I don't remember how long I sat in the silence of the mound. As the great Homer wrote in the Odyssey, when he wanted to say that night had fallen: "In the meantime the sun had set, and all the roads were darkened." By the way, the translation into Russian is by Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky. I didn't even notice how the sun disappeared below the horizon. Dim summer stars poured out into the sky. There was a breath of freshness from the river. I went to her. There, on a wide meadow, there were freshly set haystacks. I chose the smaller one, and soon settled down for the night. Sleep quickly blinded the eyelids. Before falling asleep, he looked at the mounds again. That they, the guardians of the centuries, are only one day! They dozed, remembering those brave and strong people whose ashes have been faithfully preserved for so many years.

June 23. Clearing.

I did not sleep for long. Three minutes. From somewhere out of the darkness, from above and from all sides at the same time, hordes of mosquitoes descended on me. An invisible battle began. Having successfully destroyed another mosquito formation, I, naïve, consoled myself with the hope that the battle was over. But it was not to be, fifteen seconds later, with a squeak and a buzz, new hundreds of bloodsuckers rushed to attack. Three hours later, I changed tactics: taking in air, I climbed inside the haystack. But this was already a gesture of desperation. It was all over. I have no strength left. "Eat, you bastards!" - I said, not without dignity, and from the stove, into which the core of the haystack had turned, I climbed onto the cool top. It was already dawn. As the immortal Homer would say again: "Eos arose from the darkness young with purple fingers." But if the goddess of the morning dawn got up clearly in a good mood, the same could not be said about me. Hands are blistered from mosquito bites, hair is in the grass. I make another attempt to fall asleep. Last. And it seems that I succeed. But if you are unlucky, then you are unlucky. A few minutes later, I was woken up by some strange barking. About twenty paces from my bed, I saw a large fox barking furiously at a village in the distance. I don't know what drove him: either resentment towards people, or a desire to tease the dogs, or maybe it was some kind of distraction, but the fox was doing something incredible. He rushed forward like a fighter in a bayonet charge, then rolled back like a doll, not ceasing to bark furiously. In one of these digressions, he found himself right under my haystack. The beast did not see me, the breeze was blowing in my direction, and I could safely see it. The fox was large, with a beautiful tail. Never in my life have I seen a fox so close, except for two funny fox cubs in the Tambov wilderness, which I met in one of my travels. Apparently. Their mother went hunting and did not return, and either hunger or curiosity drove them out of the hole. And they, seeing a person for the first time, stared at me with funny eyes... But soon the temperamental fox tired me. There was no need to think about sleep anymore. It's time to get ready for the road. During a second pause in almost incessant barking, I asked: "Is there anything to be upset about, guy?" He seemed to choke on his own voice, twitched strangely on all four limbs. Only then did he look up. For a fraction of a second, the beast's eyes stared into mine. I had time to think about what a pity it was that my human tribe and his, the beasts, were at war with each other. If only we understood each other's language, you see, we would have a heart-to-heart talk. The fox came to his senses in that moment, made a decision, and soon the red dot disappeared into the bushes at the opposite end of the field. Perhaps he is right. After all, it's my fox hat... I swam before the road. But this did not give much vigor. The first kilometers I walked, with difficulty moving my legs. I was desperately sleepy. Villages, similar like sisters, replaced each other. Only the names are different: Peskovatoye, Chernogryazka, Belyaevo, Zheleznitsa...

But the higher the sun rose, the easier and more fun it was to walk. And when in Belyaevo, in one picturesque house, he bought milk, eggs, cottage cheese and there, to the talk of the hostess and to the lazy squint of the cat, he ate all this - life in general seemed a wonderful thing. Before that, for two days, my main food was oatmeal, soaked in water and seasoned with honey. A necessary thing in traveling, many times it saved me in the most difficult moments - especially if you take into account the frightening emptiness of store shelves - but somewhat monotonous. Therefore, fresh milk with a fresh egg, and the egg is homemade, large, the yolk with its bright yellowness is no match for what lives in an egg bought in the store, fills me with something divine. And there is nothing to say about cottage cheese. It is not surprising that after such a breakfast I walked another dozen kilometers, not feeling tired at all.

The usual silence of the road was broken when I entered Železnitsa. From the outermost house, a song was heard throughout the village. The singer mourned his beloved: "Putana, putana, prostitute, moth, well, who is to blame?" Either they liked the song, or they knew that it was useless to protest, but they sat silently, looking at the ground without any expression. What a strange memory a person has! I did not comprehend what I saw in my head for a second, when a picture from my childhood surfaced from the depths of my consciousness, a picture that I had not remembered before. A huge village in the Tambov steppe. I came here to visit my relatives for the summer. August evening. The heat subsides, the breeze brings the smell of wormwood, the grasshoppers slowly fall silent. Just now, to the ringing of bells and the slap of a whip on the ground, a herd of cows was chased away. The herd is huge - a cow is kept in every house. Cows know their homes and each enter their own gates. The whole family meets the wet nurse. And now a sound is heard from the barn, which cannot be confused with anything: a stream of milk beats against the bottom of the bucket. And when dinner is over, one of the elders will take out an old gramophone. There are not many records in the house, we all heard them - we heard them again. But all the same, as soon as the needle hisses, a slight crackling sound is heard, and you wait with bated breath for the first sounds. And when over the quiet, hidden in the darkness of the village, it is heard: "In the field on the outskirts, where you live..." or "Again everything froze until dawn..." - some sweet, inexplicable delight, quiet and tender, overwhelms the soul. Many years have passed since then, many things have been erased from memory, but every time I hear any post-war song, like a reflection from a distant fire, that inexplicable delight returns to my heart, sweet, quiet and tender... Other times, other songs. In Budogovishchi, the asphalt was running out. Now they had to go from village to village in field big cars. Almost immediately behind the houses, on a hill, I saw several birches and pines. The trees were tall, the breeze, rustling with might and main in the green foliage and swaying the pine paws, seemed to beckon to rest. During the hike, I gradually developed a daily regimen. I did the main way before lunch. When the sun began to burn mercilessly, he was looking for a place to rest. It was not so easy. It should be picturesque, conducive to relaxation, so that you can hide from the sun and from prying eyes. When I found such a place, I spread out my sleeping bag - it served as my bedding during the day - dined, read, and slept. Usually such a halt took four or five hours, but it was by no means a waste of time. I gained strength - when the place was chosen successfully, I literally physically felt how energy entered every cell of my body from the surrounding trees, shrubs, flowers, grass. It was given to me by the clouds, the sun's rays, as if filtering through the leaves through a sieve. I took a whole library with me on the road: the Bible, Pushkin, Tyutchev, Baratynsky, poetry of ancient Japan and China, ancient lyrics. Of course, it made my backpack a little heavier, but I didn't regret it. Rest near the village of Budogovichi, at the very border of the Belevsky district, was a success. That is why I was not surprised at my own decision when, in the evening, having arrived at Bolshie Golubochki, the preliminary final destination of my day's journey, I decided to go on while it was light. Of course. Bathing in the Ista, a clean and fast river that carries its waters to the Oka, also helped. Five kilometers from Golubochki is a small village of Polyany. It really stands as if in a clearing among the forests that protect it from the noise of the big world. We managed to find accommodation for the night quickly. The first person who saw me in the village was a young red-haired guy mowing the grass near the house. We started talking. And soon his tiny house greeted me with children's voices, cow mooing, horse neighing, barking dogs, goose cries. The collective farm calf keeper and his wife, a milkmaid, have a huge farm. I'm not talking about two dogs and three cats. And all these animals, from the rooster to the huge dog Polkan, literally tremble before two red-haired creatures of five and three years old. These are Halka and Zhenya, the master's children. Ten minutes of acquaintance was enough to conclude: these are not children, this is some kind of bundle of energy, dressed in a dress and pants. Two red whirlwinds sweep across the courtyard, sowing terror and panic all around. The mother's menacing voice, more formidable for appearances, forces both of them only to change the object of their efforts. Just now, Eugene, sitting on a dog kennel, was conducting a demonstrative fist fight with Polkan. The dog was a real stoic and behaved simply heroically, only growling from time to time. But then the future heir of this farm starts a new game with his sister, and the yard resounds with heart-rending chicken clucking, and fluff and feathers swirl in the air.

Ivan and Valentina have dinner late, when they are done with their affairs. Running around during the day, like dead, with their bodies spread out in the most unimaginable poses, children sleep. The whole house of my owners is a kitchenette and a small room. We bought for two hundred rubles an almost rotten and collapsed one, gradually renewing it. Most recently, the floors in the hall were replaced, soon it is time to start working on the roof, but there is no time at all. And tomorrow at four in the morning to get up for work. Ivan, however, will stay at home: he took two days at his own expense - otherwise you will be left without food. He will mow in the morning. I go to the attic. Ivan brings a couple of blankets and a pillow. He says that mosquitoes, of course, exist, but there are not very many of them. You can sleep. I stretch on straw with pleasure. But what is it? There was a squeak right in front of me, and he was answered in the other corner. Mouse! I know that this confession will not add to my authority, but rats and mice... Not that. So that I am panicked by them, but how can you imagine them running around you or even nearby... Brrr! What to do? My masters were already asleep, and where would they put me in their tiny room? I make a decision. Below, right under the lamppost, there is thick grass. We call it a goose, in these places it is called pig grass. I lay my blankets on it, crawl into my sleeping bag and fall asleep. Immediately, instantly. Under the bright light of the lantern, a stone's throw from the dog kennel, ten steps from the road, actually on the bare ground. I fall asleep as I haven't slept for a long time, soundly and serenely. And only sometimes, through my sleep, I heard the sound of the wind, and the dull grumbling of Polkan on the chain, who did not understand why a man should sleep on the ground in the open air.

June 24. Aunt Valya, a blind dog and a firefly in the palm of her hand.

In the morning, my kind hosts saw off their unfortunate guest on the road. They saw off warmly, just as they met yesterday. Two of my new little red-haired friends stood on the sandy road for a long time. For a long time I could distinguish how the morning breeze was sweeping their red whirlwinds. But then the road turns right, and the village disappears forever. There is a forest all around. Pine trees, spruces, sand under your feet. The resinous air is inhaled almost with pleasure. It seems that as soon as you climb the hill, you will come to the shore of the Baltic Sea. But this is the central strip of Russia. Moreover, now I am crossing a kind of border, which is not marked on any map. I leave the Kireev-Zhukovsky places, find myself in a region associated with the life of Ivan Turgenev. Perhaps, in the Chernsky district, to which the road led me, there is hardly a settlement where the author of the "Hunting Tales", the heroes of which were the ancestors of the local peasants, would not be.

Closer to ten in the morning, it became clear that the day would be very hot. At the small puddles - traces of recent rain - round dances of cabbage butterflies. The birds fell silent. It seemed that the heat was pressing on all living things. The road came out into the field. The forest remained to the left, but did not go far: it stretched for many versts like a powerful dark wall. To the right, a curious view opened up: a wheat field descended to the river. By the greenery of the coastal bushes, it was possible to determine the bed of the Zusha. In fact, I had to go straight: I had already seen the roofs of village houses - it was Trzlykowo. The heat, it would seem, strengthened the desire to walk faster, but I really wanted to look at Zusha, at the place of its confluence with the Oka, and I decided to lengthen my way. An hour later I reached the shore. Russian people love beauty. I look at the confluence of two rivers and think of our ancestors with involuntary respect. They knew how to find places for their settlements that were not only convenient, safe, but also beautiful. The tall, waist-high grass is bathed in the light red rays of the June sun, hundreds of dragonflies are circling over the muddy river. But once there were houses here, people went hunting, fishing, and repulsed the attacks of nomads. As if a witness of those years - feather grass on the mounds. What a quiet, peaceful river, and how many Russian heads are piled on its bank... The bravest, most courageous, worthy died, but the Russian land was saved. How our soldiers saved it in 1941. Eyewitnesses say that the water in Zush was red with blood... Shells and mines are still found in the ground, the skeletons of houses destroyed in that war are still standing in the villages. I walk, or rather, try to approach the confluence of the rivers. Burdock is as tall as a man, nettle as tall as two. But still I find a barely noticeable path, descending steeply. It is hard to believe that in a hundred kilometers from here this river will turn into a full-flowing Oka. But this will not be soon, and for now the very small Oka runs between the green steep banks. Good luck. I return to the old road. The villages I meet along the way are completely different from those that are left behind me. Instead of asphalt - thick green grass on the streets. Behind the gardens there is a dense wall. People are invariable - friendly, hardworking - from early morning to late evening, despite the great heat, most of those I met, like bees, worked in the field, in the gardens. Stores are unchanged. I go into one. Not at all for the sake of curiosity: I am very thirsty. Alas, the same empty shelves. The saleswoman is happy to chat with someone, she is so tired of doing nothing. But everything I heard, literally word for word, repeated what I heard yesterday, the day before yesterday, and what I will hear more than once: "Once a week I sell bread, there is nothing else to sell, apparently the store will soon be closed. I sympathized with her, she sympathized with me, saying that she had sold the last bottle of apple juice "I forgot when." Behind the large village of Troitskoye-Bachurino I made a halt. But the rest did not add strength. Quite the opposite, lethargy appeared, fatigue stiffened the muscles. And I was waiting for this day. If you walk under this heat for another forty minutes, climbing higher and higher up the slope, you can come to a land of absolutely indescribable beauty. The first and last time fate brought me to these parts seven or eight years ago, when, after a serious operation, the doctors recommended that I spend my vacation in a forest village. So I found myself on a tiny farm with the loud name "Revolution Village" with two grandmothers - Baba Shura and Aunt Valya. He ate mushrooms and goat's milk, collected herbs and walked for long hours in the forest. He especially liked to go to the pine grove on a hot day. Once planted by man, like the colonnades of a Gothic cathedral, pine trees stand in even rows. Behind the grove, the wind is roaring with might and main, the leaves of birches and aspens are fluttering and waving, and here there is silence, fascinating, magical. Under your feet is a soft carpet of myriads of pine needles, and you walk without disturbing this unearthly silence. A real temple. Somewhere high, high the sky is slightly blue, and a slanting ray of the sun will break through this twilight. It will break through and make the whole picture so magical that it is difficult to believe in the reality of what is happening... I trudge along the field road and think that surely my fairy-tale grove awaits me - the beauties of pines will stand for hundreds of years, unless, however, they are destroyed by a human axe or burned by a fiery flame. But are the grandmothers waiting? I reach the edge of the ascent. The view is worth describing. Far, far below, as if in a canyon, a river flows. On both sides, two slopes descend to it, widely, freely, smoothly, as if unhurriedly. Along the river bank there are villages. The houses from here are no bigger than a pinhead. At the edges of this whole picture, as if in a frame, there is a continuous forest. The landscape is more alpine than Russian. However, I am convinced that any landscape is possible in Russia, and every time it will be in place.

So, if we continue the analogy with the painting, I had to walk from its lower left corner to the lower right corner, always passing the center. Whether it was because the sun was rolling towards the west, or because of thoughts and memories that made my heart beat faster, fatigue disappeared like a hand. An hour later I approached the farm. Here is Aunt Shura's house. But instead of a small, dilapidated house, open to all eyes, there was a solid house in front of me, surrounded by a high fence. On a chain more suitable for a young bull, a huge shepherd dog was barking. I looked back. Behind me, looking at me through tiny windows, stood Aunt Valya's house. The house has not changed, only aged a little. There was no light in the windows, no one came out on the porch. But soon the nearby bushes, the outpost of the forest surrounding the farm, moved apart, and an old woman came out into the clearing, surrounded by goats. Lord, it's Aunt Valya! She kept goats even then, and then she herded them in a rather peculiar way: she picked mushrooms, and the goats followed her, nibbling at the grass. But something has changed a lot of my kind old woman: she leans on a stick with both hands, bent almost in half, does not walk, but rather moves her legs. Come.

-Hello.

"Hello, dear. I've become blind now. Aren't you going to Yuri? - (Yurka is her son).

"Aunt Valya, don't you recognize me?" Remember, about eight years ago I lived with Aunt Shura... She recognized me immediately. And here, in the clearing, while we were slowly walking to her house, she told us that two years ago Baba Shura, may she rest in peace, had died, that the eldest son, who came from Mtsensk for the summer, lived in his grandmother's house. And she herself also has one foot in the grave, and her legs, accursed, do not walk at all. "And I can't go to the hospital: where am I going to throw the goats?" ...

And her goat's milk is still delicious. The years, having changed the appearance of Aunt Valya, did not change her character. As in those good times, she took out a bottle of strong wine, as then she was upset by my refusal to drink, as then dashingly emptied a couple of glasses. She also poured it for her son - a wiry tanned man who worked as a shepherd on a collective farm. But it was obvious that the grandmother was angry with her son. Wine and loneliness loosened her tongue, and Aunt Valya hurried to pour out the feelings that overwhelmed her.