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.

- Vitya, dear, oh and I'm worried. Believe me, I don't want to live. My boyfriend got completely out of hand. You remember him, he was always some kind of good-for-nothing. And now he drinks terribly. I don't mind, buy a bottle, drink after work, so he drinks almost everything. Why do I have to feed him, he has to feed me, I'm already old. Very sick, Vitya, completely! I ask him: Yuri, take me to some old woman-healer, maybe she will help. He will laugh as if I am pretending. And I, believe me, I can't walk at all. And the old woman began to cry. How could I console her when she repeated several times: "Well, why do I need all this?" To everyone except his mother. For anyone, he could break into a board, but for some reason he fought with his mother. The war was hidden from prying eyes, but it was still a war. I observed it eight years ago. I could only guess about the reasons. Once upon a time, Aunt Valya lived in a big city, raised Yurka without a husband, alone. Yurka himself also had a sip in his life, but often from his own good-for-nothingness. Once there was a wife, she gave birth to three girls. The eldest recently got married. But his wife could not stand Yurka's character and left him. And now he works to hell among these beauties of nature, and he also drinks to hell, managing to drink everything he earns in two or three days. I wonder why we always torment those we love the most? Why do we not find kind words for our loved ones, although these words cost us nothing? I know that the mother and son who live in this wretched house love each other in their own way. But why does love grow into misunderstanding, misunderstanding into hostility, hostility into hatred? Because for decades these unchanging houses, meadows, forests, and the most interesting thing in life is wine, which gives colors to the gray, dull world? Yurka sleeps on a trestle bed. He sleeps dressed, taking off only his boots. He didn't even cover himself with a blanket. The mother keeps talking passionately about her grievances. He carefully smoothes out the photos from which pretty blond girls look out, so similar to their father. And I will sleep on a luxurious bed with huge feather beds. It's for guests, but guests are so rare. Next to the hostess's bed is a spinning wheel. To her buzzing, I fall asleep. But he did not sleep for long. Somehow my heart was heavy. Aunt Valya's words did not leave my memory: "Why did I give birth to him?" Will I ever see them again? And, God willing, the sources of these words would be only momentary resentment and loneliness. It happens to everyone. And, who knows, maybe one day the good village shepherd Yurka Morozov will come to his senses, take a white shirt out of the chest of drawers, put on a suit that he has not worn for ten years, and go, as before, to Voronezh, to his daughters. The mother will heal - not with medicines, no, with a kind word, which she lacks so much.

And a summer night fell on the village of Revolution. There were no stars. A blind dog, sniffing, came up to me. He was so old that he no longer barked. At night, he came out of the booth and greedily inhaled the smells of the forest: he could not perceive the world in any other way. And I remembered him as big, cheerful, with a loud bark, rushing after the horses along the wooded hill...

What a quiet night! Everything breathes peace. I decided to walk a little. Suddenly, in the cool forest haze, a tiny, slightly greenish living light shone. Fireflies! One, two, and soon I was standing in a magical clearing, completely dotted with lights. The gloomy night forest seemed to come to life. And now the firefly in the palm of my hand is a small miracle of nature. I thought: this flashlight will not help a lost person get out of the forest, but it will give him hope. I say goodbye to the firefly meadow. Once, a long time ago, I brought a firefly from the forest. He brought it in a matchbox, carrying it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Finding a secluded place in the garden, he put a forest guest there. But it no longer glowed. On my palm lay an ordinary small worm. And then I understood: you can't touch a fairy tale with your hands.

June 25. A steppe forgotten by God.

The path, departing from Aunt Valya's house, cheerfully and carelessly dived into the forest thicket, then climbed up the slope to then become a field path. The forest said goodbye to me. On the left, its formidable wall melted in the haze, on the right, a pine grove rushed with its treetops into the high sky. The forest-steppe began, according to my calculations, I was supposed to enter "its embrace" in three or four hours. And apparently, the hugs were going to be hot: it was early morning, and it was already difficult to breathe. And what will happen in the middle of the day?

From the village of Poltevo, where the path soon led me, to the big road leading to Chern, it was no more than two kilometers away, but it seemed to me that it was all six, so hard was I walking. And when I did go to the big one, I had to stop in thought. In fact, my path lay straight, going into the roadless steppe, into the very wilderness of the Tula region - the Arsenyevsky district. I was not going to change the route. But if you walk along the Chernskaya road for five kilometers, and then turn right, you can come to a large meadow, through which a river with an amazingly beautiful name - Snezhed. An ordinary meadow, there are still a lot of them in Russia - not all of them are still ploughed. But Turgenev immortalized him, making him a symbol of peasant Russia, peaceful labor on his beloved land. Bezhin meadow. How I want to come to the banks of the Snezhed, just to sit, to remember those village children about whom Ivan Sergeevich once told us. But it's so hot, and I have to go through the planned path... And suddenly, on the side of the road, to my right, I saw a small gray-black bird with a shaking tail. Wow! Like that old acquaintance I met at the very beginning of my journey. The wagtail fluttered up and flew in the direction of Chernya, in the direction of Bezhin meadow. If this is not a sign, then I do not understand anything. Decided. When I came to Bezhin Meadow, the sun was at its zenith. On the way, I came across a poster inviting me to a holiday that was to take place on the Bezhin Meadow next Saturday. The holiday is traditional. In Cherni, they are proud of him and, it must be said, rightfully so. I know that in three days the high right bank of the Snezhedi will be filled with people. Who will come here for the buffet, who will listen to Russian songs performed by folklore ensembles, who will look at the guests of the capital - poets and prose writers. But all the same, for each of them it will be a holiday, the very atmosphere of which, quiet and sincere, is difficult to convey in words. But this will be only in three days. And today there is silence here. A hawk soars high in the sky. They say that birds of prey have excellent eyesight. I wonder how he sees me, standing alone on a green field? A small dot carrying a load on your back? Tell me, have you ever had such a thing: suddenly, as if some kind of wave is sweeping over you and it seems that all this has already happened to you somewhere, once. So it happened to me. It seems to me, or was there really such a sweltering heat, a huge field, me, such a small, quiet river in the sunshine. And this bird soaring in the sky... Such "recognition" often happened to me. Usually after a minute or two, it passed. And today, now I was sure, I felt that I would get to the bottom of it. All this has already happened. True, why are there no horses? A small herd, two young drivers? The horses run into the water jets, the spray sparkles in the sun, the sun sparkles in the spray. Why, it was exactly a year ago, on the same day, June 25! Here, on the Tula land. Kulikovo Field. The place where the Nepryadva flows into the Don. A different field, a different symbol of Russia. A symbol of fortitude, unity of all Russians in the face of the enemy... The herd sped away, I was lying on the river bank, and a bird was silently soaring in the molten heights. I have already said what a bitter torment it is to look for roads at the junctions of regions, districts, far from large settlements. In the village of Dyakonovo they agreed that there was a village of Merkulovo somewhere, but how to get there... Field. Crops are all around. Fifteen to twenty centimeters of dust under my feet. As I walked, a cloud of rising dust trailed behind me. There are islands of greenery - five or six trees, as if huddled together in a heap from fright. And also the heat. My flask is empty. Dust creeps into the nose and throat. The most cherished desire is to throw yourself into the cold water and splash in it until the evening, until this murderous sun disappears. Everywhere you look - field, field, field. Endless. But even where heaven meets earth, even there is nothing like a human dwelling. Well, where are you, Merkulovo? All. I had no more strength to walk. I walked, but I didn't understand how I did it. Lord, what a bulky backpack I have! I didn't think it was so heavy. I wonder when I fall into this dust... What am I talking about? Yes, if I fall into this dust, how will I fall - on my back or face down? It's better to be on the back, when they pick up the body, I won't look so pathetic. By the way, how long will I lie in this wilderness, unraised? That's it, something similar to delirium begins. That's right. And here is a mirage: I see a small forest with a lake on its edge. Dark, still water. The branches of the willows lean towards the water. No, this is not a mirage. And really, a lake! The clear cold water did a miracle. With each heartbeat, strength pours into the body. My red-hot body is blissful. Later I found out that I swam in the Watermelon Pond. Somewhere very close to here there was a village, now not preserved. A lady lived in it. Her name and patronymic have not been preserved in memory, and the surname, thanks to the pond that appeared at her will, has reached us. Another reason to reflect on the frailty of human existence, on the memory that we leave behind. I don't know anything about Lady Arbuzova: when she lived, at what age and under what circumstances she gave her soul to the Lord, whether she had descendants. But it would not have existed, and this wonderful oasis in the middle of an endless field simply would not have existed in nature. And how many people will find joy on the banks of the Arbuzov Pond, will take from the cool waters of vigor and new strength. I fell asleep under the bird cherry trees. He slept long and soundly. And I got up so rested that my legs asked to go on their own, and the farthest way did not frighten me. But there was very little to go to Merkulov.

In the village, I stayed for the night in a dormitory, now completely empty and unsociable, since its permanent inhabitants - the workers-chiefs - had not yet arrived. It was a one-story brick building, with a long corridor, on both sides of which there were about eight rooms. The commandant of the dormitory was not there, his wife, Tamara Ilyinichna, helped me inside. We found one unlocked room with her. I thanked the woman and began to prepare for the night. I was not embarrassed by the empty shell of a typical iron dormitory bed. It was somehow uneasy to see the bare walls, the gloomy corridor, the footsteps of which were as muffled as in some medieval castle. It would be better to spend the night in an open field than here, in a large building, which for some reason seemed to me like a crypt. In addition, the huge holes in the floor were also embarrassing. Sleep did not come. I have tried all the methods of dealing with insomnia known to me, but all to no avail. When the count of elephants and lions reached the second thousand, the rapid step of someone's footsteps echoed in the corridor. What a strange thing: I had to spend the night in the forest, and met with animals, but there seemed to be no fear. And here I suddenly tensed up so much that even perspiration appeared on my forehead. That's right: most of all in life we are afraid of the unknown. Let's add here our imagination, the appropriate environment. The door opened, and Tamara Ilyinichna stood in front of me, smiling.