How many pages are there in the story of the white ship? Chingiz Aitmatov - white steamer

He had two fairy tales. One of our own, which no one knew about. The other one is what my grandfather told me. Then there was not one left. This is what we're talking about.
That year he turned seven years old and was eighth.
First, a briefcase was purchased. A black leatherette briefcase with a shiny metal latch that slides under the bracket. With a patch pocket for small items. In a word, an extraordinary, ordinary school bag. This is probably where it all started.
Grandfather bought it at a visiting auto shop. The truck shop, driving around the cattle breeders in the mountains with goods, sometimes dropped in on them at the forest cordon, in the San-Tash Pad.
From here, from the cordon, a protected mountain forest rose through gorges and slopes to the upper reaches. There are only three families at the cordon. But still, from time to time, the auto shop also visited the foresters.
The only boy in all three yards, he was always the first to notice the auto shop.
- He's coming! - he shouted, running to the doors and windows. - The store car is coming!
The wheeled road made its way here from the coast of Issyk-Kul, all the time along the gorge, along the river bank, all the time over rocks and potholes. It was not very easy to drive on such a road. Having reached Karaulnaya Mountain, she climbed from the bottom of the gorge onto a slope and from there descended for a long time along a steep and bare slope to the foresters’ yards. Karaulnaya Mountain is very close - in the summer, almost every day the boy ran there to look at the lake with binoculars. And there, on the road, everything is always clearly visible - on foot, on horseback, and, of course, the car.
That time - and it happened in a hot summer - the boy was swimming in his dam and from here he saw a car gathering dust along the slope. The dam was on the edge of the river shallows, on pebbles. It was built by my grandfather from stones. If it weren’t for this dam, who knows, maybe the boy would not have been alive long ago. And, as the grandmother said, the river would have washed his bones long ago and carried them straight to Issyk-Kul, and fish and all kinds of water creatures would have looked at them there. And no one would look for him and kill himself for him - because there is no point in getting into the water and because it doesn’t hurt anyone who needs him. So far this has not happened. But if it had happened, who knows, grandma might not have really rushed to save her. He would still be her family, otherwise, she says, he’s a stranger. And a stranger is always a stranger, no matter how much you feed him, no matter how much you follow him. Stranger... What if he doesn't want to be a stranger? And why exactly should he be considered a stranger? Maybe not he, but the grandmother herself is a stranger?
But more about that later, and about Grandfather’s dam later too...
So, then he saw a truck shop, it was going down the mountain, and dust swirled behind it along the road. And he was so happy, he knew for sure that a briefcase would be bought for him. He immediately jumped out of the water, quickly pulled his pants over his skinny hips and, still wet and blue in the face - the water in the river was cold - ran along the path to the yard to be the first to announce the arrival of the truck shop.
The boy ran quickly, jumping over bushes and running around boulders, if he was not strong enough to jump over them, and did not linger anywhere for a second - neither near the tall grasses, nor near the stones, although he knew that they were not at all simple. They could be offended and even trip up. “The store car has arrived. I’ll come later,” he said as he walked, “Lying Camel” - that’s what he called the red, humpbacked granite, chest-deep in the ground. Usually the boy did not pass by without patting his “Camel” on the hump. He clapped him in a masterly manner, like the grandfather of his bob-tailed gelding - so casually, casually; You, they say, wait, and I’ll be away here on business. He had a boulder called “Saddle” - half white, half black, a piebald stone with a saddle where you could sit astride a horse. There was also a “Wolf” stone - very similar to a wolf, brown, with gray hair, with a powerful scruff and a heavy forehead. He crawled towards it and took aim. But my favorite stone is “Tank”, an indestructible boulder right next to the river on a washed-out bank. Just wait, the “Tank” will rush from the shore and go, and the river will rage, boil with white breakers. That's how tanks go in movies: from the shore into the water - and off they go... The boy rarely saw films and therefore firmly remembered what he saw. The grandfather sometimes took his grandson to the movies at the state farm breeding farm in the neighboring tract behind the mountain. That’s why the “Tank” appeared on the bank, always ready to rush across the river. There were also others - “harmful” or “good” stones, and even “cunning” and “stupid”.
Among the plants there are also “favorite”, “brave”, “fearful”, “evil” and all sorts of others. The prickly thistle, for example, is the main enemy. The boy fought with him dozens of times a day. But there was no end in sight to this war - the thistle grew and multiplied. But field bindweeds, although they are also weeds, are the smartest and most cheerful flowers. They greet the sun best in the morning. Other herbs don’t understand anything - whether it’s morning or evening, they don’t care. And the bindweeds, just warming the rays, open their eyes and laugh. First one eye, then the second, and then one after another all the swirls of flowers bloom on the bindweed. White, light blue, lilac, different... And if you sit next to them very quietly, it seems that they, having woken up, are inaudibly whispering about something. The ants know this too. In the morning they run through the bindweed, squint in the sun and listen to what the flowers are talking about among themselves. Maybe dreams tell stories?
During the day, usually at noon, the boy liked to climb into the thickets of stem-like shiraljins. Shiraljins are tall, have no flowers, but are fragrant, they grow in islands, gather in heaps, not allowing other herbs to come close. Shiraljins are true friends. Especially if there is some kind of offense and you want to cry so that no one sees, it is best to hide in shiraljins. They smell like a pine forest at the edge. Hot and quiet in shiraljins. And most importantly, they do not obscure the sky. You need to lie on your back and look at the sky. At first, it’s almost impossible to discern anything through the tears. And then the clouds will come and do whatever you imagine above. The clouds know that you are not feeling very well, that you want to go somewhere, go fly away, so that no one finds you and then everyone sighs and aahs - the boy has disappeared, where can we find him now?.. And so that this doesn’t happen. It happens that you don’t disappear anywhere, that you lie quietly and admire the clouds, the clouds will turn into whatever you want. The same clouds produce a variety of different things. You just need to be able to recognize what the clouds represent.
But the Shiraljins are quiet, and they do not obscure the sky. Here they are, the Shiraljins, smelling of hot pine trees...
And he knew various other things about herbs. He treated the silver feather grasses that grew in the floodplain meadow condescendingly. They are eccentrics - waddlers! Windy heads. Eid soft, silky panicles cannot live without wind. They just wait - wherever it blows, that’s where they go. And everyone bows as one, the whole meadow, as if on command. And if it rains or a thunderstorm begins, the feather grasses don’t know where to hide. They rush about, fall, press themselves to the ground. If they had legs, they would probably run away wherever they look... But they are pretending. The thunderstorm will subside, and again the frivolous feather grass will fly in the wind - wherever the wind goes, so will they...
Alone, without friends, the boy lived in the circle of those simple things that surrounded him, and only a car shop could make him forget about everything and rush headlong towards it. What can I say, a mobile shop is not like stones or some kind of grass. What is there, in the drive-thru shop!
When the boy reached the house, the truck was already driving up to the yard, behind the houses. The houses on the cordon faced the river, the outbuilding turned into a gentle slope straight to the shore, and on the other side of the river, immediately from the washed-out ravine, the forest climbed steeply up the mountains, so that there was only one approach to the cordon - behind the houses. If the boy had not arrived on time, no one would have known that the auto shop was already here.
There were no men at that hour; everyone had left in the morning. Women did household chores. But then he screamed shrilly, running up to the open doors:
- I’ve arrived! The store car has arrived! The women were alarmed. They rushed to look for the hidden money. And they jumped out, overtaking one another. Grandma praised him too:
- He’s such a big-eyed guy!
The boy felt flattered, as if he had brought the auto shop himself. He was happy because he brought them this news, because he rushed into the backyard with them, because he jostled with them at the open door of the van. But here the women immediately forgot about him. They had no time for him. The goods were different - my eyes ran wild. There were only three women: his grandmother, his aunt Bekey - his mother’s sister, the wife of the most important person at the cordon, the patrolman Orozkul - and the wife of the auxiliary worker Seidakhmat - young Guljamal with her little girl in her arms. Only three women. But they fussed so much, they sorted and stirred up the goods so much that the seller of the car shop had to demand that they keep the line and not chatter all at once.
However, his words did not have much effect on the women. At first they grabbed everything, then they began to choose, then return what they had taken. They put it off, tried it on, argued, doubted, asked dozens of times about the same thing. They didn’t like one thing, another was expensive, the third had the wrong color... The boy stood aside. He got bored. The expectation of something extraordinary disappeared, the joy that he experienced when he saw the auto shop on the mountain disappeared. The auto shop suddenly turned into an ordinary car, filled with a bunch of different rubbish.
The seller frowned: it was not clear that these women were going to buy anything. Why did he come here, so far away, through the mountains?
That's how it learned. The women began to retreat, their ardor moderated, they even seemed tired. For some reason they began to make excuses - either to each other, or to the seller. The grandmother was the first to complain that there was no money. If you don’t have money in your hands, you can’t take the goods. Aunt Bekey did not dare to make a large purchase without her husband. Aunt Bekey is the most unhappy among all women in the world, because she has no children, and that’s why Orozkul beats her when she’s drunk, and that’s why grandfather suffers, because Aunt Bekey is his grandfather’s daughter. Aunt Bekey took some small items and two bottles of vodka. And in vain, and in vain - it will be worse for itself. Grandma couldn’t resist:
- Why are you calling trouble on your own head? - she hissed so that the seller would not hear her.
“I know it myself,” Aunt Bekey snapped briefly.
“What a fool,” the grandmother whispered even more quietly, but with gloating. If it weren’t for the salesman, how would she now scold Aunt Bekey. Wow, they're fighting!..
Young Guljamal came to the rescue. She began to explain to the seller that her Seidakhmat was going to the city soon, she would need money for the city, so she could not fork out.
So they hung out near the auto shop, bought goods “for pennies,” as the seller said, and went home. Well, is this trade? Having spat after the departing women, the seller began to collect the scattered goods in order to get behind the wheel and drive away. Then he noticed the boy.
- What are you doing, big-eared? - he asked. The boy had protruding ears, a thin neck and a large, round head. - Do you want to buy it? So hurry up, otherwise I'll close it. Do you have money?
The seller asked like this, simply because he had nothing better to do, but the boy answered respectfully:
“No, uncle, there is no money,” and shook his head.
“I think there is,” the seller drawled with feigned disbelief. “You’re all rich here, you’re just pretending to be poor.” What do you have in your pocket, isn’t it money?
“No, uncle,” the boy answered, still sincerely and seriously, and turned out his tattered pocket. (The second pocket was tightly sewn.)
- So your money woke up. Look where you ran. You will find it.
They were silent.
-Whose will you be? - the seller began to ask again. - Old Momun, or what?
The boy nodded in response.
-Are you his grandson?
- Yes. - The boy nodded again.
-Where is mother?
The boy didn't say anything. He didn't want to talk about it.
“She doesn’t give any news about herself at all, your mother.” You don’t know yourself, do you?
- Don't know.
- And the father? Don't you know either?
The boy was silent.
- Why don’t you know anything, my friend? - the seller playfully reproached him. - Well, okay, if so. “Here,” he took out a handful of sweets. - And be healthy.
The boy was shy.
- Take it, take it. Don't delay. It's time for me to go. The boy put the candy in his pocket and was about to run after the car to escort the auto shop onto the road. He called Baltek, a terribly lazy, shaggy dog. Orozkul kept threatening to shoot him - why, they say, keep such a dog. Yes, my grandfather kept begging me to put it off: he needed to get a shepherd dog, and take Baltek somewhere and leave him. Baltek didn’t care about anything - the well-fed one slept, the hungry one was always sucking up to someone, to friends and strangers indiscriminately, as long as they threw something at them. This is what he was like, the dog Baltek. But sometimes, out of boredom, I ran after cars. True, it’s not far. It will just accelerate, then suddenly turn around and trott off home. Unreliable dog. But still, running with a dog is a hundred times better than running without a dog. Whatever it is, it’s still a dog...
Slowly, so that the seller would not see, the boy tossed Baltek one piece of candy. “Look,” he warned the dog. “We’ll be running for a long time.” Baltek squealed, wagged his tail, and waited some more. But the boy did not dare to throw another candy. You can offend a person, but he didn’t give a whole handful for the dog.
And just then the grandfather appeared. The old man went to the apiary, but from the apiary you cannot see what is happening behind the houses. And it turned out that the grandfather arrived on time, the auto shop had not yet left. Happening. Otherwise, the grandson would not have had a briefcase. The boy was lucky that day.
Old Momun, whom wise people called the Efficient Momun, was known to everyone in the area, and he knew everyone. Momun earned this nickname by his invariable friendliness to everyone he even knew in the slightest degree, by his readiness to always do something for anyone, to serve anyone. And yet his diligence was not valued by anyone, just as gold would not be valued if they suddenly began to give it away for free. No one treated Momun with the respect that people his age enjoy. They treated him easily. It happened that at the great funeral of some noble elder from the Bugu tribe - and Momun was a Buginian by birth, he was very proud of this and never missed the funeral of his fellow tribesmen - he was assigned to slaughter cattle, greet honored guests and help them dismount, serve tea, and then chop wood and carry water. Isn’t there a lot of hassle at a large funeral where there are so many guests from different sides? Whatever Momun was entrusted with, he did quickly and easily, and most importantly, he did not shirk like others. The village young women, who had to receive and feed this huge horde of guests, looking at how Momun managed his work, said:
- What would we do if it weren’t for the Efficient Momun!
And it turned out that the old man, who came with his grandson from afar, found himself in the role of an assistant to a samovar-making horseman. Who else in Momun’s place would have burst from the insult. And at least something for Momun!
And no one was surprised that old Efficient Momun was serving the guests
- that’s why he’s been Agile Momun all his life. It’s his own fault that he’s the Efficient Momun. And if any of the strangers expressed surprise, why, they say, you, an old man, are running errands for women, are there really no young guys in this village, Momun answered: “The deceased was my brother. (He considered all the Buginians to be brothers. But they were no less “brothers” to the other guests.) Who should work at his wake, if not me? That's why we Buginians are related to our ancestor herself - the Horned Mother Deer. And she, a wonderful mother deer, bequeathed friendship to us both in life and in memory..."
That's how he was. Efficient Momun!
Both the old man and the little one were on first-name terms with him; one could make fun of him - the old man was harmless; it was possible to ignore him - an unresponsive old man. It is not for nothing, they say, that people do not forgive those who do not know how to force themselves to be respected. But he couldn't.
He knew a lot in life. He worked as a carpenter, a saddle maker, and was a rick-heaver; When I was younger, I put up such stacks on the collective farm that it was a pity to dismantle them in winter: the rain flowed off the stack like off a goose, and the snow fell on the gable roof. During the war, labor army workers in Magnitogorsk built factory walls and were called Stakhanovites. He returned, cut down houses on the border, and worked in the forest. Although he was listed as an auxiliary worker, he looked after the forest, and Orozkul, his son-in-law, mostly traveled around visiting guests. Unless when the authorities arrive, Orozkul himself will show the forest and organize a hunt, here he was the master. Momun looked after the cattle, and he kept an apiary. Momun lived his whole life from morning to evening at work, in troubles, but he did not learn to force himself to be respected.
And Momun’s appearance was not at all that of an aksakal. No sedateness, no importance, no severity. He was a good-natured man, and at first glance one could discern this ungrateful human quality in him. At all times they teach people like this: “Don’t be kind, be evil! Here you go, here you go! Be evil,” and he, to his misfortune, remains incorrigibly kind. His face was smiling and wrinkled, wrinkled, and his eyes always asked: “What do you want? Do you want me to do something for you? So I am now, just tell me what your need is.”
The nose is soft, duck-like, as if there is no cartilage at all. And he is small, nimble, an old man, like a teenager.
Why the beard - it didn’t work either. It's a joke. On his bare chin there are two or three reddish hairs - that’s all the beard is.
It’s different - you suddenly see a portly old man riding along the road, with a beard like a sheaf, in a spacious fur coat with a wide lambskin lapel, in an expensive hat, and on a good horse, and a silver-plated saddle - whatever a sage or a prophet, you should bow to him It’s not shameful, such a person is honored everywhere! And Momun was born just the Efficient Momun. Perhaps his only advantage was that he was not afraid of losing himself in someone’s eyes. (He sat down wrong, said wrong, answered wrong, smiled wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong...) In this sense, Momun, without even knowing it, was an extremely happy person. Many people die not so much from illnesses as from an irrepressible, eternal passion that consumes them - to pretend to be more than they are. (Who doesn’t want to be known as smart, worthy, beautiful, and also formidable, fair, decisive?..) But Momun was not like that. He was an eccentric, and they treated him like an eccentric.
One thing could seriously offend Momun: forgetting to invite him to the council of relatives on organizing someone’s funeral... At this point he was deeply offended and seriously worried about the insult, but not because he was passed over - he still didn’t decide anything at the councils, he was only present , - but because the fulfillment of an ancient duty was violated.
Momun had his own troubles and sorrows, from which he suffered, from which he cried at night. Outsiders knew almost nothing about it. And their people knew.
When Momun saw his grandson near the auto shop, he immediately realized that the boy was upset about something. But since the seller is a visiting person, the old man first turned to him. He quickly jumped out of the saddle and extended both hands to the seller at once.
- Assalamualaikum, great merchant! - he said half-jokingly, half-seriously. - Has your caravan arrived safely, is your trade going well? - all beaming, Momun shook the seller’s hand. - How much water has flown under the bridge, and we haven’t seen each other! Welcome!
The seller, condescendingly laughing at his speech and unsightly appearance - all the same well-worn tarpaulin boots, canvas trousers sewn by an old woman, a shabby jacket, a felt hat browned from rain and sun - answered Momun:
- The caravan is intact. Only here it turns out - the merchant comes to you, and you go from the merchant through the forests and down the valleys. And you tell your wives to hold on to a penny, like your soul before death. Even though they are piled high with goods, no one will fork out for it.
“Don’t blame me, dear,” Momun apologized embarrassedly. - If they knew you were coming, they wouldn’t leave. And if there is no money, then there is no trial. We'll sell potatoes in the fall...
- Tell me! - the seller interrupted him. - I know you, stinking warriors. Sit in the mountains, land, hay as much as you want. There are forests all around - you can’t travel around in three days. Do you keep cattle? Do you keep an apiary? And to give a penny - you’ll squeeze. Buy a silk blanket; you have only one sewing machine left.
“By God, there is no such money,” Momun justified himself.
- So I’ll believe it. You're being stingy, old man, saving money. And where to?
- By God, no, I swear by the Horned Mother Deer!
- Well, take some corduroy and make new pants.
- I would take it, I swear by the Horned Mother Deer...
- Eh, what can I talk to you about! - the seller waved his hand. - I shouldn’t have come. Where is Orozkul?
- In the morning, I think I went to Aksai. Shepherds' affairs.
“He’s visiting, then,” the seller clarified understandingly.
There was an awkward pause.
“Don’t be offended, dear,” Momun spoke again. - In the fall, God willing, we’ll sell potatoes...
- Autumn is far away.
- Well, if that’s the case, don’t blame me. For God's sake, come in and have some tea.
“That’s not what I came for,” the seller refused. He began to close the door of the van and it was then that he said, looking at his grandson, who was standing next to the old man, already at the ready, holding the dog by the ear, to run after the car:
- Well, at least buy a briefcase. It must be time for the boy to go to school? How old is he?
Momun immediately seized on this idea: at least he would buy something from the annoying auto shopkeeper, and his grandson really needed a briefcase for school this fall.
“That’s right,” Momun fussed, “I didn’t even think about it.” Why, seven, eight already. Come here,” he called his grandson.
Grandfather rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a hidden five.
It had probably been with him for a long time, it had already been packed away.
- Hold it, big-eared one. - The seller winked slyly at the boy and handed him the briefcase. - Now study. If you don’t master reading and writing, you’ll stay with your grandfather forever in the mountains.
- He will master it! “He’s smart,” Momun responded, counting the change.
Then he looked at his grandson, awkwardly holding a brand new briefcase, and pressed him to him.
- That's good. “You’ll go to school in the fall,” he said quietly. The grandfather’s hard, weighty palm gently covered the boy’s head.
And he felt his throat suddenly constrict, and was acutely aware of his grandfather’s thinness and the familiar smell of his clothes. He smelled of dry hay and the sweat of a hard-working man. Loyal, reliable, dear, perhaps the only person in the world who doted on the boy, was such a simple, eccentric old man, whom the wise men called the Efficient Momun... So what? No matter what he is, it’s good that he still has his own grandfather.
The boy himself did not suspect that his joy would be so great. Until now he had not thought about school. Until now, he had only seen children going to school - there, beyond the mountains, in the Issyk-Kul villages, where he and his grandfather went to the funeral of noble Buginsky old people. And from that moment the boy did not part with his briefcase. Rejoicing and boasting, he immediately ran around all the inhabitants of the cordon. First I showed it to my grandmother, “Look, my grandfather bought it!” - then to Aunt Bekey - she was also happy about the briefcase and praised the boy himself.
It's rare that Aunt Bekey is in a good mood. More often - gloomy and irritated - she does not notice her nephew. She has no time for him. She has her own troubles.
The grandmother says: if she had children, she would be a completely different woman. And Orozkul, her husband, would also be a different person. Then Grandfather Momun would have been a different person, and not the one he is. Although he had two daughters - Aunt Bekey and also the boy’s mother, the youngest daughter - it’s still bad, bad when you don’t have your own children; It's even worse when the kids don't have kids. That's what grandma says. Understand her...
After Aunt Bekey, the boy ran in to show the purchase to young Guljamal and her daughter. And from here he set off to make hay to Seidakhmat. Again I ran past the red stone “Camel” and again there was no time to pat it on the hump, past the “Saddle”, past the “Wolf” and “Tank”, and then everything along the shore, along the path through the sea buckthorn bushes, then along the long swath in the meadow he reached Seidakhmat.
Seidakhmat was here alone today. Grandfather had long ago mowed down his plot, and at the same time the plot of Orozkul. And they had already brought the hay - the grandmother and Aunt Bekey were raking it. Momun laid it, and he helped his grandfather, dragged the hay to the cart. They stacked two stacks near the cowshed. Grandfather completed them so carefully that no rain would fall. Smooth, like combed stacks. Every year it's like this. Orozkul doesn’t cut hay, he blames everything on his father-in-law - he’s the boss, after all. “If I want,” he says, “I’ll kick you out of work in no time.” This is him for his grandfather and Seidakhmat. And that was because he was drunk. He can't drive his grandfather away. Who will work then? Try it without your grandfather! There is a lot of work in the forest, especially in the fall. Grandfather says: “The forest is not a flock of sheep; it will not wander away. But I will look after him no less. Because if a fire happens or a flood hits from the mountains, the tree will not bounce off, will not move from its place, will die where it stands. But that’s what the forester does, so that the tree doesn’t disappear.” But Orozkul will not drive Seidakhmat away, because Seidakhmat is meek. Doesn't interfere in anything, doesn't argue. But although he is a quiet and healthy guy, he is lazy and loves to sleep. That's why I got into forestry. Grandfather says: “Such guys drive cars on the state farm and plow on tractors.” And Seidakhmat overgrown the potatoes with quinoa in his garden. Guljamal, with the child in her arms, had to manage the garden herself.
And when mowing began, Seidakhmat delayed it. The day before yesterday his grandfather swore at him. “Last winter,” he says, “I didn’t feel sorry for you, but for the cattle. That's why he shared the hay. If you’re counting on my old man’s hay again, then tell me right away, I’ll cut it for you.” It got to me, this morning Seidakhmat was waving his scythe.
Hearing quick steps behind him, Seidakhmat turned around and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
- What are you doing? Is that my name?
- No. I have a briefcase. Here. Grandfather bought it. I'll go to school.
- Is that why you came running? - Seidakhmat laughed. “Grandfather Momun is like that,” he twirled his finger near his temple, “and you too!” Well, what kind of briefcase? - He clicked the lock, twirled the briefcase in his hands and returned it, shaking his head mockingly. “Wait,” he exclaimed, “which school will you go to?” Where is it, your school?

He had two fairy tales. One of our own, which no one knew about. The other one is what my grandfather told me. Then there was not one left. This is what we're talking about.
That year the boy turned seven years old and was in his eighth year. First, an “extraordinary - the most ordinary school bag” was purchased. That’s probably where it all started.” Grandfather bought a briefcase from a truck shop that arrived at the foresters’ cordon.
From here a protected forest rose along the gorge and slopes to the upper reaches. Three families lived at the cordon.
A wheeled road ascended here from the coast of Issyk-Kul, but it was not very easy to climb along it. Having reached Karaulnaya Mountain, the road rose from the bottom of the gorge onto a slope and from there descended for a long time along a steep and bare slope to the foresters’ yards.
Karaulnaya Mountain is nearby. In the summer, the boy runs there every day to look at the lake with binoculars, and the road is clearly visible from there. That time - in the hot summer - the boy was swimming in the dam and saw the car gathering dust.
The grandfather built a dam on the edge of the shallows, fenced off from the river with stones so that the fast current of the river would not carry away the boy.
Seeing the car shop, the boy jumped out onto the shore and ran to tell the adults that a “car shop” had arrived. The boy was in a hurry, he didn’t even stop at his “familiar stones”: “Lying Camel”, “Saddle”, “Tank”, “Wolf”. Among the plants there are also “favorite”, “brave”, “fearful”, “evil” and all sorts of others. The prickly thistle is the main enemy. The boy fights with it dozens of times a day, and the thistle grows and multiplies. Field bindweeds are the smartest and most cheerful flowers; they greet the sun best in the morning. During the day, when it’s hot, the boy likes to climb into the shiraljins. They are tall, have no flowers and smell like pine. Shiraljins are loyal friends, he resorts to them if someone offends him to the point of tears, but he doesn’t want to cry in front of strangers. The boy lies on his back and looks at the clouds floating above him, turning into anything you want. The same clouds make different things, you just need to be able to recognize what they represent.
And the boy knew a lot of interesting things about the world around him. He considered the howls to be “eccentrics” who could not do without the wind: the wind bent their silken panicles wherever it wanted. “Alone, without friends, the boy lived in the circle of those simple things that surrounded him, and only a car shop could make him forget about everything and run headlong towards it. What can I say, a mobile shop is not like stones or some kind of grass. What is there, in the drive-thru!”
The boy told the women that a “shop car” had arrived. The men were not at home; they had gone about their business in the morning. The grandmother praised the boy: “He’s so big-eyed!” The women rushed to the car, sorted through the goods for a long time, but bought some small things and embarrassedly stepped aside. Aunt Bekey bought her husband two bottles of vodka, and the grandmother scolded her about why she was looking for “trouble on her own head.” Bekey replied that she herself knew what to do. They would have quarreled if there had not been a stranger nearby. The seller was upset, it was in vain to climb such a steep slope, just about to get behind the wheel, he saw the big-eared boy and joked: “Do you want to buy it? So hurry up, otherwise I’ll get caviar.” He asked if the old man Momun was the grandson of the old man and that he had heard about his parents, they didn’t give any news about themselves at all? The boy replied that he didn’t know anything about them. The seller gave the child a handful of candies and insisted that he take it. The boy stood ready to run after the car. He took care of the big lazy dog ​​Baltek, even gave him one piece of candy - running together is more fun. And then the grandfather just appeared, he was returning from the apiary. The efficient Momun is known by everyone in the area, and he knows everyone. “2u!omun earned this nickname by his invariable friendliness to everyone he even knew in the slightest degree, by his readiness to always do something for anyone, to serve anyone. And yet, his diligence was not valued by anyone, just as gold would not be valued if they suddenly began to give it away for free. No one treated G^omun with the respect that people of his age enjoy...” He necessarily participated in all the Buginsky commemorations; he himself was from the Bugu family. Grandfather was tasked with slaughtering cattle, greeting honored guests - he did everything quickly and easily. Having arrived from afar, the old man found himself in the role of an assistant dzhigit (well done) - a samovar maker. “Who else in Momun’s place would have burst from the insult. But at least something for Momun!” He considered all the Buginians his brothers and tried to please them. They made fun of him, and the old man was not angry. The only thing that could have offended him was if he had not been invited to the funeral at all, and had somehow been forgotten, but this did not happen. The old man was hardworking and necessary. He knew a lot in life: he was a carpenter, a saddler, he was a stacker when he was younger, he set up such stacks on the collective farm that it was a pity to dismantle them in winter: the rain flowed off them easily, the snow fell on a gable roof. During the war, he built factory walls in Magnitogorsk as a labor army worker and was called a Stakhanovite. He returned, cut down houses on the border, and worked in the forest. Although he was listed as an auxiliary worker, he looked after the forest, and Orozkul, his son-in-law, mostly traveled to visit guests. Only during commissions did Orozkul show the forest itself. Momun even kept an apiary, but “he didn’t learn how to force himself to be respected.”
And his appearance was simple: no sedateness, no importance, no severity. “He was a good-natured man, and at first glance this ungrateful human quality was discernible in him... His face was smiling and wrinkled, wrinkled, and his eyes always asked: “What do you want? Do you want me to do something for you? So I’m here now, just tell me what your need is.”
The nose is soft, duck-like, as if there is no cartilage at all. Yes, and small in stature,
teenager... On his bare chin there are two or three reddish hairs - that's the whole beard. His only advantage was that his grandfather was not afraid to embarrass himself in someone’s eyes. He was himself and did not try to seem better than he really was.
Momun had his own joys and sorrows, from which he suffered and cried at night.
Seeing his grandson near the auto shop, the old man realized that he was upset about something. Having greeted the driver, the old man asked if the “big merchant’s” business was successful? The driver began to complain that it was in vain to travel such a distance: the foresters are rich, but they don’t give their wives money. The old man embarrassedly made excuses that there really was no money, they would sell the potatoes in the fall, then the money would appear. The seller began to offer Momun various goods, but the old man had no money for them. Already closing the car, the salesman advised the old man to buy a briefcase for his grandson, since he was going to school in the fall. Momun is delighted
agreed, he didn’t even think that his grandson needed to be prepared for school. The boy felt what a “faithful, reliable, dear, perhaps the only person in the world, his grandfather, who doted on the boy, was such a simple, eccentric old man, whom the wise men called the efficient Momun... So what? Whatever it is, it’s good that you still have your own grandfather.”
The boy himself had no idea that the joy of buying a briefcase would be so great. From that moment on, he did not part with his briefcase. He ran around all the residents of the cordon, showing his grandfather’s purchase. Usually Aunt Bekey didn’t notice the boy, but here she was happy for him. It's rare that my aunt is in a good mood. More often she is gloomy and irritable: she has her own troubles. The grandmother says if the aunt had children, she would be a completely different woman, and her husband Orozkul would also be a different person. And my grandfather would have lived differently. Having run around the women, the boy with the briefcase set off for the hayfield of Seidakhmat, who was mowing his plot today. Grandfather had long since mowed his plot, and at the same time the Orozkul plot, and the hay had already been transported to the house and stacked. Orozkul never mows down, but blames everything on his father-in-law - the boss. He often drunkenly threatens to fire his grandfather and Seidakhmat from work, but he can’t fire his grandfather, who will work then? There is a lot to do in the forest, especially in the fall. But Orozkul will not drive Seydakhmat away, because he is meek and does not interfere in anything; healthy and lazy, loves to sleep. The boy had heard his grandfather reprimand Seidakhmat the day before that last winter he had taken pity on his cattle and shared the hay. “If you’re counting on my old man’s hay, then tell me right away, I’ll cut it for you.” It hit Seidakhmat; in the morning he was swinging a scythe in his plot. Seeing the boy, he asked why he came running. “What’s my name?” The boy showed off his new briefcase. Sei-dakhmat was surprised that the boy ran to such a distance because of a trifle. Then he examined and praised the briefcase. He asked how the boy was going to go to the Fermen school in Dzhelesai? This is no less than five kilometers. The boy replied that his grandfather promised to carry him on a horse. Seidakhmat began to laugh: it was time for grandfather to sit at his desk himself, the old man was losing his mind. The boy did not like how Seydakhmat reacted to his words. But he patted the boy on the shoulder reconcilingly. “You have just the right briefcase!.. Now go ahead. I still have to mow and mow.” The boy loved to talk to himself, and this time he said to the briefcase: “Don’t trust Seidakhmat, my grandfather is wonderful. He’s not at all cunning and that’s why they laugh at him.” He promised to show the briefcase the school and the white steamboat on the lake. But first you need to run to the barn for binoculars. The boy is obliged to look after the calf, which has gotten into the habit of sucking the cow's milk. “And the cow is his mother, and she doesn’t mind the milk. Mothers spare nothing for their children.” This was told to him by Guljamal, Seidakhmat's wife, she has her own girl... The boy was happy: there are now three of them - him, binoculars and a briefcase. He liked talking with the briefcase. The boy still wanted to tell him a lot, but he saw Orozkul returning from his guests. “Orozkul’s hat fell down onto the back of his head, revealing his red, low-growing forehead. He was falling asleep." Dozing in the saddle, heavy and important, Orozkul rode, carelessly resting the toes of his chrome boots on the stirrups. He almost fell off his horse in surprise when the boy ran out to meet him, showing his briefcase. “Okay, play,” Orozkul muttered and, swaying uncertainly in the saddle, rode on. He didn’t care about this stupid briefcase and the boy, his wife’s nephew, if he himself was so offended by fate, if God did not give him a son, while he gives others children generously, without counting. Self-pity and anger towards his barren wife rose in Orozkul’s soul; he knew that he would come and beat her.

In the story “The White Steamship” Aitmatov created a kind of “author’s epic”, stylized as a folk epic. It was a fairy tale about the Horned Mother Deer, which was told to the main character of the White Steamship, a boy, by his grandfather. Against the background of the majestic and beautiful in its kindness of the legend, the tragedy of the fate of the child, who himself ended his life, being unable to come to terms with the lies and cruelty of the “adult” world, was especially piercingly felt.

He had two fairy tales. One of our own, which no one knew about. The other one is what my grandfather told me. Then there was not one left. This is what we're talking about.

That year he turned seven years old and was eighth.

First, a briefcase was purchased. A black leatherette briefcase with a shiny metal latch that slides under the bracket. With a patch pocket for small items. In a word, an extraordinary, ordinary school bag. This is probably where it all started.

Grandfather bought it at a visiting auto shop. The truck shop, driving around the cattle breeders in the mountains with goods, sometimes dropped in on them at the forest cordon, in the San-Tash Pad.

From here, from the cordon, a protected mountain forest rose through gorges and slopes to the upper reaches. There are only three families at the cordon. But still, from time to time, the auto shop also visited the foresters.

The only boy in all three yards, he was always the first to notice the auto shop.

It's coming! - he shouted, running to the doors and windows. - The store car is coming!

The wheeled road made its way here from the coast of Issyk-Kul, all the time along the gorge, along the river bank, all the time over rocks and potholes. It was not very easy to drive on such a road. Having reached Karaulnaya Mountain, she climbed from the bottom of the gorge onto a slope and from there descended for a long time along a steep and bare slope to the foresters’ yards. Karaulnaya Mountain is very close - in the summer, almost every day the boy ran there to look at the lake with binoculars. And there, on the road, everything is always clearly visible - on foot, on horseback, and, of course, the car.

That time - and it happened in a hot summer - the boy was swimming in his dam and from here he saw a car gathering dust along the slope. The dam was on the edge of the river shallows, on pebbles. It was built by my grandfather from stones. If it weren’t for this dam, who knows, maybe the boy would not have been alive long ago. And, as the grandmother said, the river would have washed his bones long ago and carried them straight to Issyk-Kul, and fish and all kinds of water creatures would have looked at them there. And no one would look for him and kill himself for him - because there is no point in getting into the water and because it doesn’t hurt anyone who needs him. So far this has not happened. But if it had happened, who knows, grandma might not have really rushed to save her. He would still be her family, otherwise, she says, he’s a stranger. And a stranger is always a stranger, no matter how much you feed him, no matter how much you follow him. Stranger... What if he doesn't want to be a stranger? And why exactly should he be considered a stranger? Maybe not he, but the grandmother herself is a stranger?

But more about that later, and about Grandfather’s dam later too...

So, then he saw a truck shop, it was going down the mountain, and dust swirled behind it along the road. And he was so happy, he knew for sure that a briefcase would be bought for him. He immediately jumped out of the water, quickly pulled his pants over his skinny hips and, still wet and blue in the face - the water in the river was cold - ran along the path to the yard to be the first to announce the arrival of the truck shop.

The boy ran quickly, jumping over bushes and running around boulders, if he was not strong enough to jump over them, and did not linger anywhere for a second - neither near the tall grasses, nor near the stones, although he knew that they were not at all simple. They could be offended and even trip up. “The store car has arrived. I’ll come later,” he said as he walked, “Lying Camel” - that’s what he called the red, humpbacked granite, chest-deep in the ground. Usually the boy did not pass by without patting his “Camel” on the hump. He clapped him in a masterly manner, like the grandfather of his bob-tailed gelding - so casually, casually; You, they say, wait, and I’ll be away here on business. He had a boulder called “Saddle” - half white, half black, a piebald stone with a saddle where you could sit astride a horse. There was also a “Wolf” stone - very similar to a wolf, brown, with gray hair, with a powerful scruff and a heavy forehead. He crawled towards it and took aim. But my favorite stone is “Tank”, an indestructible boulder right next to the river on a washed-out bank. Just wait, the “Tank” will rush from the shore and go, and the river will rage, boil with white breakers. That's how tanks go in movies: from the shore into the water - and off they go... The boy rarely saw films and therefore firmly remembered what he saw. The grandfather sometimes took his grandson to the movies at the state farm breeding farm in the neighboring tract behind the mountain. That’s why the “Tank” appeared on the bank, always ready to rush across the river. There were also others - “harmful” or “good” stones, and even “cunning” and “stupid”.

Among the plants there are also “favorite”, “brave”, “fearful”, “evil” and all sorts of others. The prickly thistle, for example, is the main enemy. The boy fought with him dozens of times a day. But there was no end in sight to this war - the thistle grew and multiplied. But field bindweeds, although they are also weeds, are the smartest and most cheerful flowers. They greet the sun best in the morning. Other herbs don’t understand anything - whether it’s morning or evening, they don’t care. And the bindweeds, just warming the rays, open their eyes and laugh. First one eye, then the second, and then one after another all the swirls of flowers bloom on the bindweed. White, light blue, lilac, different... And if you sit next to them very quietly, it seems that they, having woken up, are inaudibly whispering about something. The ants know this too. In the morning they run through the bindweed, squint in the sun and listen to what the flowers are talking about among themselves. Maybe dreams tell stories?

During the day, usually at noon, the boy liked to climb into the thickets of stem-like shiraljins. Shiraljins are tall, have no flowers, but are fragrant, they grow in islands, gather in heaps, not allowing other herbs to come close. Shiraljins are true friends. Especially if there is some kind of offense and you want to cry so that no one sees, it is best to hide in shiraljins. They smell like a pine forest at the edge. Hot and quiet in shiraljins. And most importantly, they do not obscure the sky. You need to lie on your back and look at the sky. At first, it’s almost impossible to discern anything through the tears. And then the clouds will come and do whatever you imagine above. The clouds know that you are not feeling very well, that you want to go somewhere, go fly away, so that no one finds you and then everyone sighs and aahs - the boy has disappeared, where can we find him now?.. And so that this doesn’t happen. It happens that you don’t disappear anywhere, that you lie quietly and admire the clouds, the clouds will turn into whatever you want. The same clouds produce a variety of different things. You just need to be able to recognize what the clouds represent.

But the Shiraljins are quiet, and they do not obscure the sky. Here they are, the Shiraljins, smelling of hot pine trees...

And he knew various other things about herbs. He treated the silver feather grasses that grew in the floodplain meadow condescendingly. They are eccentrics - waddlers! Windy heads. Eid soft, silky panicles cannot live without wind. They just wait - wherever it blows, that’s where they go. And everyone bows as one, the whole meadow, as if on command. And if it rains or a thunderstorm begins, the feather grasses don’t know where to hide. They rush about, fall, press themselves to the ground. If they had legs, they would probably run away wherever they look... But they are pretending. The thunderstorm will subside, and again the frivolous feather grass will fly in the wind - wherever the wind goes, so will they...

Alone, without friends, the boy lived in the circle of those simple things that surrounded him, and only a car shop could make him forget about everything and rush headlong towards it. What can I say, a mobile shop is not like stones or some kind of grass. What is there, in the drive-thru shop!

When the boy reached the house, the truck was already driving up to the yard, behind the houses. The houses on the cordon faced the river, the outbuilding turned into a gentle slope straight to the shore, and on the other side of the river, immediately from the washed-out ravine, the forest climbed steeply up the mountains, so that there was only one approach to the cordon - behind the houses. If the boy had not arrived on time, no one would have known that the auto shop was already here.

There were no men at that hour; everyone had left in the morning. Women did household chores. But then he screamed shrilly, running up to the open doors:

I've arrived! The store car has arrived! The women were alarmed. They rushed to look for the hidden money. And they jumped out, overtaking one another. Grandma praised him too:

He's such a big-eyed guy!

The boy felt flattered, as if he had brought the auto shop himself. He was happy because he brought them this news, because he rushed into the backyard with them, because he jostled with them at the open door of the van. But here the women immediately forgot about him. They had no time for him. The goods were different - my eyes ran wild. There were only three women: his grandmother, his aunt Bekey - his mother’s sister, the wife of the most important person at the cordon, the patrolman Orozkul - and the wife of the auxiliary worker Seidakhmat - young Guljamal with her little girl in her arms. Only three women. But they fussed so much, they sorted and stirred up the goods so much that the seller of the car shop had to demand that they keep the line and not chatter all at once.

However, his words did not have much effect on the women. At first they grabbed everything, then they began to choose, then return what they had taken. They put it off, tried it on, argued, doubted, asked dozens of times about the same thing. They didn’t like one thing, another was expensive, the third had the wrong color... The boy stood aside. He got bored. The expectation of something extraordinary disappeared, the joy that he experienced when he saw the auto shop on the mountain disappeared. The auto shop suddenly turned into an ordinary car, filled with a bunch of different rubbish.

The seller frowned: it was not clear that these women were going to buy anything. Why did he come here, so far away, through the mountains?

That's how it learned. The women began to retreat, their ardor moderated, they even seemed tired. For some reason they began to make excuses - either to each other, or to the seller. The grandmother was the first to complain that there was no money. If you don’t have money in your hands, you can’t take the goods. Aunt Bekey did not dare to make a large purchase without her husband. Aunt Bekey is the most unhappy among all women in the world, because she has no children, and that’s why Orozkul beats her when she’s drunk, and that’s why grandfather suffers, because Aunt Bekey is his grandfather’s daughter. Aunt Bekey took some small items and two bottles of vodka. And in vain, and in vain - it will be worse for itself. Grandma couldn’t resist:

Why are you calling trouble on your own head? - she hissed so that the seller would not hear her.

“I know it myself,” Aunt Bekey snapped briefly.

What a fool,” the grandmother whispered even more quietly, but with gloating. If it weren’t for the salesman, how would she now scold Aunt Bekey. Wow, they're fighting!..

Young Guljamal came to the rescue. She began to explain to the seller that her Seidakhmat was going to the city soon, she would need money for the city, so she could not fork out.

So they hung out near the auto shop, bought goods “for pennies,” as the seller said, and went home. Well, is this trade? Having spat after the departing women, the seller began to collect the scattered goods in order to get behind the wheel and drive away. Then he noticed the boy.

What are you doing, big-eared? - he asked. The boy had protruding ears, a thin neck and a large, round head. - Do you want to buy it? So hurry up, otherwise I'll close it. Do you have money?

The seller asked like this, simply because he had nothing better to do, but the boy answered respectfully:

No, uncle, there is no money,” and shook his head.

“I think there is,” the seller drawled with feigned disbelief. “You’re all rich here, you’re just pretending to be poor.” What do you have in your pocket, isn’t it money?

“No, uncle,” the boy answered, still sincerely and seriously, and turned out his tattered pocket. (The second pocket was tightly sewn.)

So, your money was waking up. Look where you ran. You will find it.

They were silent.

Whose will you be? - the seller began to ask again. - Old Momun, or what?

The boy nodded in response.

Are you his grandson?

Yes. - The boy nodded again.

Where's the mother?

The boy didn't say anything. He didn't want to talk about it.

She doesn't give any news about herself at all, your mother. You don’t know yourself, do you?

Don't know.

And the father? Don't you know either?

The boy was silent.

Why is it that you, friend, don’t know anything? - the seller playfully reproached him. - Well, okay, if so. “Here,” he took out a handful of sweets. - And be healthy.

The boy was shy.

Take it, take it. Don't delay. It's time for me to go. The boy put the candy in his pocket and was about to run after the car to escort the auto shop onto the road. He called Baltek, a terribly lazy, shaggy dog. Orozkul kept threatening to shoot him - why, they say, keep such a dog. Yes, my grandfather kept begging me to put it off: he needed to get a shepherd dog, and take Baltek somewhere and leave him. Baltek didn’t care about anything - the well-fed one slept, the hungry one was always sucking up to someone, to friends and strangers indiscriminately, as long as they threw something at them. This is what he was like, the dog Baltek. But sometimes, out of boredom, I ran after cars. True, it’s not far. It will just accelerate, then suddenly turn around and trott off home. Unreliable dog. But still, running with a dog is a hundred times better than running without a dog. Whatever it is, it’s still a dog...

Slowly, so that the seller would not see, the boy tossed Baltek one piece of candy. “Look,” he warned the dog. “We’ll be running for a long time.” Baltek squealed, wagged his tail, and waited some more. But the boy did not dare to throw another candy. You can offend a person, but he didn’t give a whole handful for the dog.

And just then the grandfather appeared. The old man went to the apiary, but from the apiary you cannot see what is happening behind the houses. And it turned out that the grandfather arrived on time, the auto shop had not yet left. Happening. Otherwise, the grandson would not have had a briefcase. The boy was lucky that day.

Old Momun, whom wise people called the Efficient Momun, was known to everyone in the area, and he knew everyone. Momun earned this nickname by his invariable friendliness to everyone he even knew in the slightest degree, by his readiness to always do something for anyone, to serve anyone. And yet his diligence was not valued by anyone, just as gold would not be valued if they suddenly began to give it away for free. No one treated Momun with the respect that people his age enjoy. They treated him easily. It happened that at the great funeral of some noble elder from the Bugu tribe - and Momun was a Buginian by birth, he was very proud of this and never missed the funeral of his fellow tribesmen - he was assigned to slaughter cattle, greet honored guests and help them dismount, serve tea, and then chop wood and carry water. Isn’t there a lot of hassle at a large funeral where there are so many guests from different sides? Whatever Momun was entrusted with, he did quickly and easily, and most importantly, he did not shirk like others. The village young women, who had to receive and feed this huge horde of guests, looking at how Momun managed his work, said:

What would we do if it were not for the Efficient Momun!

And it turned out that the old man, who came with his grandson from afar, found himself in the role of an assistant to a samovar-making horseman. Who else in Momun’s place would have burst from the insult. And at least something for Momun!

And no one was surprised that old Efficient Momun was serving the guests

That’s why he’s been the Efficient Momun all his life. It’s his own fault that he’s the Efficient Momun. And if any of the strangers expressed surprise, why, they say, you, an old man, are running errands for women, are there really no young guys in this village, Momun answered: “The deceased was my brother. (He considered all the Buginians to be brothers. But they were no less “brothers” to the other guests.) Who should work at his wake, if not me? That's why we Buginians are related to our ancestor herself - the Horned Mother Deer. And she, a wonderful mother deer, bequeathed friendship to us both in life and in memory..."

That's how he was. Efficient Momun!

Both the old man and the little one were on first-name terms with him; one could make fun of him - the old man was harmless; it was possible to ignore him - an unresponsive old man. It is not for nothing, they say, that people do not forgive those who do not know how to force themselves to be respected. But he couldn't.

He knew a lot in life. He worked as a carpenter, a saddle maker, and was a rick-heaver; When I was younger, I put up such stacks on the collective farm that it was a pity to dismantle them in winter: the rain flowed off the stack like off a goose, and the snow fell on the gable roof. During the war, labor army workers in Magnitogorsk built factory walls and were called Stakhanovites. He returned, cut down houses on the border, and worked in the forest. Although he was listed as an auxiliary worker, he looked after the forest, and Orozkul, his son-in-law, mostly traveled around visiting guests. Unless when the authorities arrive, Orozkul himself will show the forest and organize a hunt, here he was the master. Momun looked after the cattle, and he kept an apiary. Momun lived his whole life from morning to evening at work, in troubles, but he did not learn to force himself to be respected.

And Momun’s appearance was not at all that of an aksakal. No sedateness, no importance, no severity. He was a good-natured man, and at first glance one could discern this ungrateful human quality in him. At all times they teach people like this: “Don’t be kind, be evil! Here you go, here you go! Be evil,” and he, to his misfortune, remains incorrigibly kind. His face was smiling and wrinkled, wrinkled, and his eyes always asked: “What do you want? Do you want me to do something for you? So I am now, just tell me what your need is.”

The nose is soft, duck-like, as if there is no cartilage at all. And he is small, nimble, an old man, like a teenager.

Why the beard - it didn’t work either. It's a joke. On his bare chin there are two or three reddish hairs - that’s all the beard is.

It’s different - you suddenly see a portly old man riding along the road, with a beard like a sheaf, in a spacious fur coat with a wide lambskin lapel, in an expensive hat, and on a good horse, and a silver-plated saddle - whatever a sage or a prophet, you should bow to him It’s not shameful, such a person is honored everywhere! And Momun was born just the Efficient Momun. Perhaps his only advantage was that he was not afraid of losing himself in someone’s eyes. (He sat down wrong, said wrong, answered wrong, smiled wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong...) In this sense, Momun, without even knowing it, was an extremely happy person. Many people die not so much from illnesses as from an irrepressible, eternal passion that consumes them - to pretend to be more than they are. (Who doesn’t want to be known as smart, worthy, beautiful, and also formidable, fair, decisive?..) But Momun was not like that. He was an eccentric, and they treated him like an eccentric.

One thing could seriously offend Momun: forgetting to invite him to the council of relatives on organizing someone’s funeral... At this point he was deeply offended and seriously worried about the insult, but not because he was passed over - he still didn’t decide anything at the councils, he was only present , - but because the fulfillment of an ancient duty was violated.

Momun had his own troubles and sorrows, from which he suffered, from which he cried at night. Outsiders knew almost nothing about it. And their people knew.

When Momun saw his grandson near the auto shop, he immediately realized that the boy was upset about something. But since the seller is a visiting person, the old man first turned to him. He quickly jumped out of the saddle and extended both hands to the seller at once.

Assalamualaikum, great merchant! - he said half-jokingly, half-seriously. - Has your caravan arrived safely, is your trade going well? - all beaming, Momun shook the seller’s hand. - How much water has flown under the bridge, and we haven’t seen each other! Welcome!

The seller, condescendingly laughing at his speech and unsightly appearance - all the same well-worn tarpaulin boots, canvas trousers sewn by an old woman, a shabby jacket, a felt hat browned from rain and sun - answered Momun:

The caravan is intact. Only here it turns out - the merchant comes to you, and you go from the merchant through the forests and down the valleys. And you tell your wives to hold on to a penny, like your soul before death. Even though they are piled high with goods, no one will fork out for it.

Don’t blame me, dear,” Momun apologized embarrassedly. - If they knew you were coming, they wouldn’t leave. And if there is no money, then there is no trial. We'll sell potatoes in the fall...

Tell me! - the seller interrupted him. - I know you, stinking warriors. Sit in the mountains, land, hay as much as you want. There are forests all around - you can’t travel around in three days. Do you keep cattle? Do you keep an apiary? And to give a penny - you’ll squeeze. Buy a silk blanket; you have only one sewing machine left.

By God, there is no such money,” Momun justified himself.

That's what I'll believe. You're being stingy, old man, saving money. And where to?

By God, no, I swear by the Horned Mother Deer!

Well, take some corduroy and make new pants.

I would take it, I swear by the Horned Mother Deer...

Eh, what can I talk to you about! - the seller waved his hand. - I shouldn’t have come. Where is Orozkul?

In the morning I think I headed to Aksai. Shepherds' affairs.

“He’s visiting, then,” the seller clarified understandingly.

There was an awkward pause.

“Don’t be offended, dear,” Momun spoke again. - In the fall, God willing, we’ll sell potatoes...

Autumn is far away.

Well, if that’s the case, don’t blame me. For God's sake, come in and have some tea.

That’s not what I came for,” the seller refused. He began to close the door of the van and it was then that he said, looking at his grandson, who was standing next to the old man, already at the ready, holding the dog by the ear, to run after the car:

Well, at least buy a briefcase. It must be time for the boy to go to school? How old is he?

Momun immediately seized on this idea: at least he would buy something from the annoying auto shopkeeper, and his grandson really needed a briefcase for school this fall.

“But it’s true,” Momun fussed, “I didn’t even think about it.” Why, seven, eight already. Come here,” he called his grandson.

Grandfather rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a hidden five.

It had probably been with him for a long time, it had already been packed away.

Hold it, big-eared one. - The seller winked slyly at the boy and handed him the briefcase. - Now study. If you don’t master reading and writing, you’ll stay with your grandfather forever in the mountains.

He'll master it! “He’s smart,” Momun responded, counting the change.

Then he looked at his grandson, awkwardly holding a brand new briefcase, and pressed him to him.

That's good. “You’ll go to school in the fall,” he said quietly. The grandfather’s hard, weighty palm gently covered the boy’s head.

And he felt his throat suddenly constrict, and was acutely aware of his grandfather’s thinness and the familiar smell of his clothes. He smelled of dry hay and the sweat of a hard-working man. Loyal, reliable, dear, perhaps the only person in the world who doted on the boy, was such a simple, eccentric old man, whom the wise men called the Efficient Momun... So what? No matter what he is, it’s good that he still has his own grandfather.

The boy himself did not suspect that his joy would be so great. Until now he had not thought about school. Until now, he had only seen children going to school - there, beyond the mountains, in the Issyk-Kul villages, where he and his grandfather went to the funeral of noble Buginsky old people. And from that moment the boy did not part with his briefcase. Rejoicing and boasting, he immediately ran around all the inhabitants of the cordon. First I showed it to my grandmother, “Look, my grandfather bought it!” - then to Aunt Bekey - she was also happy about the briefcase and praised the boy himself.

It's rare that Aunt Bekey is in a good mood. More often - gloomy and irritated - she does not notice her nephew. She has no time for him. She has her own troubles.

The grandmother says: if she had children, she would be a completely different woman. And Orozkul, her husband, would also be a different person. Then Grandfather Momun would have been a different person, and not the one he is. Although he had two daughters - Aunt Bekey and also the boy’s mother, the youngest daughter - it’s still bad, bad when you don’t have your own children; It's even worse when the kids don't have kids. That's what grandma says. Understand her...

After Aunt Bekey, the boy ran in to show the purchase to young Guljamal and her daughter. And from here he set off to make hay to Seidakhmat. Again I ran past the red stone “Camel” and again there was no time to pat it on the hump, past the “Saddle”, past the “Wolf” and “Tank”, and then everything along the shore, along the path through the sea buckthorn bushes, then along the long swath in the meadow he reached Seidakhmat.

Seidakhmat was here alone today. Grandfather had long ago mowed down his plot, and at the same time the plot of Orozkul. And they had already brought the hay - the grandmother and Aunt Bekey were raking it. Momun laid it, and he helped his grandfather, dragged the hay to the cart. They stacked two stacks near the cowshed. Grandfather completed them so carefully that no rain would fall. Smooth, like combed stacks. Every year it's like this. Orozkul doesn’t cut hay, he blames everything on his father-in-law - he’s the boss, after all. “If I want,” he says, “I’ll kick you out of work in no time.” This is him for his grandfather and Seidakhmat. And that was because he was drunk. He can't drive his grandfather away. Who will work then? Try it without your grandfather! There is a lot of work in the forest, especially in the fall. Grandfather says: “The forest is not a flock of sheep; it will not wander away. But I will look after him no less. Because if a fire happens or a flood hits from the mountains, the tree will not bounce off, will not move from its place, will die where it stands. But that’s what the forester does, so that the tree doesn’t disappear.” But Orozkul will not drive Seidakhmat away, because Seidakhmat is meek. Doesn't interfere in anything, doesn't argue. But although he is a quiet and healthy guy, he is lazy and loves to sleep. That's why I got into forestry. Grandfather says: “Such guys drive cars on the state farm and plow on tractors.” And Seidakhmat overgrown the potatoes with quinoa in his garden. Guljamal, with the child in her arms, had to manage the garden herself.

And when mowing began, Seidakhmat delayed it. The day before yesterday his grandfather swore at him. “Last winter,” he says, “I didn’t feel sorry for you, but for the cattle. That's why he shared the hay. If you’re counting on my old man’s hay again, then tell me right away, I’ll cut it for you.” It got to me, this morning Seidakhmat was waving his scythe.

Hearing quick steps behind him, Seidakhmat turned around and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

What are you doing? Is that my name?

No. I have a briefcase. Here. Grandfather bought it. I'll go to school.

Is that why you came running? - Seidakhmat laughed. “Grandfather Momun is like that,” he twirled his finger near his temple, “and you too!” Well, what kind of briefcase? - He clicked the lock, twirled the briefcase in his hands and returned it, shaking his head mockingly. “Wait,” he exclaimed, “which school will you go to?” Where is it, your school?

Like which one? To Fermenskaya.

Is it to go to Dzhelesai? - Seidakhmat marveled. - So it’s five kilometers there through the mountain, no less.

Grandfather said he would carry me on a horse.

Back and forth every day? The old man is acting weird... It’s time for him to go to school himself. He will sit with you on the desk, the lessons will end - and back! - Seidakhmat roared with laughter. He felt very funny when he imagined Grandfather Momun sitting with his grandson at a school desk.

The boy was silent, puzzled.

Yes, I say that just for fun! - Seydakhmat explained. He lightly flicked the boy on the nose and pulled the visor of his grandfather's cap over his eyes. Momun did not wear the uniform cap of the forestry department, he was ashamed of it. (“What am I, some kind of boss? I won’t exchange my Kyrgyz hat for any other.”) And in the summer Momun wore an antediluvian felt hat, the “former” ak-cap - a white cap trimmed with black shabby satin along the brim, and in winter - also antediluvian - sheepskin tebetey. He gave the green uniform cap of a forest worker to his grandson to wear.

The boy did not like that Seidakhmat accepted the news so mockingly. He gloomily raised his visor onto his forehead and, when Seidakhmat wanted to flick him on the nose again, he pulled his head back and snapped:

Don't pester!

Oh, how angry you are! - Seidakhmat grinned. - Don't be offended. You have just the right briefcase! - And patted him on the shoulder. - Now go ahead. I still have to mow and mow...

After spitting on his palms, Seidakhmat took up his braid again.

And the boy ran home again along the same path and again ran past the same stones. There was no time to play with stones yet. A briefcase is a serious thing.

The boy loved to talk to himself. But this time he said not to himself, but to his briefcase: “Don’t trust him, my grandfather is not like that at all. He is not at all cunning, and that is why they laugh at him. Because he's not cunning at all. He will take you and me to school. Don't you know where the school is yet? Not that far. I'll show you. We will look at it through binoculars from Karaulnaya Mountain. And I’ll also show you my white steamer. But first we’ll run into the barn. I have binoculars hidden there. I should look after the calf, but every time I run away to look at the white steamer. Our calf is already big - no matter how it drags, you won’t be able to hold it, but he has taken up the habit of sucking milk from the cow. And the cow is his mother, and she does not feel sorry for milk. Understand? Mothers never regret anything. This is what Guljamal says, she has her own girl... Soon the cow will be milked, and then we will drive the calf to graze. And then we will climb Karaulnaya Mountain and see a white steamer from the mountain. I also talk like this with binoculars. Now there will be three of us - me, you and binoculars..."

So he returned home. He really enjoyed talking with the briefcase. He was going to continue this conversation, he wanted to tell about himself, which the briefcase did not yet know. But he was prevented. A horse's tramp was heard from the side. A rider on a gray horse rode out from behind the trees. It was Orozkul. He was also returning home. The gray horse Alabash, which he did not allow anyone but himself to ride, was under a riding saddle with copper stirrups, a chest strap, and clinking silver pendants.

Orozkul's hat had tumbled to the back of his head, revealing his red, low-growing forehead. He felt drowsy in the heat. He slept while walking. The corduroy jacket, not very skilfully sewn on the model of those worn by the district authorities, was unbuttoned from top to bottom. The white shirt on his stomach came out from under his belt. He was full and drunk. Just recently I was visiting, drinking kumiss, and eating meat to my heart’s content.

When they came to the mountains for summer grazing, the surrounding shepherds and herdsmen often invited Orozkul to come to them. He had old friends and acquaintances. But they also called with calculation. Orozkul is the right person. Especially for those who are building a house and are sitting in the mountains; You won’t abandon the herd, you won’t leave, but where will you find the building materials? And first of all the forest? And if you please Orozkul, look, you’ll take two or three logs from the protected forest to choose from. But no, you will wander with your flock in the mountains, and your house will be built forever...

Dozing in the saddle, the heavy and important Orozkul rode, carelessly resting the toes of his chrome boots on the stirrups.

He almost fell off his horse in surprise when the boy ran towards him, waving his briefcase:

Uncle Orozkul, I have a briefcase! I'll go to school. Here is my briefcase.

Oh, for you! - Orozkul cursed, pulling on the reins in fear.

He looked at the boy with red, sleepy, swollen, drunken eyes:

What are you, where are you from?

I am going home. “I have a briefcase, I showed it to Seidakhmat,” the boy said in a fallen voice.

Okay, play,” Orozkul muttered and, swaying uncertainly in the saddle, rode on.

What did he care about this stupid briefcase, about this boy, his wife’s nephew, abandoned by his parents, if he himself was so offended by fate, if God did not give him his own son, his blood, while he gives others children generously, without counting? .

Orozkul sniffled and sobbed. Pity and anger choked him. He felt sorry that his life would pass without a trace, and anger flared up in him towards his barren wife. It’s the damned one that’s been walking around empty for so many years now...

“I’ll tell you!” - Orozkul mentally threatened, clenching his meaty fists, and groaned strangledly so as not to cry out loud. He already knew that he would come and beat her. This happened every time Orozkul got drunk; this bull-like man was stupefied with grief and anger.

The boy followed along the path. He was surprised when suddenly Orozkul disappeared ahead. And he, turning towards the river, got off his horse, threw down the reins and walked straight through the tall grass. He walked, swaying and bending. He walked, squeezing his face with his hands, burying his head in his shoulders. At the shore, Orozkul squatted down. He grabbed handfuls of water from the river and splashed it in his face.

“He probably had a headache from the heat,” the boy decided when he saw what Orozkul was doing. He did not know that Orozkul was crying and could not stop sobbing. He cried because it was not his son who ran out to meet him, and because he couldn’t find it in himself to say at least a few human words to this boy with the briefcase.

He had two fairy tales. One of our own, which no one knew about. The other one is what my grandfather told me. Then there was not one left. This is what we're talking about.

That year he turned seven years old and was eighth. First, a briefcase was purchased. A black leatherette briefcase with a shiny metal latch that slides under the bracket. With a patch pocket for small items. In a word, an extraordinary, ordinary school bag. This is probably where it all started.

Grandfather bought it at a visiting auto shop. The truck shop, driving around the cattle breeders in the mountains with goods, sometimes dropped in on them at the forest cordon, in the San-Tash Pad.

From here, from the cordon, a protected mountain forest rose through gorges and slopes to the upper reaches. There are only three families at the cordon. But still, from time to time, the auto shop also visited the foresters.

The only boy in all three yards, he was always the first to notice the auto shop.

- He's coming! - he shouted, running to the doors and windows. - The store car is coming!

The wheeled road made its way here from the coast of Issyk-Kul, all the time along the gorge, along the river bank, all the time over rocks and potholes. It was not very easy to drive on such a road. Having reached Karaulnaya Mountain, she climbed from the bottom of the gorge onto a slope and from there descended for a long time along a steep and bare slope to the foresters’ yards. Karaulnaya Mountain is very close - in the summer, almost every day the boy ran there to look at the lake with binoculars. And there, on the road, everything is always clearly visible - on foot, on horseback, and, of course, the car.

That time - and it happened in a hot summer - the boy was swimming in his dam and from here he saw a car gathering dust along the slope. The dam was on the edge of the river shallows, on pebbles. It was built by my grandfather from stones. If it weren’t for this dam, who knows, maybe the boy would not have been alive long ago. And, as the grandmother said, the river would have washed his bones long ago and carried them straight to Issyk-Kul, and fish and all kinds of water creatures would have looked at them there. And no one would look for him and kill himself for him - because there is no point in getting into the water and because it doesn’t hurt anyone who needs him. So far this has not happened. But if it had happened, who knows, grandma might not have really rushed to save her. He would still be her family, otherwise, she says, he’s a stranger. And a stranger is always a stranger, no matter how much you feed him, no matter how much you follow him. Stranger... What if he doesn't want to be a stranger? And why exactly should he be considered a stranger? Maybe not he, but the grandmother herself is a stranger?

But more about that later, and about Grandfather’s dam later too...

So, then he saw a truck shop, it was going down the mountain, and dust swirled behind it along the road. And he was so happy, he knew for sure that a briefcase would be bought for him. He immediately jumped out of the water, quickly pulled his pants over his skinny hips and, still wet and blue in the face—the water in the river was cold—ran along the path to the yard to be the first to announce the arrival of the truck shop. The boy ran quickly, jumping over bushes and running around boulders, if he was not strong enough to jump over them, he did not linger anywhere for a second - neither near the tall grasses, nor near the stones, although he knew that they were not at all simple. They could be offended and even trip up. “The store car has arrived. I’ll come later,” he said as he walked, “Lying Camel” - that’s what he called the red, humpbacked granite, chest-deep in the ground. Usually the boy did not pass by without patting his “Camel” on the hump. He clapped him in a masterly manner, like the grandfather of his bob-tailed gelding - so casually, casually: you, they say, wait, and I’ll be away here on business. He had a boulder called “Saddle” - half white, half black, a piebald stone with a saddle where you could sit astride a horse. There was also a “Wolf” stone - very similar to a wolf, brown, with gray hair, with a powerful scruff and a heavy forehead. He crawled towards it and took aim. But my favorite stone is “Tank”, an indestructible boulder right next to the river on a washed-out bank. Just wait, the “Tank” will rush from the shore and go, and the river will rage, boil with white breakers. That's how tanks go in movies: from the shore into the water - and off they go... The boy rarely saw films and therefore firmly remembered what he saw. The grandfather sometimes took his grandson to the movies at the state farm breeding farm in the neighboring tract behind the mountain. That’s why the “Tank” appeared on the bank, always ready to rush across the river. There were also others - “harmful” or “good” stones, and even “cunning” and “stupid”.

Among the plants there are also “favorite”, “brave”, “fearful”, “evil” and all sorts of others. The prickly thistle, for example, is the main enemy. The boy fought with him dozens of times a day. But there was no end in sight to this war - the thistle grew and multiplied. But field bindweeds, although they are also weeds, are the smartest and most cheerful flowers. They greet the sun best in the morning. Other herbs don’t understand anything - whether it’s morning or evening, they don’t care. And the bindweeds, just warming the rays, open their eyes and laugh. First one eye, then the second, and then one after another all the swirls of flowers bloom on the bindweed. White, light blue, lilac, different... And if you sit next to them very quietly, it seems that they, having woken up, are inaudibly whispering about something. Ants know this too. In the morning they run through the bindweed, squint in the sun and listen to what the flowers are talking about among themselves. Maybe dreams tell stories?

During the day, usually at noon, the boy liked to climb into the thickets of stem-like shiraljins. Shiraljins are tall, have no flowers, but are fragrant, they grow in islands, gather in heaps, not allowing other herbs to come close. Shiraljins are true friends. Especially if there is some kind of offense and you want to cry so that no one sees, it is best to hide in shiraljins. They smell like a pine forest at the edge. Hot and quiet in shiraljins. And most importantly, they do not obscure the sky. You need to lie on your back and look at the sky. At first, it’s almost impossible to discern anything through the tears. And then the clouds will come and do whatever you imagine above. The clouds know that you are not feeling very well, that you want to go somewhere or fly away so that no one finds you and then everyone sighs and aahs - the boy has disappeared, where can we find him now?.. And so that this doesn’t happen. It happens that you don’t disappear anywhere, that you lie quietly and admire the clouds, the clouds will turn into whatever you want. The same clouds produce a variety of different things. You just need to be able to recognize what the clouds represent.

But the Shiraljins are quiet, and they do not obscure the sky. Here they are, the Shiraljins, smelling of hot pine trees...

And he knew various other things about herbs. He treated the silver feather grasses that grew in the floodplain meadow condescendingly. They are eccentrics - farriers! Windy heads. Their soft, silky panicles cannot live without wind. They just wait - wherever it blows, that’s where they go. And everyone bows as one, the whole meadow, as if on command. And if it rains or a thunderstorm begins, the feather grasses don’t know where to hide. They rush about, fall, press themselves to the ground. If they had legs, they would probably run away wherever they look... But they are pretending. The storm will subside, and again the frivolous feather grass will flutter in the wind - wherever the wind goes, so will they...

Alone, without friends, the boy lived in the circle of those simple things that surrounded him, and only a car shop could make him forget about everything and rush headlong towards it. What can I say, a mobile shop is not like stones or some kind of grass. What is there, in the drive-thru shop!

When the boy reached the house, the truck was already driving up to the yard, behind the houses. The houses on the cordon faced the river, the outbuilding turned into a gentle slope straight to the shore, and on the other side of the river, immediately from the washed-out ravine, the forest climbed steeply through the mountains, so that there was only one approach to the cordon - behind the houses. If the boy had not arrived on time, no one would have known that the auto shop was already here.

There were no men at that hour; everyone had left in the morning. Women did household chores. But then he screamed shrilly, running up to the open doors:

– I’ve arrived! The store car has arrived!

Chingiz Aitmatov

"White Steamer"

The boy and his grandfather lived on a forest cordon. There were three women at the cordon: grandmother, aunt Bekey - grandfather’s daughter and wife of the main man at the cordon, the patrolman Orozkul, and also the wife of the auxiliary worker Seidakhmat. Aunt Bekey is the most unfortunate person in the world, because she has no children, and that’s why Orozkul beats her when she’s drunk. Grandfather Momun was nicknamed the efficient Momun. He earned this nickname by his unfailing friendliness and willingness to always serve. He knew how to work. And his son-in-law, Orozkul, although he was listed as the boss, mostly traveled around visiting guests. Momun looked after the cattle and kept the apiary. I've been working all my life from morning to evening, but I haven't learned how to make myself respected.

The boy did not remember either his father or his mother. I've never seen them. But he knew: his father was a sailor in Issyk-Kul, and his mother left for a distant city after a divorce.

The boy loved to climb the neighboring mountain and look at Issyk-Kul through his grandfather’s binoculars. Towards evening a white steamer appeared on the lake. With pipes in a row, long, powerful, beautiful. The boy dreamed of turning into a fish, so that only his head would remain his own, on a thin neck, large, with protruding ears. He will swim and say to his father, the sailor: “Hello, dad, I am your son.” He will tell you, of course, how he lives with Momun. The best grandfather, but not at all cunning, and therefore everyone laughs at him. And Orozkul just screams!

In the evenings, the grandfather told his grandson a fairy tale.

***

...In ancient times, a Kyrgyz tribe lived on the banks of the Enesai River. The tribe was attacked by enemies and killed everyone. Only a boy and a girl remained. But then the children also fell into the hands of enemies. The Khan gave them to the Pockmarked Lame Old Woman and ordered to put an end to the Kirghiz. But when the Pockmarked Lame Old Woman had already brought them to the shore of the Enesai, a mother deer came out of the forest and began to ask for the children. “People killed my fawns,” she said. “And my udder is full, asking for children!” The Pockmarked Lame Old Woman warned: “These are the children of men. They will grow up and kill your fawns. After all, people are not like animals, they don’t feel sorry for each other either.” But the mother deer begged the Pockmarked Lame Old Woman, and brought the children, now her own, to Issyk-Kul.

The children grew up and got married. The woman went into labor and was in pain. The man got scared and started calling the mother deer. And then an iridescent ringing was heard from afar. The horned mother deer brought a baby's cradle on her horns - beshik. And on the bow of the beshik the silver bell rang. And immediately the woman gave birth. They named their firstborn in honor of the mother deer - Bugubay. The Bugu family came from him.

Then a rich man died, and his children decided to install deer horns on the tomb. Since then, there has been no mercy for deer in the Issyk-Kul forests. And there were no more deer. The mountains are empty. And when the Horned Mother Deer left, she said that she would never return.

***

Autumn has come again in the mountains. Along with the summer, the time for visiting shepherds and herdsmen passed for Orozkul - the time had come to pay for the offerings. Together with Momun, they dragged two pine logs through the mountains, and that is why Orozkul was angry with the whole world. He should settle down in the city, they know how to respect people. Cultured people... And because you received a gift, you don’t have to carry logs later. But the police and the inspectorate visit the state farm - well, they’ll ask where the wood comes from and where. At this thought, anger boiled up in Orozkul towards everything and everyone. I wanted to beat my wife, but the house was far away. Then this grandfather saw the deer and almost came to tears, as if he had met his own brothers.

And when it was very close to the cordon, we finally quarreled with the old man: he kept asking his grandson to go and pick him up from school. It got so bad that he threw the stuck logs in the river and galloped off after the boy. It didn’t even help that Orozkul hit him on the head a couple of times - he pulled away, spat out the blood and left.

When the grandfather and the boy returned, they found out that Orozkul had beaten his wife and kicked him out of the house, and said that he was firing his grandfather from his job. Bekey howled, cursed her father, and the grandmother itched that she had to submit to Orozkul, ask for his forgiveness, otherwise where to go in her old age? Grandfather is in his hands...

The boy wanted to tell his grandfather that he saw deer in the forest, but they returned after all! - Yes, grandfather had no time for that. And then the boy again went into his imaginary world and began to beg the mother deer to bring Orozkul and Bekey a cradle on horns.

Meanwhile, people arrived at the cordon for the forest. And while they were pulling out the log and doing other things, grandfather Momun trotted after Orozkul, like a devoted dog. The visitors also saw deer - apparently the animals were not scared, they were from the reserve.

In the evening, the boy saw a cauldron boiling on a fire in the yard, from which a meaty spirit emanated. The grandfather stood by the fire and was drunk - the boy had never seen him like this. Drunk Orozkul and one of the visitors, squatting near the barn, shared a huge pile of fresh meat. And under the wall of the barn the boy saw a horned head. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t obey him - he stood and looked at the disfigured head of the one who only yesterday had been the Horned Mother Deer.

Soon everyone was seated at the table. The boy felt sick all the time. He heard drunken people slurping, gnawing, sniffling, devouring the meat of the mother deer. And then Saidakhmat told how he forced his grandfather to shoot a deer: he intimidated him that otherwise Orozkul would kick him out.

And the boy decided that he would become a fish and never return to the mountains. He went down to the river. And stepped straight into the water...

On the cordon under the forest there was a small village. There weren't many families here and only three women. The boy lived with his grandmother and grandfather, his aunt was the wife of Orozkul, who was in charge of everything. Another woman was married to a casual worker. Grandfather’s name was Momun, he was very friendly, always tried to serve people, looked after livestock, worked in the apiary, but because of his gentle character, they often used him for their own purposes and did not show respect to the elderly man. The boy lived with the old people, because his mother abandoned him and went to the city, and his father was a sailor, but he never saw him.

Sometimes the boy climbed the mountain next door, and from there looked at Issyk-Kul through binoculars that belonged to his grandfather. In the evening one could see a steamboat on the lake, which always surprised the child with its power and beauty. Most of all, the ship reminded the boy of his father, so he sat there and dreamed of meeting him, telling him about his life at the cordon. Upon returning from the mountain, the boy loved to chat with his grandfather, who told various tales.

In one of his stories, Momun told his grandson about a story about a Kyrgyz tribe that settled off the coast of Enesai. But hard times came and the village was attacked, the robbers killed all the inhabitants, only two remained alive: a boy and a girl. But their enemies also found them. The children were given to the old woman, who was supposed to drown them and put an end to the Kirghiz. At the last moment, a queen deer appeared from the thicket of the forest. She asked to give her the children to replace the fawns that people had killed. But the old woman warned that these children would grow up and become hunters, like those killers. However, the deer took the children and took them to Issyk-Kul. After a while, the boy and girl grew up, they fell in love and became husband and wife. The woman became pregnant. When she started having contractions, the man got scared and decided to call the mother deer. She brought a cradle and a bell, and then the woman gave birth. The baby was named after the deer’s savior – Bugubai. It was from him that the large family of Bugu began. But over time, people began to use deer antlers to decorate the graves of the rich, so almost all the deer were killed and the forests were empty, and the mother deer left with them, finally saying that she would not return to these places.

After winter, it was time to pay for the offerings. Orozkul was not happy that he had to carry heavy loads, and he wanted to go to a city where all people were respected, where everyone was cultured. But he understood that there would be police and inspectors who would ask where he got so much wealth and where he got the logs. Such thoughts filled the man with anger that he wanted to go home and beat his wife, but they were far from the village. While carrying the load in half with Momun, the man kept arguing with him, as the grandfather tried to take time off from work to pick up the boy from school. In the end, Momun dropped everything and left, even though his face was bloody.

When the grandfather and child returned home, they learned that Orozkul had beaten his wife and now wants to fire Momun, and the only way out is to ask the boss for forgiveness for insubordination. That's what my grandfather did. By that time, several deer were seen near the forest, walking freely and not afraid of anyone. In the evening, the boy saw that a drunken grandfather, his boss and a stranger were sitting near a cauldron of stew that smelled of meat. Near the wall of the barn, the child saw the head of a deer and was very scared, but did not run. At dinner he felt very sick, he thought about the mother deer and could no longer be in the presence of the killers. The boy decided that he must now become a fish so that he would never return to the cordon again. So the child went down to the river and went into the water.