Mischa's getting taller and taller. She sits on one of the upper branches, and she slightly bends under it, but he sticks to the oak tree trunk and gets up in full height, looks around ... Around - a green sea of herbs. Their purpose is not visible, there is no turquoise lake, where mustached catfish float, which can be grabbed by hands, so many of them and so they are close. Is it really better to go home? Should I say that the map is not his? Shall I say that the lake is not in the same place as it used to be? What did it overgrown? And a thunderstorm, obviously there will be a thunderstorm.
- You know, Len'ka, let's go home," says Misha from above, "and tomorrow we'll go out early and look for the lake again. I see it, there it is. But very far away, you walk very slowly, Lyusya. You could have walked, but you can barely crawl.
Misha comes down from the tree, continues to talk through the mallard:
- It is good to be a bird. He got up to himself like a plane. Or insects like what kind of insects. But better as a bird.
He jumps to the ground, but there is no one downstairs. And it seems that from the oak tree he saw his brother's tiny figure. Or not? And now there is no one. Misha looks around, then just in case looks into all the bushes, shouts: "Lyusya! Well, Lenka! Leonid and Leonid! Leonid Ivanovich! And he himself laughs from this heap of letters, from such a heavy name, too much weight for touchy Lyuskin shoulders. But there is no one around. Then he goes up to the tree again, pulls out binoculars and sees the grass moving away: but it is not clear whether it is a small children's figure that passes through it, or whether the wind that rises to the rain blows. Somewhere in the stomach something injects him almost imperceptibly, quietly, gently squeezes, like a corset, the area of the upper ribs. Is it softer to be with your brother? No, it is impossible. Sleep with candy tonight, buy off that day and erase it from your memory.
Mischa comes down, leans against the tree trunk in thoughtfulness, but something comes out of his hand, and with fear he twitches his hand. A bumblebee takes off from the oak tree. The bumblebee makes a circle and then sits back down. A thick, furry insect. He looks at it like insects can't look at it, and then spreads the rainbow wings and flies in the opposite direction from home.
Mischa is raving home, chasing thoughts of her brother, forbidding herself to worry: here they were walking so that their footprints left a path, so you can go back to them. It starts raining, and the night comes down with it. Mischa goes straight ahead, not knowing what's going on, where he is and how long he's still walking. The rain ends, and the journey home still lasts. The moon creeps behind the boy. Shadows dance around, the wind flies out from under the grass, and insects beep with an electric cloud. When in the distance he starts to notice the lights of houses and goes out of the field on the road, someone immediately grabs him by the spike, shines in the face with a flashlight. The whole village is shouted at: "I found it! Katya, there is one! Thank God...". People run to them, all of them have flashlights burning, and the rays of light cut through the darkness, like swords, far ahead, like a field of fireflies, many, many blinding lights, to tears.
- Where is your brother, Misch?
- I don't know. We missed him. He went home before me. May he come soon, where will he go?
They threw Misha into the room by the skin, closed the door from the outside. It's dark in the room, but the moon lights up every object. Misha approaches the window. His scratched face, black eyes, shredded hair and narrow nose are reflected in the glass. The boy comes to the fireplace, which has long been extinct, pulls out a small corner, and on the back side of his unlucky card draws a reflection: a still insecure, disobedient hand. The clock runs, or maybe it doesn't. Nobody goes to him. Outside the window, a fat cat eats the head of a fish caught by his neighbors. Mischa curls up on the floor, hugs his legs, falls asleep. He feels like tears cut through the paths on his face, but he doesn't cry, does he? Lucia will come, where will he go? He will definitely come.
Under the window with a sharp grinding machine passes, and I wake up. I look at the clock: 4.21. Wow. I haven't slept in the workshop since I took on private orders, finishing them at the last minute. True eyes until the stars appear. It seems that even during friction I sleep...
Time is running down. 4.12, 3.45, 3.10, 2.57, 2.01. Is that really a countdown? The ceiling is filled with light and looks like honeycomb. 1.57, 1.32, 1.11... The walls begin to ring.
Wait, let me fall asleep to wake up, otherwise I won't have time to do it.
To be continued on the next part