Аннотация: Three outcasts from the forest tribe are sent away from their village. A lazy musician, a loser junior magician, and three outcasts from a forest tribe set off from their village. A lazy musician, a loser junior magician, and a gloomy hunter.
Юрий
Александрович
Никитин
f9452e50-2a80-102a-9ae1-2dfe723fe7c7
Трое из Леса
Part I
Chapter 1.
Boromir pulled back the curtain of the bearskin, and the fresh morning air rushed into the hollow. The heavy nighttime smells of overripe wood swayed and sank like bottom fish, carrying away vague visions and fears.
He stuck his head out and, blinded by the bright light, suffocated by the scorching air, stared incredulously at the world. There are fresh prints of wolf paws on the ground, but this is one of their own, but on the tree opposite there are claw marks of a large owl. An unkind sign...
Grunting, he climbed out. The air was fresh and humid, and the trampled earth glistened with dew. Giant trees surrounded the gigantic clearing with a dense wall. The branches above it are intertwined, in the dark greenery it constantly shuffles, moves, bark scales, leaves fall down every now and then, hairs and feathers fall down. Often bloody.
During the night, the ground swelled up in some places, and a green sprout even broke through near the mighty oak tree where Godovit's family lives in a hollow. If it is not destroyed by evening, tomorrow the war with the Forest will be much more difficult....
They've made it, Boromir thought with relief. The biggest concern of his tribe was to live until spring, to the warmth, to the sun, which was rarely seen, but everyone knew that from spring it begins to warm the trees and the ground.
The naked children of Thunderbolt, the Senior Hunter, were crawling out of the pit, which was covered from above with tree trunks and layers of turf. They were followed by the smell of sewage and stench, all covered in a thick crust of dirt, with pale faces, red eyes and swollen bleeding gums. The older ones were in rags of overripe skins, but with the same dried blood on their lips, weak, faded. As soon as they got out, they sat down like crows on a long deadfall, weak legs holding poorly.
The stronger ones hobbled to the River. The ice had long since disappeared, the water was running, jumping over the rocks, clear as a fish, and the children, helping each other, crossed the rocks to the other side of the River. There was just a Forest, the forerunner of an unknown Blackwood, where no human foot had ever set foot, and in this forest, children, without leaving the shore or losing sight of noticeable trees, rummaged through a pile of last year's leaves, found flat onion stalks, young leaves of ferns, nettles, tore and then diligently chewed, feeling like life-giving the drops pour into the weakened corpuscles, supporting the already faded sparks of life. Like goats, they ate the young branches of tallow and hazel, staining them with blood from their gums.
The most lively of them were the first to find nests with eggs in the bushes. There were similar nests in the trees, but after a painful winter, when most of the children died, none of the survivors could climb even a rotten tree. And so, they hurriedly drank the eggs, and the first color rushed to their cheeks, and finally the heart began to pound in their chest, which had completely frozen over the long winter.
We returned home, as it should be, not empty-handed. Everyone carried stalks of edible grass, the roots would be brought later when they got stronger, the elders even dragged dry branches, because the gods do not allow killing a living tree.
Boromir wandered, leaning on a carved staff, from tree to tree, beating the trunks with his staff, they responded with a booming sound, or even sleepy voices. The Magus's dirty gray hair was tied back on his forehead with a strip of skin, his beard fell to his waist, and a thick bearskin hung from his shoulders to the ground. A wide flint knife hung from his belt, but Boromir's main weapon was a carved staff. His magus power was concentrated there, with his help he drove away evil spirits.
And now, sharp eyes, not like an old man's, looked disapprovingly at the hollows and dugouts. People are careless, careless! Anyone can stand up to the beast, but no one puts obstacles in the way of the invisible enemy. We need to cast spells. The enemy is awake, crawling through any crevice!
A child's cry came from the hollow of the Godovit family. Boromir stopped: severity is necessary, but children should not be flogged in vain. Today the children, tomorrow they have to feed their parents, take care of their peace. You should know that the world is strict but fair.
"Oh, Daddy!" a voice was heard. "Oh, I won't!.. Bear, club-footed bear..."
Boromir immediately strode on. The kid forgot the new law that the magi had recently established: don't call Bera, or he'll come, and when his father returned from hunting, he probably ran out shouting: tyatenka, didn't you meet Bera? Like all the peasants in the village, Godovit was not afraid of Bera, if one-on-one, with a slingshot in his hand and an axe in his belt, but ber often walks at night, sneaks to the sleepers through a hollow, and those who live in dugouts rake logs on the roof.
The bear easily strangles the moose and carries it in its front paws, raking the stone-hard, frozen ground in the middle of winter to pull the mouse out of the hole.... Therefore, the Magi ordered Bera to be called a bear, clubfoot, toptygin. Let Bera sleep in his lair, his den, he doesn't know what they're saying about him!
The years would have passed sooner, Boromir thought uneasily. The old people will take the dangerous knowledge to Viri or to the Lizard, the kinship with the bers will be forgotten, and the grandchildren will not even know that they have recently left the animal world. We must cherish the sun drop in our hearts, which was planted by an immortal Family!
"Peace be with the house," he said in a thick, strong voice, slowly and cautiously descending the earthen steps, slimy with dampness, into old Taras' spacious dugout. "May the Chur protect you from the Lizard!"
"Thank the Churu and the bright gods," a cold voice sounded.
It's humid and hot in the dugout, with flat stones driven into the ground in the middle of the trampled earth floor, and large coals still glowing with crimson fire on them. Ominous glare jumps on uneven walls, from which dried roots hang down. Others bulge out powerfully and brazenly, there is a stirring in them, either cold juices are forcefully flowing from secret depths into thick trunks, and from there to branches and leaves, or large worms and beetles in warmth and safety are eating powerfully, rushing to mate and breed offspring.
Ancient grandfather Taras was sitting in front of the hearth, shivering, pressing his back against the warm wall. Taras was wearing a short beaver skin, and with one hand he was trying to pull it up to his chin, while with the other he was hesitantly touching the coals with the last splinter. The oldest in the village, he did not die only because he did not decide who he would become: a brownie or a лешаком. It would be nice to be in the house, you need to keep an eye on the children, but all my hard life I dreamed of getting to bereginyam. I saw one out of the corner of my eye in my youth, my heart sank, but the family, the children, the household, there's no time to look at the sky! Now she's about to be released from her decrepit body... but her soul, too, must have aged. There's a hunt for bereginyami, and no less a hunt for a piece of fried liver that's thrown into the corner of a brownie.
"Boromir," he asked cautiously, "what do the лешаки eat? If there are frogs or leeches..."
Boromir's eyes flashed menacingly, and he struck his staff with a crash on the hearthstones:
"What are you thinking about? You are alive. Help the light gods in the fight against the dark ones! Your club over there is not decorated with carvings, it is not painted with ocher. How can you fight the Enemy without beauty? Babble, Labor..."
"I'm helping," Taras interrupted in a hoarse, cold voice. "Just not a fighter anymore. Be... he broke the bear with his bare hands, like honeycombs, and now..."
"Not a fighter?" Boromir was surprised. "We are all fighters, duelists! If you don't decorate the pot with wavy lines, you'll run out of food, and if you don't dress up, the enemy will get to your heart! And your spoons over there are not painted, the loops on your jacket are broken.... Can you even do that?"
Taras nodded, wrapped himself in the skin, baring his thin yellow legs. Shrunken, huddled under an old hide with threadbare fur, he already looked like a brownie. The Volhv is right, Mara is with her daughters-and the damned one has twelve! - I've killed more than the forest animals. The Magus is right, Mara is with her daughters-and the damned one has twelve! "she's killed more than the forest animals. We must fight back, we must... But the young ones have more strength, and he would have time to decide: a brownie or a лешим? After all, besides the beregin and the леших, the undead roam the Forest, the souls of other dead people. These зайд, who had wandered into the Forest from nowhere, were killed and buried. Now they wander at night, rush out of the dark, drink warm blood. When Taras was young, he crushed leopards and broke Beru's spine, but they say the undead look like big toads, and Taras was afraid of small frogs. Bera's fur is warm, while toads have cold, slimy skin. Even a tiny toad can have big warts, but what can you expect from the undead?
He took a short breath and turned his eyes to the magus. He thundered all over the dugout, menacingly shaking his sinewy arms:
"...to carve everything wooden, tell your friends so! Paint the clay with flowers, where are the daughters-in-law looking? Whether in a hollow or a dugout, it should be clean! But make sure that the garbage is not taken out, but burned in the hearth...."
He paused angrily. The old man nods, but his eyes are far away. His face is like an apple baked in ashes, squinting in a smile. A brownie, they say, is more necessary. Near beregin - for himself, and, they say, he will serve the family as a housekeeper after death, as befits a person. Life, however, will have to be worse, but the soul will be at peace for the children.
Zharook, the eldest, has lived to gray hairs, but he flashes like birch bark. Semenko, the middle-aged one, is even tougher - the first fist fighter, is it far from trouble? The youngest, Vyrvidub, was good at everything, but he died hunting, leaving two children. The grandchildren are quite awkward, especially the eldest, Targitai... Nineteen springs have passed, and he should still be playing the duda and chasing girls! I'll have to be a brownie. He will make sure that the customs of the forefathers are respected, the graves are tended, commemorated on the Holy Day, and relatives, neighbors, and orphans are helped....
"Are the sons hunting?" Boromir barked, rudely intruding on their thoughts.
"Let's go to Neustroikha... Her hollow is falling apart. The men gathered, helping to move into the dugout."
Boromir nodded approvingly. The enemy pushes one at a time, but when people help each other, they retreat, gnashing their teeth!
"And the grandchildren?"
"They are being forested. True hunters."
"Even Targitai?"
Taras lowered his head, avoiding looking the Magus in the eye.
"Also in the forest."
"Hunting?"
"Well... as he can."
Boromir almost cursed, turned around and left as quickly as possible. The hole in the dugout was tightly closed to keep out the hot air.
Taras's dugout, which he expanded by recapturing from the bear, is the most extreme, further into the Forest, where it is always damp and gloomy. The earth shudders when rotten giants fall, the young hungrily crowd over the moss-covered giant deadwood, instead of the sky there are intertwined branches.
The village stood in a bend of the River. In the dry season, the hare jumps over without wetting its paws, but now it's spring, the river is bubbling, carrying spring waters, trees are releasing young branches in front of our eyes, stretching across the River, threatening to step over the stream and regain a piece of land conquered by humans.
Boromir stopped and stared hard at the dark wall of the Forest. To live in the Forest is to see death on your nose. Deer, leopards, lynxes, and in this springtime, the moose or the tur are the scariest of all. There are also many swamps in the Forest, where humans and animals are trapped by the cold paws of ghouls.
Берегинь are almost no shorelines, they are only on the shore, and near the marshes the dark water gradually turns into liquid mud, where all sorts of abominations swarm, then a thick skin of green moss lies on top of the mud, bushes stick out, sometimes one or two gnarled birches. If you step safely, the moss will break through like a rotten hide, and you will sink into the dark, cold water, where there is no bottom. He will be sucked to the underworld, where the fierce Lizard rules the underworld!
A tall and broad-shouldered man came out of the Forest and walked across the River. He looked formidable and strong, with a large deer lying on his shoulders, legs dangling and a horned head. Two flint knives hung from the hunter's short belt, and a heavy axe made of smooth, polished granite gleamed predaciously in a belt loop. The hunter was wearing a soul jacket made of wolfskin with the fur facing out, and his bare arms looked like they were carved from an old dark oak tree. He strode widely, churning the water with his high boots, holding the deer with one hand.
A blond-haired, bright-eyed boy was following the hunter. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes were blue as the sky, and his face seemed surprised. He did not take his nose off his lips, he blew loudly, often fingering his fingers. I almost fell down - I wasn't looking at my feet, but at the broad back.
The Magus looked anxiously at the hunter. The best shooter, a connoisseur of the Forest, a craftsman, but in the village they know that it is not long to live in Мrак among people! Mrak came up, shrugged his shoulders, adjusted the sliding deer. He was heavy, powerful in the shoulders, and his hairy chest was so wide that a leopard could have sprawled on it. Raven-black hair fell to her shoulders, and her eyes were dark, the color of night. A distant relative of the idler Targitai, who plays the duda, but if Targitai is all like a peeled egg, then the Mrak seemed to sleep in the soot. His stern face also looked like it was carved out of oak, pock-marked as if angry birds had pecked him, and there was a noticeable scar on his chin.
He stamped his feet hard, shaking the water off his boots, and nodded to Boromir. A heavy, thick shadow moved behind the Mrak. Boromir noticed long ago that the shadow always follows the Mrak, no matter what day it is, no matter where the light falls from.
"Greetings to the servant of the bright gods" Mrak boomed in a thick, dark voice. "The best part of the deer is for you, Boromir."
"Not to me, but to the gods," the magus corrected angrily. "My teeth are not for hard meat. If you shoot down a young grouse, bring it in... Tarkh, have you forgotten that tomorrow is the day of Initiation into Hunters?"
Targitai nodded quickly. He held Sopilka carefully to his chest, his eyes were devoted and pure. Boromir clenched his fists angrily. Taras's eldest grandson always looks loyal, but he is the laziest of all the People. Shirks housework, does not know how to hunt, does not catch fish, does not set snares for animals and birds. When they sent for firewood, he disappeared all day, but brought one or two twigs. They taught me how to be a bee hunter, but I was afraid of bees, they taught me how to cut a tree - everything went wrong. He does not know how to make hides, cut stones, or make pots....
Boromir said sarcastically:
"Did you kill the deer, Targitai? Did Mrak just help carry it?"
Targitai looked helplessly back at the huge hunter. Mrak bared his teeth scowlingly. Ferocious and unsociable, for some reason he singled out Targitai, listened to his doodling and simple songs, and stood up for him. They were afraid of Mgak. No one knew its full power. Mrak did not take part in fist fights, but he easily crushed bera, broke Turu's back, he had the most powerful bow and the longest arrows, more like darts.
"Tomorrow morning," said Boromir.
He looked at Targitai's clean face, which befitted a girl more than a future hunter, and repeated with an evil grin:
"With the first chirp of birds!"
And he left, banging his staff menacingly. Targitai looked fearfully at the magus' straight back. The taut muscles of the former hunter, the tribe's best hunter, moved confidently under the bearskin.
For such a magician, anyone who is not a hunter is not a human being at all!
The next day, in the morning, they prepared a place for a ritual bonfire. The fog was still creeping across the River, clinging to the bushes, and the guys had already dragged a whole mountain of dry deadwood, brushwood, and twigs. On a high place, on the riverbank next to the cemetery, as bequeathed from time immemorial, a wide heavy deck was laid. There was a blackened hole in the middle, a sharpened stake was inserted there, belts were tied, and two burly men were pulling hard, swelling the veins. The stake was spinning, men and women were milling around, kids were staring. The men got soaked, dropped the tops, and finally thin smoke came out of the deck.
Boromir walked around strict, shouting. The hunters, at his direction, tore stones and stumps out of the ground, trampled them down, and the girls ran after them, waving brooms. They tried to hurt the guys.
Oleg, the younger Magus, followed Boromir relentlessly. It was known in the village that Boromir was often angry with Oleg, he beat him with a staff several times. Oleg was known to be clever among the young guys, but when he got to Boromir as an apprentice, everything went awry. He couldn't remember the simplest charms, he brought the wrong herbs from the Forest, he was smart: they say, any fire is from the gods, so that a flint is born as sacred as from fidgeting with a tree on a tree. A mountain of old junk, trash, crumbled buckets, worn leather, trampled shoes, broken spears, cracked mugs, ladles, and spoons were piled on the edges of the trampled area....
Boromir looked around, threw Oleg:
"Take two guys, bring in that old sushina! The fire must reach to the sky, understand?"
"I got it, I got it," Oleg replied hurriedly.
"And what did you understand?" Boromir asked suspiciously. "Why such a fire?"
"Well, to make the gods feel hot..."
"You fool," said Boromir angrily. "The more the earth is illuminated, the more it will be sanctified. The Light is holy, understand? The gods rejoice, good luck will be sent! Go on, you idiot."
Men and women, covering themselves with their hands from the heat, ran up to the fire, threw trash, clearing the houses of evil spirits. Over the winter, a litter of bark and grasses has accumulated, it is overgrown, disgusting white worms are teeming, they are about to turn into thick green flies, gadflies, horseflies... Glory, glory to Agni, everything is burning, is being blown away by smoke. Boromir perched himself on a tree stump with an effort, clapped his hands imperiously:
"Good, good!.. The gods look kindly. The world is being cleansed of filth. The light gods love, the dark gods are bitter... And now we will purify ourselves!"
Oleg, at his sign, swung wide, hitting the man standing behind him in the face with his elbow, and threw a bundle of dry brushwood into the fire. The guys, without waiting for it to get hot, began to smoke through the fire, tucking their legs like a rabbit. The girls were late, the flames were blowing up their skirts, burning their legs. There were screams, jokes and advice.
Those who were cunning, jumped from the side, where there was less fire, Boromir sent them through the fire again. Let them purify themselves by burning the forest damp out of themselves. Laughter is pleasing to the gods. They laugh, it means they are full, satisfied, and praise you. Then the guys will start dragging the girls through the bushes that have already grown green leaves. It also pleases the gods. The most pleasing of all animals are humans.
Off to the side of the cemetery, almost by the River, a small flock of boys were waiting. They were the first to be driven through the campfire, now they were scratching the burned places, whispering to each other. Targitai shyly stayed behind. This is the sixth time he has watched the dancing and the Fire festival from here! There are guys who have become hunters for the twelfth spring, even for the tenth, and he meets spring for the nineteenth time....
Thunderbolt, the Senior Hunter, sullen and unwieldy from an excess of monstrous strength, meticulously examined the young, frowning. They're getting smaller! Previously, they slept in the snow like grouse, ate raw meat, moose were caught in a windfall, deer were crushed with their bare hands! And now they're clean, they wear tanned skins, they try to catch fish, but they won't give up, they lure birds into snares, they search for raspberries, even goats... Ugh!
Boromir approached slowly, grimacing from pain in his lower back. Thunderbolt nodded, still looking at the guys. He didn't like Magi, but Boromir wasn't born a magus. Thunderbolt was a boy, he remembered a mighty hunter who fell under a fallen tree in a thunderstorm. Another man would have been flattened, but Boromir shook off the tree and crawled to the nearest dugout. He did not die, he did not succumb to the underground forces, although they took away his bestial power. He became the younger magi of the wise grandfather Ognevit, and when he left for Viri, he stood in his place, protecting the village from the Dark Forces of the Enemy. He knew the business, he knew the customs, and besides, of all the rituals, he loved Initiation into Hunters the most.
Pushing and getting in each other's way, the guys dragged a huge circle tied with bunches of dry grass and smeared with tar to the hillock. Oleg brought a burning brand, the hay burst into flames. The orange flame cautiously licked the smudges of tar, roared joyfully, gaining strength, flashed with black smoke, crackled.
"Push!" Someone shouted.
"Hey, watch out!"
"Make way for the clear sun!"
A flaming circle rolled off the shore. He jumped up on a rock, swerved, but one of the brave men rushed to intercept, pushed, and the circle rushed to the water, gaining speed. Sparks flew in all directions, and even Boromir, who was tying up the straw himself, felt as if the sun had actually rolled down from heaven into the River.
The whole village has already gathered at the consecrated place. Even the most decrepit and infirm crawled out and stumbled to the temple. A new pillar with the roughly hewn face of Veles, the god of hunters, was already standing on the edge of the trampled area. It was put up anew every spring: the ground is damp, the pillar rots after a couple of years. If you wait a bit, the crow will land on top of its head, and the pillar will fall with a crash. I hit a kid once. The village realized that Velez was demanding a sacrifice. From that time on, a baby was given away every year, then things got better with hunting, and Boromir risked burning a dead moose instead of his sister's child, who fell to the lot. The whole village watched in awe, the old men predicted cruel punishments, but the beast went to the slingshot, the fish were caught, and the village breathed a sigh of relief. Gradually, they got used to giving Veles a large animal, the first fish after swimming, and the first basket of berries in the spring. The guys who were going to perform the ceremony were placed under the pillar of Veles. Two hunters, Thunderbolt's assistants, pushed back the people, drew a circle, and threatened that if anyone stepped over, they should take the blame on themselves. If Velez doesn't say anything, he has already shown unnecessary kindness more than once, then Thunderbolt will break the bones of the wicked.
The hunters rolled up a huge dry log and honorably seated the four elders. Boromir looked sharply at the silent boys. His eyes, which were not old at all, flashed unkindly:
Even Targitai didn't oversleep... welcome! Let's see what we're good for.
A child in the crowd began to cry loudly, breaking the tense silence. They shushed her from all sides, pushed the stupid woman out, and told her to get out. Boromir barked fiercely:
"Kremen!"
A sturdy boy stepped out of a group of teenagers, pushing his friends aside unnecessarily. He was wearing a soul jacket made of raw bearskin. The sun shone on the steep shoulders. His bare arms were covered with blue scars. He strained his shoulders, puffed out his chest proudly:
"I'm ready, Senior Magus!"
"Stand to the right," Boromir ordered in a warming voice. "Our village is large, with six dwellings, but everyone is visible. Everyone knows that you got this bear yourself.... The old people were the first to name you for Initiation."
Kremen, barely able to keep his lips from spreading, quickly moved to the right of the magus.
Boromir followed the guy's confident step with satisfaction, said loudly:
"Vyacheslav!"
"I'm here, Senior Magus!" The boy who was standing next to Targitai hurriedly shouted. His voice rose in excitement to a puppy squeal. Pushing Targitai aside, although he was not blocking the way at all, Vysheslavka, Slavka, and now Vysheslav quickly stepped towards Boromir.
The old magus spoke slowly, squinting at the crowd of parents and tribesmen frozen in reverent silence:
"You're not as strong as Kremen, but you're tough, you know how to track an animal, and you know its habits. You can spear a fish better than any other adult. They say he's learned to be a bee-hunter. Tomorrow, Vysheslav, your trial will begin."
Vysheslav proudly walked over to Kremen and stood next to it. A woman in the crowd sobbed happily. The children clung to her skirt and looked at her older brother with envy. Boromir turned to the подпарубкам:
"Горята! Tretyak! Неустрой!" The guys stepped forward, puffed up, spreading their shoulders, trying to look mighty and angry. Boromir said weightily:
"The three of you were named by the Senior Hunter. Stand on the right."
Targitai wrapped his arms around his shoulders, stilling his trembling. The guys were leaving, the group was thinning out. Gradually, almost everyone left, and only Nazarko and Tilak remained with him. Both are much younger, but they are skilled fishermen. Tilak was rumored to be able to change into a wolf. Lies, most likely, but still Tilak is burly beyond his years, strong, justifying the name. Even as a child, his name was Telesik, because his body was large and burly. He has chest hair now, even though Tilak is only ten years old. He is taciturn, unlike the cheerful Nazarka, and often disappears into the Forest. When he comes back, he smells of sweat and blood.
Boromir turned to the others and spoke slowly:
"Nazar, you haven't come of age yet.... But I've seen that you're good at hitting fish. You can stand to the right... if you want."
"Of course I want to!" Nazarko exclaimed indignantly. His eyes lit up. He rushed to the selected ones with such alacrity that he stumbled and sprawled at full height to the laughter of the crowd.
A fool, Targitai thought. A complete fool. Why is it bad to remain a подпарубком? The парубок has responsibilities and worries. "Parubok" means that it is necessary to mate, take a mate, build a nest, feed, protect...
Boromir's eyes were as sharp as a vulture's. His face twisted, as if he understood Targitai's thoughts. Piercing him with his gaze, he said to Nazarka:
"You're still growing up now... you can fish if you want, or not. And the hunter is obliged to catch. Think again! You have three years left."
Nazarko even screamed, clutching his hands to his chest:
"I will always fish! I will always hunt! Is there anything better than being a hunter?"
In the crowd, Nazarka's mother happily wailed and shouted: Behind her, the man smiled and supported his wife by the shoulders. They loudly slapped him on the back and shoulders, congratulating him on having such a son.
Boromir cast a sharp glance at Targitai again, said heavily:
"Welcome, Nazarko. You'll make a hunter. Now you, Tilak. You're too young, but you know the Forest like you know your meadow. You brought me medicinal herbs, found the golden hair of beregin, managed to get away from the kikimora... if you want, stand to the right. The initiation ceremony is difficult, but you will pass, I feel it. I even feel in my heart that you can become my junior magus!"
There was a gasp from the crowd and a dead silence. Targitai found Oleg with his gaze. The young magus stood like a pillar, his face slowly turning pale. Boromir has announced publicly that he is going to take another student instead!
Tilak, who will be called by his full name Attila after the Initiation, bared his teeth in an evil grin. Oleg is like a magician - neither be nor me, nor a cuckoo. Thunderbolt said that he was neither fish nor meat and was no good for crayfish. He doesn't remember spells, he does everything wrong, but how far is it to trouble when the Enemy surrounds the village?
Boromir turned his eyes from the silent, mouse-like Targetay to Tilak, and felt a chill. A dark evil force is rapidly awakening in the basement. Such a person will not wait for the Elder Magus to go to Viri himself!
"Now you, Tarkh," said Boromir. He pulled himself together, and his voice hardened. "The hunters decided to keep you out of the Initiation."
A single female voice rose in the crowd, but the people outside the line stood silently, looking at Boromir. The rear ones craned their necks and climbed onto the shoulders of the front row. Thunderbolt roared, driving away the brave souls who crossed the line. Branches crackled on the tree, where boys sat like crows.
"It's a big village," Boromir repeated, "but it's all in plain sight. We talked to hunters, old people. You won't make a hunter, you won't make a magician. You're not fit to be fishermen, bee-keepers, or potters. You don't even do what children can do: pick berries, nuts, and brushwood....
There were whispers in the crowd. Roslanikha, Targitai's mother, sobbed hopelessly, withered early, exhausted by labor. She was supported by Zharook, the brother of Targitai's father, who died in the Forest.
The old men bowed their heads. Taras stared straight ahead, avoiding his grandson's desperate gaze. Long silver hair fell to her shoulders. He was leaning on a thick, gnarled stick, placing it between his legs. Taras's hands were wrinkled, wide, with flattened fingers, irregularly fused bones, glaucous scars, and swollen veins. The hands of a seasoned hunter.
Thunderbolt was sitting on the edge of a log next to the elders, fidgeting impatiently, frowning. When Boromir stopped, catching his breath, Thunderbolt rose to his full height, looking like a hundred-year-old oak tree growing in a spacious clearing, and said in a voice as rough as unpolished wood:
"Let me speak, Magus! You're so kind and gentle that you're drowning in snot. Watch out, you'll slip. Grandfathers and great-grandfathers cut the truth in the eyes of the gods, and you're afraid to tell it to a sucker. We decided the other day that we would expel the quitters, according to the old custom. As it has always been done! There are only two loafers: Targitai, son of Vyrvidub, grandson of Taras, and Oleg, grandson of the Blockhead!"
A woman in the crowd began to wail and sank to the ground. Another woman screamed at the top of her voice. They were shushed, then dragged away so as not to interfere.
Boromir said uncertainly:
"Targitai is hopeless, but Oleg can still learn something...."
Thunderbolt burst out laughing and said in a voice as rough as a bear's roar:
"You're taking Tilak instead! Come on, old age makes you soft. To survive in the Forest, you have to work like ants. Everyone can see that Oleg is a klutz, a loser. Smarter than Tarkha, who argues, but the mind is occupied with anything but business. Have we decided? Decided. So declare the general will!"
Boromir sighed and said in a faded voice:
"The Neuras of the Light Forest! I declare the will of the gods who created us, gave us laws, and lead us through Darkness. This spring, as always, we sorted out the young ones. The gods are kind to the People! We convert eight подпарубков into парубки. Only two were никчемами. You know what to do."
He turned to the elders, who were sitting in a row on a log like blue pigeons. People were talking softly, and Roslanikha's screams could be heard in the distance. Taras shook his head, but remained silent. The gods, protecting the People, ordered Mara and her bloodthirsty daughters to take away the sick in infancy. Others die in childhood. The strongest and most enduring reach the парубочества. However, healthy people can also disappear if they get lazy and timid! By the will of the gods, they were culled when they were initiated into Hunters. Targitai had been fed, clothed, and cared for nineteen springs, but as you can see now, the hard-won food was wasted. The law is strict: those who do not work do not eat. And Targitai is trying to remain a child, even though he has outgrown his father, he has a slant in his shoulders, he would break his neck if he had a chance to clash.
In complete silence, when even Targitai's mother held her breath, Thunderbolt rolled from heel to toe and back again, blushing frighteningly at the top of his voice:
"Гоям - fun in honor of the bright gods! Изгоям One day for the outcasts to pack!"
Boromir was handed a tambourine, and the magus tapped his fingers. The taut skin responded with a deep, drawn-out moan. The people stirred, the guys stretched out in a line. When the hunters lined up, a stake formed around the campfire. The men put their hands on their neighbors' shoulders, interlacing their arms.
Thunderbolt grunted bravely, broke into the row. He towered almost a head above his neighbors, and his huge arms, like logs, almost bent them to the ground. Boromir began to tap on the tambourine. The men swayed and stamped, still not moving. The girls squealed softly. They were barefoot and wore thin leather shirts, but each had a wreath of grass or birch bark on her head, and braided cords with pendants in her braids. Wild, crazy eyes. After the hunters, it will be their turn, and then ... then what they have been dreaming about all winter will begin, at the very thought of fragrant herbs and hot greedy hands, the blood begins to roar in the temples...
The tambourine was booming louder, the women were beating their palms. In the Forest, even women have wide, callused palms, and the claps are like blows of an axe on a tree. The men slowly moved around Veles' pillar. They followed the course of the sun, as their forefathers had walked from time immemorial. Boromir used to say that one day, following the sun like that, the forefathers wandered into distant hot India. Many stayed there, but others returned hundreds of years later....
Left alone, Targitai backed away until the water splashed under his feet. A bird screamed maliciously overhead, and dust fell from the low branches. He turned his back on the village, the trees parted, but for a long time he heard the tambourine, the thunder of dancing. The ground shook as dozens of feet struck it at the same time.
Bare feet slapped after Targitai. Oleg caught up with him, pale, thin, with bulging eyes. He was hunched over, his sharp collarbones protruding, threatening to break through his thin skin. The clothes hung like a scarecrow.
"Tarkh," he said with fear, "what should I do now?.. Me too... at least it's up to you, but what's up to me?.. I tried, I worked... even if it was out of place, but I tried!"
Large drops of sweat dotted his face, and a drop hung on his nose. His eyes glittered, and a pouch with dried toad legs dangled absurdly from his thin, sinewy neck.
"I don't know," Targitai replied hoarsely.
My stomach felt heavy and cold, as if I had swallowed a huge frozen fish. He sat down, leaning against a mighty oak tree. A nimble squirrel ran overhead, clicking its tiny claws. There was a noise coming from across the River, cheering.
Oleg shifted from one foot to the other, hurriedly sat down. A long robe covered his legs, and the young magus looked even more like a young girl.
"Will they really... be banished?" he asked. "They were гоями, they became изгоями... but it's better to immediately head into the swamp! You can't survive in the Forest."
"They will expel you," Targitai repeated in a hollow voice.
"Why? Why?"
"Have you seen their eyes?.. They rejoice! It turns out that they hate us."
"Rather, they envy" Oleg replied in a drooping voice.
The forest surrounded them from all sides, leaving only a narrow opening where water gurgled, jumping over rocks, and screams could be heard from afar. The earth, hidden by a thick moss skin, smelled of damp, of the grave. The moss bulged, and in some places it burst under the pressure of the underground roots, whitish like the hands of ghouls. They were leaning out, moving liberally, trying to grab an unwary man or beast. It smelled rotten.
Oleg looked around nervously. You can't hide anything in the village, especially cowardice. Not a single girl, not even the pockmarked Dasha, dared to marry Oleg. He was three years older than Targitai, but he had never fought, and he turned pale when he saw blood. When a goat was slaughtered in front of him, he fell asleep to the ridicule of boys and girls.
"How do we go to this Forest?" Oleg asked. His whole body was shaking.
"Who said we'd go together?" Targitai replied rudely. "I'm not going to sit next to you."