The silence in the house, only in the fireplace the flame cracks cheerfully, the blissful warmth spills over the room, and there is no longer even a desire to get out of the arms of the blanket. Whether it's fatigue or fatigue, but in this small and cozy corner, you suddenly want to spend the rest of your life. How peace caresses hands, how a hot tongue of warmth licks feet... Eh...
It's dangerous for a traveler to stop at a place like this. No, no, and the question will arise in the heart of the question, whether it is worth to continue shaving dusty roads, whether it is necessary to endure the blows of the northern winds, whether it is necessary to get wet under the rains and to shrivel from the hitting of the snow chips by the spike? And the fireplace seems to whisper: "Don't, don't, don't. And it is so sweet to believe him.
While the weather is raging outside the window, the fireplace swings, lulls, promises pleasant dreams. And in such dreams the road is not found anymore, there is only peace and quiet and softness.
***
Having escaped from the chain warmth, I freeze on the doorstep, not trying to turn around. I got from the northern latitudes to the mantelpiece paradise! This world will not suit a traveler. Travelers are settling here that they failed to cope with the cunning of warmth, they yearn for themselves quietly, because happiness is different for everyone, not everyone likes to sit by the fireplace.
I certainly don't.
I slam the door and run off the porch in a hurry, pulling the cloak. Right here the door to the other world is not woven, and here the echoes of the mantelpiece whisper come, and it means that the world won't turn to open the transition in it. You have to go away, run away from the village, look for the wilderness, and keep quiet, and blue.
But the sky is clouded with clouds of clouds, the rain is drizzling. Just the kind that drives you under the roof cleverly.
But I will be stubborn.
I have to run all over the place. The streets of the village are uneven, curled by a labyrinth, and at home they flash, calling in golden windows, pulling smoke, and in some places delicious dishes. A good world, a cozy world, but not for me, I do not need such warmth, I do not want such comfort, let go!
Knocking and rustling droplets are so annoying that I have to pull out of my pocket wargans.
Well, let's see, can this rain dance or just trample, no dancing not knowing, boredom in puddles divorcing?
Tight sounds are screwed into the rustle, and it seems as if the latter retreats backward, having become so scared. Rain listens, tries a new rhythm, rustles dissatisfied, apparently, is not used to warming up. But I do not stop, continue and play, and go, but already dancing.
The rhythm is getting faster and faster, the melody is opening, and the rain has already succumbed, and his drops are tapping me, helping me to fold the song about traveling.
The door opens with a squeak, almost gray old man pops out on the street, the flute pulls to his lips. A minute later, the two of us turn the melody around.
But what is it?
Behind us, a new sound is flying out. Someone grabbed a can of peas and sets a different rhythm, even faster and more interesting. I don't look back, I'm leading musicians through the streets, almost forgetting that I would only find a door to another reality. And behind already the whole orchestra - and the guitar, and a pipe, and a flute, and even a sound of blows on the stretched skin - at someone the whole drum at home cluttered!
But it's time for me to go, it's time...
I'm taking the wargan away from the tired lips while the music itself flows, swims over the village, screams, and laughs. I step into the shadows where nobody notices me. In this place, the edge of the world is a sharp clavicle.
I close my eyes.
***
When I get cold and quiet, I look around carefully. This world is dark and diked, there is no warmth fireplace for travelers. But I don't need to. I am standing, happy and free, and somewhere there, in the village, still continues the fun. But the new world, unpleasant at first glance, is eager to open up, to accept, to show miracles and miracles.
Soft forest bedding breathes with humidity and loose earth, the wind somewhere above tells the crowns of a tale, the stars wink, hiding in the veils of clouds...
Not with warmth, not with carnival I can be seduced, but with a path through the thicket, deep lakes, the sound of the sea surf, strong rocks. Someday I will be scattered with echoes in all such worlds, let them look for me again, let them call me...
***
By dawn, I reach the top of the hill, from which the blue forests can be seen in the palm of my hand - they stretch upwards with sharp crowns to the horizon. I smile and sit on a stone. I only have a piece of bread and spring water with me. Soon another world to be served. I don't know what awaits me, but it's okay as if it's the most important thing.
Again, a wargan asks me to sing, and I yield to him. But this time the melody is heavy and slow. It spreads far away, awakening the forests, and the birds have already started singing. Closing my eyes, I breathe only with this melody, only with a new wonderful rhythm. Ah, everything is music, and this one - wild and beautiful - is mine.
The wind wakes up, laughs in the air, pulls my melody even further, the whole world turns it around like a rope, and I don't care about it. Wargan is the key and the horse, he takes me away, away ... I'm probably already transparent, the fog and light shine through me. Because soon I will disappear from here. To the new world, whatever it is, to the new sun.