing was that when they contacted the second half of the detachment, their reports were the same: they saw a silhouette, they were following a trail, a moved stone, trampled grass and footprints on the soft ground. Can this really happen? So that anyone - be it a dead thing, an animal, or a person - would be in two different places at the same time? Mysticism, and that’s all.

The hunters, exchanging glances, moved forward, each thinking about his own. I, for example, thought that for the reward for this mortis, I could finally go on vacation with my family: me and my wife, my eldest son and daughter.

Inherit.

Break a branch.

Move the stone.

Show up, but only slightly, to stir up interest and reveal a desire to follow. If only the animals did not understand that they were being taken away from their lair.

And, going further away, freeze for a moment, splitting your consciousness. Down to the river steadily rolling its waters. A light shadow quietly darted - the second four animals were following the trail, which meandered like a hare, returning to the same place.

Show up here too.

Make some noise.

Break a branch.

Move the stone.

And - again return to the body left in the mountains.

Give me a minute to come to my senses.

To break into a frantic run again.

Food supplies began to run out: jerky and there was at most two times of dried fruit left, the bread dried out and turned into crackers. We didn’t take water - there were enough springs and fresh rivers around so that we wouldn’t feel thirsty.

On our first night, when we had not yet split into fours, despite the sentries posted, the main supply of food disappeared: only what was left was what was piled up by the fire. A bunch of questions immediately arose: what was the point of stealing food if you could kill us all? Or not all, but some, the effect would be the same. We did not turn back because food could be obtained along the way; all the detachments did so, especially since it did not present any difficulties. Everyone in the squad is a hunter literally this word, either a bear or a wolf, and he is capable of catching a fish or small animal in any way.

If there are any excellent swimmers in the taiga, they are bears! Neither horses nor dogs can compare with them. The bear easily and naturally cuts through the water, puffing and creating waves like a small steam boat. The expression on the predator’s muzzle is the most innocent, well, at least take a picture of it on a postcard! The thick skin on its face does not convey the threatening facial expressions characteristic of other predators. The round ears, barely noticeable among the thick fur, are not pressed to the head, like those of wolves and lynxes, and other expressions of rage are also not very noticeable. It seems that he is not a beast at all, but a human-like, clumsy and good-natured fat man. But with an unpredictable character...

The fat man chasing our Robinsons crossed the source in a matter of seconds and, in order to swim to the shore, tried to overcome the log blocking the path. Bears don’t like to dive: water pours into their ears - and so he, sniffling and groaning, tried to climb over the log from above, tightly grasping it with his front paws. Everything is the last barrier between him and the guys. Now the animal will jump out onto the shore, and there is nowhere to escape from it. There is nothing to hope for except an axe.

The log lying freely on the water, under the weight of the bear’s carcass, made a complete revolution around its axis, and the animal again found itself at its starting point. The bear tried again - the log turned again and returned the animal to its original position. A terrible roar filled the river. For a bear, this is no longer a log, but a cunning, irresistible trap. He furiously grabbed the pine bark with his fangs and pounded the log with his clawed paw. Knocking crumbs out of the bark, he repeated his unsuccessful attempts again and again and, tumbling around the log, showed the guys his wounded bottom with purulent wounds. Finally, the swinging log became detached from the bushes, and the current and breeze carried it out into the spill of rubbish. And the bear, angry at the log, kept spinning and spinning around him - he had no time for the guys.

- It's gone! – Andrey said nervously, watching how the log, along with the acrobat, disappeared behind the waves.

“That’s right, it blew through,” agreed Anatoly, still clutching the ax with his whitened fingers. - How will we return? Did you see how he destroyed our region? He did this on purpose to prevent us from escaping. I calculated correctly - now we will sunbathe on the island.

“We’ll wait until the Kalmyks arrive,” Andrey answered carelessly.

- You'll have to wait a long time: last families This spring they returned to the steppes, only Marusya remained. Apparently, they didn’t like it here - they are drawn to their homeland.

“Then let’s go back to the dugout, maybe a steamer or boat will pick us up.”

-Have you seen at least one ship in three days? Until the water subsides, the entire fleet moves through the channel, in short it turns out. There is nothing to wait for, you have to get out yourself. However, you can’t row it out on a raft: it will be driven by the wind or current somewhere into the bushes and sit there, crowing.

Reasoning sadly, the guys trudged back to the dugout. Here is the fence near which they met the moose family, the wooden trough under which they found salt...

- Tolya! What if we sail away on a deck? Look how healthy she is!

- Need to try. It will lift us up, but it’s too narrow – you could tip over.

“And we’ll fasten a counterweight from a log to it with wire and make a sail from a canopy, like on a catamaran,” Andrey got excited.

“Let’s better eat first, drink tea, and then draw in the sand what you made up again.” Let's figure out what and how. “We have nowhere to rush now,” his friend cooled his ardor.

The coals at the door of the hut had not yet cooled down, and they managed to fan them again. The fire began to smoke merrily: to drive away the midges, rotten insects were thrown into it. Andrey took the pot and went down to the water. The bear tracks had not yet disappeared, but they no longer bothered the guy: the animal was now far away. Andrei leaned toward the water to scoop it up with the pot, and his ear caught a strange whining sound: as if a large spider was beating against the window glass and buzzing tediously. The sound grew, spread out and approached the hut, and soon it became clear to Andrey: a motorboat was coming. Forgetting to scoop it up, he jumped out onto the hillock and shouted at the top of his lungs:

- Tolya! The motorboat is coming! Put wood on the fire!

But there was no longer any need for this: the motorboat appeared around the bend and headed for the hut.

- Here! To us! Hey! - the guys ran along the shore. From the motorboat they waved their cap at them - they noticed. Hooray!

“The Gordeevskaya boat,” Tolya learned, “we’re lucky, our guys.”

The boat stuck its high nose into the sand and “our guys,” three in number, jumped onto the shore.

- So here you are! - the eldest of the brothers, Nikolai, began in a reproachful tone, - you are resting, but there is almost anxiety in the village. Varvara Makarovna came running and asked to look along the way. As soon as we detected the smoke, we realized that it was yours. Well, how did you get it? Is it on your ear?

“They’re herding bears here, not catching fish,” Vanyusha interrupted Nikolai Jr., seeing footprints on the shore.

“It’s not us, but he’s herding us,” the guys explained.

- What do you have - don’t you have anything to scare him with? From the hut you can throw him through the window without risk. Better than from the warehouse.

- We are without a gun. And we can’t go back: he crushed our region.

“Then get on our boat.” You were lucky that we went to plant potatoes, otherwise it remains to be seen how long we would have had to wait.

How long will it take for the boys to dive? In a minute, all the property is in the boat.

“Thank you for getting us off the island,” said Andrey.

– It’s not us who need to be thanked, but Pashka Zero and the board – it’s because of them that we have to hide the garden on the islands. If it weren't for them, would we have gone...

The Gordeevs know how to make good boats! The high bow confidently cuts the water, and the boat easily runs up a gentle wave. The motor at the stern purrs loudly and evenly and sways slightly.

Life is good! And especially, all is well that ends well. Despite the fatigue, the guys were not left with joyful excitement, and when the mainland shore appeared in the distance, Tolya suddenly sang with fullness of feelings:

“Glorious sea, sacred Baikal, glorious ship omul barrel!.. Do you know,” he turned to Andrey, “what is the most terrible animal in the taiga?” - Human!

- Poacher! – Andrey did not agree.

Black oil slicks swayed on the waves around the boat, and a helicopter flew overhead.

“MI-sixth,” Andrey defined, “Mishka!”

Everyone looked after the helicopter.

Arkady Zakharov

Updated: 08/13/2019

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About children and for children

Answers to page 23

Lev Tolstoy

Terrible beast

The mouse went out for a walk. She walked around the yard and came back to her mother.
- Well, mother, I saw two animals. One is scary and the other is kind.
Mother said:
- Tell me, what are these animals?
The mouse said:
- One, scary one, walks around the yard like this: his legs are black, his comb is red, his nose is hooked. When I walked past, he opened his mouth, raised his leg and began screaming so loudly that I was very scared.
“It’s a rooster,” said the old mouse, don’t be afraid of it. Well, what about the other animal?
- The other was lying in the sun and warming himself. His neck is white, his legs are gray, smooth, he licks his white chest and wags his tail, looking at me.
The old mouse said:
- You're stupid! This is the cat himself.

1. Determine the genre of this work. Specify +

+ fablefairy tale story

2. Point it out ⇒ who the little mouse was talking about.

scary ⇒ rooster
Kind ⇒ cat

3 ∗ . Complete the proposal.

The fable “The Terrible Beast” was written by Leo Tolstoy.

4. What was the mouse like? Indicate the answer + or write your own.

Smart + stupid experienced
+ little kind one

5. Color the pictures and write down the characters in the fable.

© Kamenisty A., 2015

© Design. Eksmo Publishing House LLC, 2015

All rights reserved. No part electronic version This book may not be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.

©The electronic version of the book was prepared by liters company ()

Chapter 1

In the coniferous forest that covered the southern slope of Sentinel Hill from the foot to the top, decent bushes were rarely found, but here this rule was grossly violated. Dense thickets with bright green foliage, as expected at the beginning of summer, stretched in a narrow strip, forming an almost impenetrable wall to the eye. Years ago, one of the particularly evil autumn storms knocked down several outdated pines, leaving huge trunks to rot and crumble into dust. An elongated clearing was formed, generously illuminated by the sun, which allowed small vegetation to rise to its full height. But this will not last long - the coniferous giants will soon take their toll, and everything they cast a shadow on quickly withers.

Dirt hid behind the rotten trunk of a long-fallen tree and looked down without blinking. There, behind the bushes, a suspicious movement was visible, not in harmony with the swaying of the branches, swayed by barely noticeable gusts of the morning breeze. None of the people could get so far from the edge, the beast is who roams there. Not a squirrel, and not a hare, something much larger. But the elk is not even an adult; he wouldn’t even be able to hide behind such thickets.

For all the residents of Hennigville, with the sole exception of Dirt, there was only one answer. And it meant the only correct action: to rush away, without stopping, without making out the road, twisting his face in a grimace of extreme horror and making serious efforts to keep his pants clean. And run in this way until unbearable pain twists your exhausted lungs and every breath of air begins to cause unbearable suffering.

No - there is more than one exception. He forgot about Laird Dalser. Although, frankly speaking, it is difficult to classify him as a resident of Hennigville.

As, indeed, of Dirt himself.

Reverend Dagfinn is also not very afraid of the forest, although only three people in the entire village know about this, including himself. But everything is complicated with him, and the traditional answer of the Hennigvilians suits him quite well.

Dirt was not satisfied with the traditional answer. He knew that more than one creature lived in this forest. Elks, bears, deer, wolves, roe deer, wild boars, hares, foxes, badgers, raccoons and others: it’s easy to verify their presence by quickly examining the tracks on the first trail you come across. And one day he came across the hoof prints of an unknown creature, apparently large. Probably it was a bison, although Dirt was not sure of such a conclusion, he never managed to look at rare beast even from a distance.

He had never encountered traces of the demons with which the superstitious residents of Hennigville so loved to scare each other. Well maybe. But besides him, no one dared to climb so far into the forest. What can I say: it was a rare daredevil who found the strength to take more than a dozen steps from the edge of the forest, and even these were not enough even for a measly fifty.

I wonder: why do they believe so fiercely in ancient demons if they don’t even have the opportunity to look at the traces? Laird Dalser is right when he calls man the most paradoxical creature. After all, wisdom and stupidity often coexist peacefully in one head, dealing with different issues.

I've found a fool: in Hennigvil they'll find a use for rotten meat, and worms here won't even scare a baby. No matter how hard you force Dirt, Reverend Dagfinn has his own opinion: what gets into the village will stay there, and it doesn’t matter if anyone is against it.

He would butcher the deer on the spot, spread out the skin, throw nettles on it, lay pieces of fresh meat on top of it, wrap it properly, hang it by the corners in the shade, after which he would climb to the top of Sentinel Hill and rush down to the laird's house. He will examine the liver, kidneys and lungs, grimace with disgust and, very possibly, will recognize the game as suitable and will not demand that it be thrown away. Or he will even allow you to take the tasty part of the carcass for your own needs, and not take almost everything to the eternally hungry Hennigvilians, because the successful hunter deserves a small prize. Then Dirt will have to return, pick up the loot and go down to Currant Creek. There, on a slope washed away by water, he dug a good-quality smokehouse.

Remembering how unbearably delicious a smoked strip of venison smelled, Dirt's stomach began to growl with impatience. The sound seemed abnormally loud. But what's strange about that? When he's in last time did you eat your fill, especially with meat? It feels like never.

No, not a deer: Dirt saw the head. Gray, with a reddish touch, decorated with neat branching horns.

Roe. Male.

Also nothing, although, of course, it cannot be compared with a deer. The meat is not bad, but, alas, roe deer has much less of it. But it will be easier to carry. Dirt for Last year He's gotten quite tall, but he's still not quite as big as a grown man. And he has a fragile physique; people still tease him about being skinny.

The fingers on the bowstring tensed, and at that moment the breeze died down. Dirt had not moved before, but now he froze like a stone.

Come on! Wind! Come on, blow it! You simply must go for a walk towards the top, straight to Dirt. It’s morning, at this time your direction rarely changes.

Change can lead to irreparable consequences. No matter how Dirt washes himself two or three times a week, laughingly surprising dirty guys like Frodi, the roe deer’s sensitive nostrils will inevitably catch the human scent, and the nimble animal will rush down the slope in long leaps, amusingly throwing up its high croup. It is foolish to take up a bow when there is a thick interweaving of green branches between the target and you. An arrow, having caught at least one of them, will unpredictably change direction, and you will have to say goodbye to the horned meat.

And then you don’t know how long you will look for the arrow: in such cases they have a bad habit of getting lost.

© Kamenisty A., 2015

© Design. Eksmo Publishing House LLC, 2015

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Chapter 1

In the coniferous forest that covered the southern slope of Sentinel Hill from the foot to the top, decent bushes were rarely found, but here this rule was grossly violated. Dense thickets with bright green foliage, as expected at the beginning of summer, stretched in a narrow strip, forming an almost impenetrable wall to the eye. Years ago, one of the particularly evil autumn storms knocked down several outdated pines, leaving huge trunks to rot and crumble into dust. An elongated clearing was formed, generously illuminated by the sun, which allowed small vegetation to rise to its full height. But this will not last long - the coniferous giants will soon take their toll, and everything they cast a shadow on quickly withers.

Dirt hid behind the rotten trunk of a long-fallen tree and looked down without blinking. There, behind the bushes, a suspicious movement was visible, not in harmony with the swaying of the branches, swayed by barely noticeable gusts of the morning breeze. None of the people could get so far from the edge, the beast is who roams there. Not a squirrel, and not a hare, something much larger. But the elk is not even an adult; he wouldn’t even be able to hide behind such thickets.

For all the residents of Hennigville, with the sole exception of Dirt, there was only one answer. And it meant the only correct action: to rush away, without stopping, without making out the road, twisting his face in a grimace of extreme horror and making serious efforts to keep his pants clean. And run in this way until unbearable pain twists your exhausted lungs and every breath of air begins to cause unbearable suffering.

No - there is more than one exception. He forgot about Laird Dalser. Although, frankly speaking, it is difficult to classify him as a resident of Hennigville.

As, indeed, of Dirt himself.

Reverend Dagfinn is also not very afraid of the forest, although only three people in the entire village know about this, including himself. But everything is complicated with him, and the traditional answer of the Hennigvilians suits him quite well.

Dirt was not satisfied with the traditional answer. He knew that more than one creature lived in this forest. Elks, bears, deer, wolves, roe deer, wild boars, hares, foxes, badgers, raccoons and others: it’s easy to verify their presence by quickly examining the tracks on the first trail you come across. And one day he came across the hoof prints of an unknown creature, apparently large. It was probably a bison, although Dirt was not sure of such a conclusion, since he never managed to look at the rare animal even from afar.

He had never encountered traces of the demons with which the superstitious residents of Hennigville so loved to scare each other. Well maybe. But besides him, no one dared to climb so far into the forest. What can I say: it was a rare daredevil who found the strength to take more than a dozen steps from the edge of the forest, and even these were not enough even for a measly fifty.

I wonder: why do they believe so fiercely in ancient demons if they don’t even have the opportunity to look at the traces? Laird Dalser is right when he calls man the most paradoxical creature. After all, wisdom and stupidity often coexist peacefully in one head, dealing with different issues.

I've found a fool: in Hennigvil they'll find a use for rotten meat, and worms here won't even scare a baby. No matter how hard you force Dirt, Reverend Dagfinn has his own opinion: what gets into the village will stay there, and it doesn’t matter if anyone is against it.

He would butcher the deer on the spot, spread out the skin, throw nettles on it, lay pieces of fresh meat on top of it, wrap it properly, hang it by the corners in the shade, after which he would climb to the top of Sentinel Hill and rush down to the laird's house. He will examine the liver, kidneys and lungs, grimace with disgust and, very possibly, will recognize the game as suitable and will not demand that it be thrown away. Or he will even allow you to take the tasty part of the carcass for your own needs, and not take almost everything to the eternally hungry Hennigvilians, because the successful hunter deserves a small prize. Then Dirt will have to return, pick up the loot and go down to Currant Creek. There, on a slope washed away by water, he dug a good-quality smokehouse.

Remembering how unbearably delicious a smoked strip of venison smelled, Dirt's stomach began to growl with impatience. The sound seemed abnormally loud. But what's strange about that? When was the last time he ate his fill, especially meat? It feels like never.

No, not a deer: Dirt saw the head. Gray, with a reddish touch, decorated with neat branching horns.

Roe. Male.

Also nothing, although, of course, it cannot be compared with a deer. The meat is not bad, but, alas, roe deer has much less of it. But it will be easier to carry. Dirt has grown quite a lot over the past year, but he still doesn’t reach the level of a grown man. And he has a fragile physique; people still tease him about being skinny.

The fingers on the bowstring tensed, and at that moment the breeze died down. Dirt had not moved before, but now he froze like a stone.

Come on! Wind! Come on, blow it! You simply must go for a walk towards the top, straight to Dirt. It’s morning, at this time your direction rarely changes.

Change can lead to irreparable consequences. No matter how Dirt washes himself two or three times a week, laughingly surprising dirty guys like Frodi, the roe deer’s sensitive nostrils will inevitably catch the human scent, and the nimble animal will rush down the slope in long leaps, amusingly throwing up its high croup. It is foolish to take up a bow when there is a thick interweaving of green branches between the target and you. An arrow, having caught at least one of them, will unpredictably change direction, and you will have to say goodbye to the horned meat.

And then you don’t know how long you will look for the arrow: in such cases they have a bad habit of getting lost.

Dirt prayed to the forces sending the wind. The people of Hennigville would not have approved of a prayer that smacked of paganism, but for a long time he had been deeply indifferent to their opinion on almost all matters, and especially when it came to the divine.

The higher powers decided to take pity, apparently, the choral rumbling of the stomachs of the Hennigvillians reached the heavens, preventing their inhabitants from sleeping: the foliage on the bushes fluttered, the face felt a barely noticeable movement of air. The roe deer, eating leaves and young shoots, was increasingly approaching a convenient opening where nothing would interfere with the flight of the arrow. A pitiful thirty-odd steps, at such a distance Dirt wouldn’t miss even a newly hatched chicken. Moreover, the tip will easily hit the eye, left or right - as it chooses.

Wings flapped overhead. Having grown cold, he again prayed to all higher powers at once to save him from this, to spare him, to not interfere at such a crucial moment: the reaction of a timid roe deer to a sharp alarming noise nearby was not difficult to predict.

It looked like he had prayed late: the flapping of wings died down, followed by a deafening crash. Dirt quickly pulled back the bowstring, shot at the already twitching animal, after which he could only sadly watch the fleeing roe deer, which never became prey.

He raised his head and looked at the magpie, which continued to chirp, with a nasty look. Finish off the noisy creature? To take revenge for her most vile meanness? Come on, he'll lose his arrow. There's no point in getting dirty about the stupid scoundrel. If she had remained quiet, she could have pecked to her heart's content at the slimy intestines left after skinning the carcass. Noisy white-sided birds love to destroy other people's nests, devouring eggs and chicks, but they also respect carrion a little less than crows. And not only them, almost everyone in the forest respects her.

The arrow, having cut a couple of branches, buried itself up to the feathers in the trunk of a long-fallen pine tree, corroded by rot. It turned out well, it didn’t take long to search. Carefully pulling it out, Dirt checked the sharpness of the tip and the condition of the shaft, and then hid it in the quiver. He glanced sideways at the sun. It managed to rise quite high. Another unlucky morning: he will return again without prey. Well, maybe you'll get lucky tomorrow, or something will change for the better in Hennigville.

The summit was already close when Dirt noticed the mushroom. Real White mushroom, I haven’t seen them since last year: with an excessively swollen leg at the bottom and a neat, tight hat. Good omen- this is the first one, and he appeared for a reason, but with the aim of reconnoitering the situation. If one gets out, it means that others will follow, they will not be afraid of the scout’s disappearance. This slope receives a lot of heat, so it is ahead of its fellows. There will be something to flavor the stew - that's where better than that that I have to throw at her lately.

At the top Dirt stopped. The forest here parted, as if afraid to approach the ancient temple: eight stone pillars located in a circle, narrow slabs laid on top of them, and a black altar in the middle, stained with gray lichen. If you look closely, you can see traces of ancient excavations here and there. It was Dirt, still a very stupid kid, who dug holes in the hope of profiting from ancient gold.

And what would he then do with the gold he found? What fools...

But now Dirt has grown up and become much wiser, so he doesn’t even glance at his boyish experiments. He continuously looked into the distance, at the line where the sky merged with the rich blue of the sea. There one could see a scattering of barely noticeable tubercles. A tiny archipelago: six rocky islands, he had been there once with fishermen. They then had to hastily pull the boats onto the pebble beach to escape the approaching thunderstorm with its imminent storm. Dirt didn’t find anything interesting there, but from the hillock he was able to look even further, and there he no longer saw any signs of land: only water.

Is there something moving near the nearby island? No... hardly... It must have been my imagination. Or from the waves of the sea a gigantic whale showed its wet back. But where do these gigantic whales come from? Even small ones don’t really like to go out into the shallow waters of the bay. During all this time, Dirt saw the hefty carcass only once, the fall before last. She was washed ashore in a storm, and oh, and he smelled the stench. The monk, not paying attention to the sickening smell, gathered all the inhabitants and, pointing to incomprehensible holes in the rotten flesh, explained for a long time that the sea was teeming with monsters, for which even such a giant was nothing more than a light snack.

However, according to Dagfinn, the whole world is filled with monsters, each more terrible than the other.

Dirt looked lower. The guard hill descended to the sea with the carcass of a seasoned bear that had come to drink, ultimately forming a wide cape that covered the bay, on the shore of which Hennigville was located. More than two dozen houses and three times as many sheds and stables with walls made of carelessly hewn stone and roofs covered with green turf on top of clay slopes. There are no fences, fences, or locks on the doors: they don’t steal their own people, and there are no strangers in the village.

Well, apart from a couple of exceptions that you can trust, almost like your own.

Despite the great distance, Dirt saw a scattering of white dots at the wide mouth of Currant Creek. He smiled involuntarily. He knew whose turn it was to herd the geese today. I extinguished my natural impulse to go there first. No - a self-respecting man cannot follow his immediate desires like a submissive lamb. Yesterday there was a strong wave, who knows, maybe the sea decided to give something: the prolonged lack of fish was begging for at least some kind of compensation.

The mood of the sea changes more often than that of a capricious girl: in the morning he will give you, at noon he will take you away, and even shed you with tears. All that remains is to hang the bow and quiver under the stone that rested on two pillars, and you can go down. You should not show up in the village with a weapon.

The sea was not stingy today, throwing out a lot of algae and slimy jellyfish that had not yet had time to melt in the sun rays. But Dirt had never encountered anything more valuable. This did not upset him too much, because he had long ago realized that he lived on the shore of the most stingy miser in the world.

A competitor appeared ahead: a boy was sitting on the water’s edge, raking out a pile of algae with a stick. Coming closer, Dirt recognized Ivar, the first-born of the younger Vegard. It’s strange that right away, even from a distance, I didn’t understand who was hanging around here. Don’t feed this fidget with bread, let him climb near the water. The first to run to meet the boats, you can immediately see that a real fisherman is growing.

A mangy little dog was spinning around the enthused boy. A small male, one of the many puppies of the loving Cloud. That she is good for nothing, that she is her stupid offspring. This one didn’t even bark for the sake of decency; Dirt approached unnoticed.

- Hello, Ivar. I have found?

- Oh! Dirt! Don't come so quietly!

- Scared?

- No. – The boy shook his head as hard as he could, trying to convince himself mainly. -Where did you come from?

- I was in the forest.

– Did you see the beast?!

- No. I saw a roe deer.

- Shot him?

- Did not work out. Why are you rummaging through this pile?

- I found a crab. – Invar showed a shell that had lost all its legs. By some miracle, only one claw was preserved, and only half of it.

- He's dead.

- Yeah. It's completely empty and doesn't even stink. And yesterday Germund pulled the huge and alive one out of the trap. And the one in the boat bit Raud on the toe. Till blood. I myself saw how he limped and cursed. Even Frodi doesn’t swear like that, even though he knows more bad words than anyone else, but Raud is always such a silent person. It was very funny.

The sensational news about Raud being bitten on the finger was cheerfully discussed by everyone in Hennigville yesterday, but it continued to remain quite fresh: look how the boy’s eyes sparkled.

“In the spring, after a storm, I found a board with nails. Do you remember?

- I want to find another one like this, we will need the iron.

-Are you allowed to go that far?

- Yes. Father himself said to walk along the shore. Yesterday the waves were high, maybe a tree trunk washed out, it will be used for firewood.

Dirt assessed the distance to the outskirts of the village and pointed to the forest, which rose above the not-so-steep coastal cliff:

- There are plenty of trees there, let him take any.

- There are no dry ones nearby.

– It doesn’t take long to cut down a living thing.

- This doesn't burn well. – It’s bad because it’s alive and wet.

- Is the pine wet? Made me laugh.

– Wetter than dry.

- It will dry quickly in the summer. Certainly no slower than what the sea throws out.

– Reverend Dagfinn says that living trees in the forest should not be touched under any circumstances. The beast gets very angry when he sees this.

At the mention of Dagfinn, Dirt winced. It was very difficult to argue with the indisputable authority of the monk. Perhaps even impossible. Almost all the Hennigvilians hung on his every word, like a piece of bread in a hungry year, and sacredly believed in any nonsense that came out of the mouth of the man who served as a conductor between the deity and the believers.

– Ivar, what kind of trees do you think Hinnigvil was built from?

- Dry, of course.

– And where did you find so many dry and not rotten ones?

- Don't know. There were probably a lot of them before, but they all were cut down. Didn’t you see how many stumps there are at the edge?

So try to argue: even among children, any opinion coincides with the opinion of the reverend.

Ivar, meanwhile, abruptly changed the topic:

– Did you hear what Madi said?

– Which Madi are you asking about? We have three of them.

- The younger one won’t say anything, because he hasn’t even cut his teeth yet, where should he say? In response, he will only get dirty. I'm talking about Goody's son.

– If you tie a shovel to Madi’s tongue, you will become an irreplaceable worker: he won’t allow himself a moment’s rest. How can I know what words you are talking about now if he never stops speaking?

“He told Kerita this morning that he would give you a good beating.” Bruni told me this. Bruni, although a fool, never lies. Mom says to be able to lie, you need intelligence, but where will he get it?

- And why are you telling me this? After all, your father is brother Goody and Madi, it turns out, are also your brother, only cousins.

- Yes, that's right, cousin. But I don't like him. Apart from slaps on the head, I never saw anything from him. And he talks to me as if I had just climbed out of the cradle. But you’re normal, you’re doing everything right. It's like talking to an equal. Almost. Madi is half a head taller than you, he will definitely beat you, since he promised. He likes Kerita, maybe they will have a wedding.

“It’ll be rotten herring for him, not Kerita,” Dirt suddenly darkened.

Ivar laughed with the sincere laughter of a child who doesn’t care what to rejoice at: a successful joke or just a finger stuck out in front of his nose.

- Oh, Dirt! Well, you said it! Can I tell Madi this?

- I'll tell him myself.

“Well then, he’ll definitely beat you up.”

- So, I’ll do two things at once.

* * *

The boat had already returned and was drying up, half pulled out onto the pebble shore. Dirt didn’t ask Ivar about today’s catch, and there’s no point in asking: judging by the absence of the slightest fuss near the fish shed, everything is clear. Remembering that he himself had not obtained anything today, he became even more gloomy and purposefully headed towards the cattle pen. Madi is probably there, shoveling manure; yesterday he hardly had time to finish with that pile. Very fortunately, it is in it that Dirt will bury him: better place I can't think of anything for a scoundrel.

Look! He wanted a wedding with Kerita. He will have a wedding with a dirty boar, they will make a lovely couple: one is more beautiful than the other, and both are masters of grunting.

Alas, the fat man was not there. But this did not mean that he was not here at all. On the other side of the corral, on a lawn plucked by cattle, almost the entire population of Hennigville was crowded. From there came the loud, soulful voice of Reverend Dagfinn:

– The nets have been empty for a long time; there are no crabs or crayfish in our traps. Spring turned out to be late, there were only shoots in our fields and vegetable gardens, and even those were few. Why is that? What is the punishment for? You ask heaven this every day. But don’t you know the answer yourself? Cursed was the day when our ships perished on the sharp rocks in the bay. Death took many of us, and those who remained received this land, surrounded by a thicket, in which ungodly demons and terrible creatures that survived antiquity are teeming. Everyone knows that we are only guests in these damned places, that’s where their real owners live.

Because of the crowd, Dirt could not see the reverend, but he had no doubt that at that moment he was pointing to the forest that covered Sentinel Hill.

“They are the source of all our troubles.” They feed on sins and exude filthy filth. Even fish disdain to approach our shore. What to do? Our God is too weak here and cannot always help his faithful flock. We cannot be saved by prayers, because summer has come and we are still starving. When did this happen? The beast that owns the forest has become very weak. He's just as hungry as the rest of us. What can you offer him? How to return power to the defender? There is not a handful of grain, not a shriveled onion. We have nothing to support his forces, and therefore the demons became bolder and began to invade his domain. What to do? What should I do? I hate to say this, but we have only one way out: pay off the demons.

Dirt, who had already turned around, froze and began to listen with increased interest. He had never heard such crazy nonsense from Dagfinn. Pay off demons? Why on earth? After all, he never uttered anything other than standard church curses against them. It's strange somehow. And it’s doubly strange that there are no traces of any demons in the forest. Who was he going to pay off from then? And how?

The Reverend stood on tiptoe, stared in Dirt's direction and shouted:

- Hey! You! Boy! Speak! Did you bring loot from the cursed forest?!

Dirt raised his empty hands and reluctantly shouted back:

- There is little game, and it is scared. Didn't bring anything.

- See! Even this empty-headed atheist can't do anything. The demons took us seriously, they even scared away the game. We will pay them so our children can survive. This time we will pay, no matter how much it hurts. Just let them leave. They will leave us alone, at least for a little while. And there the fish will return, we will reap a generous harvest and will not starve.

- And what will we give them? – Frodi asked grumpily, irritated to the last extreme by the forced sobriety of the last months.

-What do demons need? Don't you know it yourself? Sinful souls and fresh blood. Souls, even sinners, are the property of our Lord. All that's left for them is blood. We will leave a cow near the forest. An old cow. I feel sorry for her, but we have no other choice.

“They’ll tear it up or take it away!” – Sigrun gasped.

Given her chronic stupidity, Dirt witnessed a case of downright brilliant foresight of the near future.

“No,” the monk objected. “Demons don’t eat meat.” They will be satisfied with her blood and will stop sending troubles to us.

– And when they get hungry again, what will happen? – the excited old woman did not let up.

“Then we’ll leave you near the forest, you’re old too,” the same Frodi brazenly chimed in and laughed at his own joke.

He was the only one laughing, the others were serious, as if at a funeral.

Germund, the chief fisherman, asked gloomily:

- Of course, it’s not my place to gossip about cows, but we’re talking about the Little Mermaid, isn’t it? So she’s not that old, she still gives milk.

“There’s not enough milk,” said fat Helga in her uniquely squeaky voice. “I know better than you, the stinking herring fisher.”

– It still gives, even if it’s not enough. This means that it can be reduced to a bull.

“The last time she gave birth to a dead calf.” Empty womb, gives little milk, bad cow. – The old woman shook her head.

Germund raised his hands:

- Okay - this is your cow, you know better, stop yelling in your ear. Whether you tie me up near a forest or drown me with a stone around your neck, it’s none of my business.

“I don’t want to tie her near the forest.” But I was disgusted with feeding my children nettles every day. Where is your fish, Germund? Where?! How can you go hungry while living on the shores of a generous sea?! How?!

- Generous?! Have you gone completely crazy in your old age?! Don't you know that the fish have been gone for a long time? One little thing, and even that is so little that you can’t feed a skinny cat. Besides, she's not mine. What am I to you, a fish shepherd? The owner of the herring? Emperor of the cod?

“Then we must do as Reverend Dagfinn suggests.” The demons will drink the blood and leave us alone. We will feed the children and salt the fish for future use, and then the harvest will arrive; we won’t have to wait that long.

– It’s unheard of to feed godless demons! “The stubborn fisherman couldn’t calm down. – Isn’t it possible to give the cow to the Beast? His strength will return and he will drive out the demons from the forest. Everyone knows that when he is in power, he does not allow anyone into his forest. It would be better if he ate the Little Mermaid than these creatures.

The crowd laughed unanimously and somehow sadly, and Frodi shouted in a drunken voice:

“You should have offered the Beast some more of your stinking herring!” This is hilarious! The beast doesn't need your handouts! The beast will take it himself if he needs it!

Dagfinn, shouting over the laughter, said:

“We’ll tie the little mermaid near the far edge of the forest, where they’ll find her quickly.”

Hearing no objection, the Reverend walked through the crowd, heading straight for Dirt. Approaching, with a mysterious expression on his face, he said:

– Did you hear everything?

“We have become like the pagans,” the monk said with unexpected bitterness. “We leave a sacrifice to the demons to feed our children.”

Dirt shook his head.

“A cow will die of old age faster than the demons will come for her.”

- They will come. They always come. They will take theirs. They will only take the blood and leave the meat. It's disgusting and disgusting, but then I'll let people take the meat. They need food, their children are starting to get sick.

– Will you finish eating after the demons?!

– There are few of us, we are surrounded by terrible creatures. Sometimes you have to accept the inevitable. The demons will take the blood, and we will take the meat. Do you understand everything, stranger?

- It's none of my business.

- Your. You live with us, don't forget that.

– We give more than we take from you.

“You don’t need to feed your children, but we do.”

“Reverend, I don’t even understand what we’re arguing about.”

“Remember, the demons will drink the blood, and tomorrow we will have meat.” Do you understand everything?

Having said this, Dagfinn disappeared around the corner of the stable. Dirt, following him with a thoughtful look, turned around, saw Madi in the crowd, realized that in such a crowd there was no point in starting a conflict, and went after the reverend.

He still needs to cook some stew. And it would be nice to chop some wood, the supply is almost gone. Or is it better to bring a bundle or two of brushwood from the forest?

No, it's better to prick. At the edge of the forest, soon there won’t even be any dry branches or pine needles left; everything will be raked clean for the hearths. You will have to go further to get the dry wood, and do it in front of the Hennigwil residents. And they really don’t like the fact that some boy blatantly ignores the main law and does not even feel a hint of fear. They will spit after you again, or even throw a lump of dirt at you. It would take too long to walk around the shore without anyone seeing him, and Dirt didn’t like wandering around with the load.

It was decided: he would look at the blacksmith. There is only one cleaver in the village, and it is kept by him.

* * *

As he approached the forge, Dirt’s nose caught an unusually rich pine aroma. It feels like my nostrils have been smeared with fresh resin.

The solution quickly emerged: on the fireplace in front of the entrance to the forge, Agnar was boiling some kind of thick mass in a tiny cauldron, stirring it continuously. It was she who was the source of the stunning pine aroma.

- Well, the smell. What is it?

Agnar, ignoring the idle question, asked his own:

-Have you brought ore?

-What ore?

– Don’t pretend to be a rotten tree stump, you know perfectly well what I mean.

“But you didn’t ask to bring anything.”

-Can’t you figure it out yourself? When was the last time I saw ore? As soon as the snow on the peaks melted. Look around: it’s already summer.

“The boys recently found a wreck of a boat, you took the nails.”

- There are enough nails for a couple of crappy knives. Ore is needed.

- Well, if you need it, I’ll bring it. Only I’m very busy now, I go hunting every morning, but it’s a long way to the swamp, it will take the whole day.

- Ore is more important than game.

– Dagfinn thinks differently. I asked about the game myself today.

– Were you at the meeting?

“I passed by at the very end.”

- Why have you been taken to the barn?

- Madi was looking.

- And why did you need it? It's not like you're friends.

- Yes, I wanted to beat him properly.

- Ah... Well, this is the right thing. What else did Dagfinn say?

“He said that they would tie the Little Mermaid at the far edge of the forest for the night.”

- Why is this still happening?! Does she want the moose to love her?!

“He thinks the demons in the dark will come and drink her blood.” And he also said that they don’t eat meat, it will remain and they can take it away.

- Why the Little Mermaid? Our boar is already a bit old, a young one can replace him. It’s better to tie him up, I feel sorry for the cow.

- Don't know. Maybe Dagfinn thinks that the boar is smelly and the demons will disdain him.

“The Reverend himself doesn’t know what to think anymore. I'm starting to get tired of all this. Have you heard what’s happening to Madi’s younger namesake?

- He seems to be swelling.

- Exactly. Everything is from hunger. Children are the first to die, I know that. So will you bring the ore?

- Talk to Dagfinn. If he says that I may not hunt for a day or two, then I’ll go. I don’t want to quarrel with him, he’s vindictive.

- What do you need Dagfinn and quarrels with him? He'll quarrel and that's it. I say: bring the ore.

“And then he will call me a parasite, and after him all the old women will start spitting in his back.”

- They won’t spit much.

“I don’t like it when they do that.”

- How difficult it is to interpret with you. Okay, I’ll see the reverend, I’ll agree, yours took it.

-Can I take the cleaver?

- Take it. Just don't forget to return it.

The cat is so cute: his chest is white, his legs are gray, smooth, he lies in the sun, warms himself - his soul rejoices. But it depends on who. Everyone knows that for a mouse there is no beast worse than a cat. But the stupid mouse from the fable “The Terrible Beast” saw a beast with a handsome appearance and said: “Kind, kind...”. And she was not afraid of him. But she was afraid of the loud rooster. And only the mother told the stupid mouse who really should be feared. Appearances are sometimes deceiving...

"Terrible Beast"

The mouse went out for a walk. She walked around the yard and came back to her mother.

- Well, mother, I saw two animals. One is scary, and the other is kind.

Mother said:

- Tell me, what kind of animals are these?

The mouse said:

- One, scary one, walks around the yard like this: his legs are black, his crest is red, his eyes are bulging, his nose is hooked. When I walked past, he opened his mouth, raised his leg and began screaming so loudly that I didn’t know where to go from fear.

“It’s a rooster,” said the old mouse. “He doesn’t harm anyone, don’t be afraid of him.” Well, what about the other animal?

— The other was lying in the sun and warming himself. His neck is white, his legs are gray, smooth, he licks his white chest and moves his tail slightly, looking at me.

The old mouse said:

- Stupid! After all, it's the cat itself.