Vasyutkino Lake. Online reading of the book Vasyutkino Lake Viktor Astafiev

You won't find this lake on the map. It's small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! It's no small honor for a thirteen-year-old boy to have a lake named after him! Even though it is not big, not like, say, Baikal, Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised and don’t think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great and, no matter how much you wander around it, you will always find something new and interesting.

The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka’s father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swollen the river, the water in it rose, and the fish began to be difficult to catch: they went deeper.

The cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim out to the river. The fishermen fell asleep, became tired from idleness, and even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and seemed to smooth out people’s faces. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But the catches were still small.

“We don’t have any luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather, Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, we lived as God commanded, and the fish moved in clouds. And now the steamships and motorboats have scared away all the living creatures. The time will come - the ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon in books.

Arguing with grandfather is useless, that’s why no one contacted him.

The fishermen went far to the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were pulled ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.

Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-down tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.

Vasyutka was always a little timid in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.

- Sabbath, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich when the unloading was completed. “We won’t wander around anymore.” So, to no avail, you can walk to the Kara Sea.

He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, straightening the bark plates on the roof that had slid to the side. Having gone down the decrepit stairs, he carefully shook off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that they could calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, and in the meantime they could fish by ferries and nets. Boats, seines, floating nets and all other gear must be properly prepared for the big

Here is an introductory fragment of the book.
Only part of the text is open for free reading (restriction of the copyright holder). If you liked the book, the full text can be obtained on our partner's website.

Victor Astafiev

Vasyutkino Lake

You won't find this lake on the map. It's small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! It's no small honor for a thirteen-year-old boy to have a lake named after him! Even though it is not big, not like, say, Baikal, Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised and don’t think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great, and no matter how much you wander around it, you will always find something new and interesting.

The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka's father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swollen the river, the water in it rose, and the fish began to be difficult to catch: they went deeper.

Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim out to the river. The fishermen fell asleep, became tired from idleness, and even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and seemed to smooth out people’s faces. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But the catches were still small.

“We don’t have any luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, we lived as God commanded, and the fish moved in clouds. And now the steamships and motorboats have scared away all the living creatures. The time will come - the ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon in books.

Arguing with grandfather is useless, that’s why no one contacted him.

The fishermen went far to the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were pulled ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.

Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-down tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.

Vasyutka was always a little timid in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.

Sabbath, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich when the unloading was completed. - We won’t wander around anymore. So, to no avail, you can walk to the Kara Sea.

He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, straightened the bark sheets that had slid to the side on the roof. Going down the decrepit stairs, he carefully shook off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that they could calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, and in the meantime they could fish by ferry and siege. Boats, seines, floating nets and all other gear must be properly prepared for the big move of fish.

Monotonous days dragged on. Fishermen repaired seines, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, and pitched.

Once a day they checked the lines and paired nets - ferries, which were placed far from the shore.

The fish that fell into these traps were valuable: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, and often burbot, or, as it was jokingly called in Siberia, settler. But this is calm fishing. There is no excitement, daring and that good, hard-working fun that bursts out of the men when they pull out several centners of fish in a half-kilometer net for one ton.

Vasyutka began to live a very boring life. There is no one to play with - no friends, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would begin soon, and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fish collection boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka will look into them out of boredom.

In the evenings the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and told tales. By nightfall there was a thick layer of nutshells on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice on puddles.

Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped all the nearby cedars. Every day we had to climb further and further into the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, hums, and sometimes fires a gun.

Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Afanasy went somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a piece of the calendar and happily noted that there were only ten days left until the first of September. Then he collected pine cones.

The mother said displeasedly:

You have to prepare for school, but you disappear in the forest.

What are you doing, mom? Should someone get the nuts? Must. After all, fishermen want to click in the evening.

- “Hunting, hunting”! They need nuts, so let them go on their own. We got used to pushing the boy around and littering in the hut.

The mother grumbles out of habit, because she has no one else to grumble at.

When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a cartridge belt on his belt, looking like a stocky little peasant, came out of the hut, his mother habitually sternly reminded:

If you don’t go far from your plans, you will perish. Did you take any bread with you?

Why do I need him? I bring it back every time.

Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. It has been this way since time immemorial; it is still too early to change the taiga laws.

You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: you go into the forest - take food, take matches.

Vasyutka obediently put the edge into the bag and hurried to disappear from his mother’s eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something else.

Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the marks on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with a rough road. A man will make a notch on one tree, move away a little, hit it again with an ax, then another. Other people will follow this person; They will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass and berry patches, make footprints in the mud, and you will get a path. The forest paths are narrow and winding, like the wrinkles on grandfather Afanasy’s forehead. Only some paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are unlikely to heal.

Vasyutka, like any taiga dweller, developed a penchant for lengthy reasoning early on. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for the creaking quacking somewhere above his head.

“Kra-kra-kra!..” came from above, as if they were cutting a strong branch with a dull saw.

Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and screamed at the top of its lungs. Her friends responded to her in the same vociferous manner. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He didn't shoot. He had had his ears torn out more than once for wasted cartridges. The fear of the precious “supply” (as Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly drilled into Siberians from birth.

- “Kra-kra”! - Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.

The guy was annoyed that he couldn’t kill the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. The nutcracker stopped screaming, leisurely plucked itself, raised its head, and its creaky “kra!” rushed through the forest again.

Ugh, damned witch! - Vasyutka swore and walked away.

Feet walked softly on the moss. There were cones scattered here and there, spoiled by nutcrackers. They resembled lumps of honeycombs. In some of the holes of the cones, nuts stuck out like bees. But there is no use in trying them. The nutcracker has an amazingly sensitive beak: the bird does not even remove empty nuts from the nest. Vasyutka picked up one cone, examined it from all sides and shook his head:

Oh, what a dirty trick you are!

Vasyutka scolded like that for the sake of respectability. He knew that the nutcracker is a useful bird: it spreads cedar seeds throughout the taiga.

Finally Vasyutka took a fancy to a tree and climbed it. With a trained eye, he determined: there, in the thick pine needles, were hidden entire broods of resinous cones. He began to kick the spreading branches of the cedar with his feet. The cones just started falling down.

Vasyutka climbed down from the tree, collected them in a bag and, slowly, lit a cigarette. Puffing on a cigarette, he looked around the surrounding forest and took a fancy to another cedar.

I’ll cover this one too,” he said. - It will probably be a little difficult, but that’s okay, I’ll tell you.

He carefully spat out the cigarette, pressed it down with his heel and walked away. Suddenly something clapped loudly in front of Vasyutka. He shuddered in surprise and immediately saw a large black bird rising from the ground. "Capercaillie!" - Vasyutka guessed, and his heart sank. He shot ducks, waders, and partridges, but he had never shot a wood grouse.

The capercaillie flew across a mossy clearing, swerved between the trees and sat down on a dead tree. Try sneaking up!

The boy stood motionless and did not take his eyes off the huge bird. Suddenly he remembered that wood grouse are often taken with a dog. Hunters said that a capercaillie, sitting in a tree, looks down with curiosity at the barking dog, and sometimes teases it. Meanwhile, the hunter quietly approaches from the rear and shoots.

Vasyutka, as luck would have it, did not invite Druzhka with him. Cursing himself in a whisper for his mistake, Vasyutka fell on all fours, barked, imitating a dog, and began to carefully move forward. His voice broke from excitement. The capercaillie froze, watching this interesting picture with curiosity. The boy scratched his face and tore his padded jacket, but did not notice anything. Before him in reality is a wood grouse!

You won't find this lake on the map. It's small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! It's no small honor for a thirteen-year-old boy to have a lake named after him! Even though it is not big, not like, say, Baikal, Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised and don’t think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great, and no matter how much you wander around it, you will always find something new and interesting.

The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka's father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swollen the river, the water in it rose, and the fish began to be difficult to catch: they went deeper.

Cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim out to the river. The fishermen fell asleep, became tired from idleness, and even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and seemed to smooth out people’s faces. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But the catches were still small.

“We don’t have any luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, we lived as God commanded, and the fish moved in clouds. And now the steamships and motorboats have scared away all the living creatures. The time will come - the ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul in books.

Arguing with grandfather is useless, that’s why no one contacted him.

The fishermen went far to the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were pulled ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.

Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-down tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.

Vasyutka was always a little timid in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.

Sabbath, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich when the unloading was completed. - We won’t wander around anymore. So, to no avail, you can walk to the Kara Sea.

He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, straightened the bark sheets that had slid to the side on the roof. Going down the decrepit stairs, he carefully shook off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that they could calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, and in the meantime they could fish by ferry and siege. Boats, seines, floating nets and all other gear must be properly prepared for the big move of fish.

Monotonous days dragged on. Fishermen repaired seines, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, and pitched.

Once a day they checked the lines and paired nets - ferries, which were placed far from the shore.

The fish that fell into these traps were valuable: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, often, or, as they jokingly called it in Siberia, settler. But this is calm fishing. There is no excitement, daring and that good, hard-working fun that bursts out of the men when they pull out several centners of fish in a half-kilometer net for one ton.

Vasyutka began to live a very boring life. There is no one to play with - no friends, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would begin soon, and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fish collection boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka will look into them out of boredom.

In the evenings the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and told tales. By nightfall there was a thick layer of nutshells on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice on puddles.

Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He has already chopped all the nearby cedars. Every day we had to climb further and further into the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, hums, and sometimes fires a gun.

Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Afanasy went somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a piece of the calendar and happily noted that there were only ten days left until the first of September. Then he collected pine cones.

The mother said displeasedly:

You have to prepare for school, but you disappear in the forest.

What are you doing, mom? Should someone get the nuts? Must. After all, fishermen want to click in the evening.

- “Hunting, hunting”! They need nuts, so let them go on their own. We got used to pushing the boy around and littering in the hut.

The mother grumbles out of habit, because she has no one else to grumble at.

When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a cartridge belt on his belt, looking like a stocky little peasant, came out of the hut, his mother habitually sternly reminded:

If you don’t go far from your plans, you will perish. Did you take any bread with you?

Why do I need him? I bring it back every time.

Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. It has been this way since time immemorial; it is still too early to change the taiga laws.

You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: you go into the forest - take food, take matches.

Vasyutka obediently put the edge into the bag and hurried to disappear from his mother’s eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something else.

Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga, followed the marks on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with a rough road. A man will make a notch on one tree, move away a little, hit it again with an ax, then another. Other people will follow this person; They will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass and berry patches, make footprints in the mud, and you will get a path. The forest paths are narrow and winding, like the wrinkles on grandfather Afanasy’s forehead. Only some paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are unlikely to heal.

Vasyutka, like any taiga dweller, developed a penchant for lengthy reasoning early on. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for the creaking quacking somewhere above his head.

“Kra-kra-kra!..” came from above, as if they were cutting a strong branch with a dull saw.

Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and screamed at the top of its lungs. Her friends responded to her in the same vociferous manner. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He didn't shoot. He had had his ears torn out more than once for wasted cartridges. The fear of the precious “supply” (as Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly drilled into Siberians from birth.

- “Kra-kra”! - Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.

The guy was annoyed that he couldn’t kill the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. The nutcracker stopped screaming, leisurely plucked itself, raised its head, and its creaky “kra!” rushed through the forest again.

Ugh, damned witch! - Vasyutka swore and walked away.

Feet walked softly on the moss. There were cones scattered here and there, spoiled by nutcrackers. They resembled lumps of honeycombs. In some of the holes of the cones, nuts stuck out like bees. But there is no use in trying them. The nutcracker has an amazingly sensitive beak: the bird does not even remove empty nuts from the nest. Vasyutka picked up one cone, examined it from all sides and shook his head:

Oh, what a dirty trick you are!

Vasyutka scolded like that for the sake of respectability. He knew that the nutcracker is a useful bird: it spreads cedar seeds throughout the taiga.

Finally Vasyutka took a fancy to a tree and climbed it. With a trained eye, he determined: there, in the thick pine needles, were hidden entire broods of resinous cones. He began to kick the spreading branches of the cedar with his feet. The cones just started falling down.

Vasyutka climbed down from the tree, collected them in a bag and, slowly, lit a cigarette. Puffing on a cigarette, he looked around the surrounding forest and took a fancy to another cedar.

I’ll cover this one too,” he said. - It will probably be a little difficult, but that’s okay, I’ll tell you.

He carefully spat out the cigarette, pressed it down with his heel and walked away. Suddenly something clapped loudly in front of Vasyutka. He shuddered in surprise and immediately saw a large black bird rising from the ground. "Capercaillie!" - Vasyutka guessed, and his heart sank. He shot ducks, waders, and partridges, but he had never shot a wood grouse.

The capercaillie flew across a mossy clearing, swerved between the trees and sat down on a dead tree. Try sneaking up!

The boy stood motionless and did not take his eyes off the huge bird. Suddenly he remembered that wood grouse are often taken with a dog. Hunters said that a capercaillie, sitting in a tree, looks down with curiosity at the barking dog, and sometimes teases it. Meanwhile, the hunter quietly approaches from the rear and shoots.

Vasyutka, as luck would have it, did not invite Druzhka with him. Cursing himself in a whisper for his mistake, Vasyutka fell on all fours, barked, imitating a dog, and began to carefully move forward. His voice broke from excitement. The capercaillie froze, watching this interesting picture with curiosity. The boy scratched his face and tore his padded jacket, but did not notice anything. Before him in reality is a wood grouse!

...It's time! Vasyutka quickly got down on one knee and tried to land the worried bird on the fly. Finally, the trembling in my hands subsided, the fly stopped dancing, its tip touched the capercaillie... Bang! - and the black bird, flapping its wings, flew into the depths of the forest.

“Wounded!” - Vasyutka perked up and rushed after the wounded wood grouse.

Only now did he realize what the matter was and began to mercilessly reproach himself:

He banged it with small shot. Why is he petty? He's almost like Druzhka!..

The bird left on short flights. They became shorter and shorter. The capercaillie was weakening. So he, no longer able to lift his heavy body, ran.

“Now I’ll catch up!” - Vasyutka decided confidently and started running harder. It was very close to the bird.

Quickly throwing the bag off his shoulder, Vasyutka raised his gun and fired. In a few leaps I found myself near the wood grouse and fell on my stomach.

Stop, darling, stop! - Vasyutka muttered joyfully. - You won’t leave now! Look, he's so quick! I, brother, also run - be healthy!

Vasyutka stroked the capercaillie with a satisfied smile, admiring the black feathers with a bluish tint. Then he weighed it in his hand. “It will be five kilograms, or even half a pound,” he estimated and put the bird in the bag. “I’ll run, otherwise my mother will hit me on the back of the neck.”

Thinking about his luck, Vasyutka, happy, walked through the forest, whistling, singing, whatever came to mind.

Suddenly he realized: where are the lines? It's time for them to be.

He looked around. The trees were no different from those on which the notches were made. The forest stood motionless, quiet in its sad reverie, just as sparse, half-naked, entirely coniferous. Only here and there were frail birch trees with sparse yellow leaves visible. Yes, the forest was the same. And yet there was something alien about him...

Vasyutka turned sharply back. He walked quickly, carefully looking at each tree, but there were no familiar notches.

Ffu-you, damn it! Where are the places? - Vasyutka’s heart sank, sweat appeared on his forehead. - All this capercaillie! “I rushed like crazy, now think about where to go,” Vasyutka spoke out loud to drive away the approaching fear. - It’s okay, now I’ll think about it and find the way. Soooo... The almost bare side of the spruce means that direction is north, and where there are more branches - south. Soooo...

After this, Vasyutka tried to remember on which side of the trees the old notches were made and on which side the new ones were made. But he didn’t notice this. Stitch and stitch.

Eh, stupid!

Fear began to weigh even more heavily. The boy spoke out loud again:

Okay, don't be shy. Let's find a hut. We have to go one way. We must go south. The Yenisei makes a turn at the hut, you can’t pass by it. Well, everything is fine, but you, weirdo, were afraid! - Vasyutka laughed and cheerfully commanded himself: “Arsh step!” Hey, two!

But the vigor did not last long. There were never any problems. At times the boy thought he could clearly see them on the dark trunk. With a sinking heart, he ran to the tree to feel with his hand a notch with droplets of resin, but instead he discovered a rough fold of bark. Vasyutka had already changed direction several times, poured pine cones out of the bag and walked, walked...

The forest became completely quiet. Vasyutka stopped and stood listening for a long time. Knock-knock-knock, knock-knock-knock... - the heart beat. Then Vasyutka’s hearing, strained to the limit, caught some strange sound. There was a buzzing sound somewhere. So it froze and a second later it came again, like the hum of a distant plane. Vasyutka bent down and saw the rotted carcass of a bird at his feet. An experienced spider hunter stretched a web over a dead bird. The spider is no longer there - it must have gone away to spend the winter in some hollow, and abandoned the trap. A well-fed, large spitting fly got into it and beats, beats, buzzes with weakening wings. Something began to bother Vasyutka at the sight of a helpless fly stuck in a snare. And then it hit him: he was lost!

This discovery was so simple and stunning that Vasyutka did not immediately come to his senses.

He had heard many times from hunters scary stories about how people wander in the forest and sometimes die, but this was not how he imagined it at all. It all worked out very simply. Vasyutka did not yet know that terrible things in life often begin very simply.

The stupor lasted until Vasyutka heard some mysterious rustling towards the depths of the darkened forest. He screamed and started running. How many times does he

stumbled, fell, got up and ran again, Vasyutka did not know. Finally, he jumped into a windfall and began to crash through the dry, thorny branches. Then he fell from the fallen trees face down into the damp moss and froze. Despair overwhelmed him, and he immediately lost his strength. “Come what may,” he thought detachedly.

Night flew into the forest silently, like an owl. And with it comes the cold. Vasyutka felt his sweat-soaked clothes getting cold.

“Taiga, our nurse, doesn’t like flimsy people!” - he remembered the words of his father and grandfather. And he began to remember everything that he had been taught, that he knew from the stories of fishermen and hunters. First things first, you need to light a fire. It's good that I brought matches from home. Matches came in handy.

Vasyutka broke off the lower dry branches of the tree, groped for a bunch of dry bearded moss, chopped up the twigs into small pieces, put everything in a pile and set it on fire. The light, swaying, crawled uncertainly along the branches. The moss flared up and everything around became brighter. Vasyutka threw more branches. Shadows scurried between the trees, the darkness receded further. Itching monotonously, several mosquitoes flew onto the fire - it’s more fun with them.

We had to stock up on firewood for the night. Vasyutka, not sparing his hands, broke branches, dragged dry dead wood, and turned out an old stump. Pulling a piece of bread out of the bag, he sighed and thought sadly: “He’s crying, go ahead, mother.” He also wanted to cry, but he overcame himself and, plucking the capercaillie, began to gut it with a penknife. Then he raked the fire to the side, dug a hole in the hot spot and put the bird there. Covering it tightly with moss, sprinkled it with hot earth, ash, coals, put flaming brands on top and added firewood.

About an hour later he unearthed a wood grouse. The bird gave off steam and an appetizing smell: a capercaillie drowned in its own juice - a hunting dish! But without salt, what would the taste be? Vasyutka struggled to swallow the unleavened meat.

Eh, it was stupid, it was stupid! How much of this salt is in barrels on the shore! What did it take to pour a handful into your pocket! - he reproached himself.

Then he remembered that the bag he took for the cones was from salt, and hastily turned it out. He picked out a pinch of dirty crystals from the corners of the bag, crushed them on the butt of the gun and smiled through his strength:

After dinner, Vasyutka put the rest of the food in a bag, hung it on a branch so that mice or anyone else wouldn’t get to the grub, and began to prepare a place to spend the night.

He moved the fire to the side, removed all the coals, threw on branches with pine needles, moss and lay down, covering himself with a padded jacket.

It was heated from below.

Busy with chores, Vasyutka did not feel loneliness so keenly. But as soon as I lay down and thought, anxiety began to overcome me with renewed vigor. The polar taiga is not afraid of animals. The bear is a rare resident here. There are no wolves. The snake too. Sometimes there are lynxes and lascivious arctic foxes. But in the fall there is plenty of food for them in the forest, and they could hardly

covet Vasyutka's reserves. And yet it was creepy. He loaded a single-barrel breaker, cocked the hammer and put the gun down next to him. Sleep!

Not even five minutes had passed when Vasyutka felt that someone was sneaking towards him. He opened his eyes and froze: yes, he’s sneaking! A step, a second, a rustle, a sigh... Someone walks slowly and carefully on the moss. Vasyutka fearfully turns his head and, not far from the fire, sees something dark and large. Now it stands and does not move.

The boy peers intensely and begins to distinguish either hands or paws raised towards the sky. Vasyutka is not breathing: “What is this?” My eyes ripple from tension, I can no longer hold my breath. He jumps up and points his gun at this dark one:

Who it? Come on, or I’ll hit you with buckshot!

There was no sound in response. Vasyutka stands motionless for some time, then slowly lowers the gun and licks his dry lips. “Really, what could be there?” - he suffers and shouts again:

I say, don’t hide, otherwise it will get worse!

Silence. Vasyutka wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and, plucking up courage, resolutely heads towards the dark object.

Oh, damned one! - he sighs with relief when he sees a huge inversion root in front of him. - Well, I’m a coward! I almost lost my mind over this kind of nonsense.

To finally calm down, he breaks off shoots from the rhizome and carries them to the fire.

The August night is short. While Vasyutka was busy with the firewood, the darkness, thick as pitch, began to thin out and hide deeper into the forest. Before it had time to completely dissipate, fog had already crawled out to replace it. It got colder. The fire hissed from the dampness, clicked, and began to sneeze, as if it was angry at the thick veil that shrouded everything around. The mosquitoes that had been bothering me all night had disappeared. Not a breath, not a rustle.

Everything froze in anticipation of the first sound of the morning. What kind of sound this will be is unknown. Perhaps the timid whistle of a bird or the light sound of the wind in the tops of bearded spruce trees and gnarled larches, perhaps a woodpecker knocking on a tree or a wild deer trumpeting. Something must be born from this silence, someone must awaken the sleepy taiga. Vasyutka shivered chillily, moved closer to the fire and fell fast asleep, never waiting for the morning news.

The sun was already high. The fog fell like dew on the trees, on the ground, fine dust sparkled everywhere.

“Where am I?” - Vasyutka thought in amazement, finally waking up and hearing the taiga come to life.

Throughout the forest, nutcrackers shouted anxiously in the manner of market women. Somewhere, Zhelna began to cry childishly. Over Vasyutka's head, squeaking busily, they gutted

titmouse old tree. Vasyutka stood up, stretched and scared away the feeding squirrel. She, clattering in alarm, rushed up the trunk of the spruce, sat down on a branch and, without ceasing to clack, stared at Vasyutka.

Well, what are you looking at? I did not recognize? - Vasyutka turned to her with a smile.

The squirrel moved its fluffy tail.

But I got lost. I foolishly ran after a wood grouse and got lost. Now they are looking for me all over the forest, my mother is roaring... You don’t understand anything, talk to you! Otherwise I would have run and told our people where I was. You are so agile! - He paused and waved his hand: - Get out, redhead, I’ll shoot!

Vasyutka raised his gun and fired into the air. The squirrel, like a feather caught in the wind, darted and went to count the trees. After watching her go, Vasyutka fired again and waited a long time for an answer. Taiga didn't respond. The nutcrackers were still annoyingly and discordantly bawling, a woodpecker was working nearby, and drops of dew were clicking as they fell from the trees.

There are ten cartridges left. Vasyutka no longer dared to shoot. He took off his padded jacket, threw his cap on it and, spitting on his hands, climbed up the tree.

Taiga... Taiga... She stretched endlessly in all directions, silent, indifferent. From above it seemed like a huge dark sea. The sky did not end immediately, as it happens in the mountains, but stretched far, far away, pressing closer and closer to the tops of the forest. The clouds overhead were sparse, but the further Vasyutka looked, the thicker they became, and finally the blue openings disappeared completely. The clouds lay like compressed cotton wool on the taiga, and it dissolved in them.

For a long time Vasyutka looked with his eyes for a yellow strip of larch among the motionless green sea (deciduous forest usually stretches along the banks of the river), but all around there was dark coniferous forest. Apparently, the Yenisei, too, was lost in the remote, gloomy taiga. Vasyutka felt very small and cried out with anguish and despair:

Hey, mom! Folder! Grandfather! I'm lost!..

Vasyutka slowly came down from the tree, thought, and sat there for half an hour. Then he shook himself, cut off the meat and, trying not to look at the small edge of the bread, began to chew. Having refreshed himself, he collected a bunch of pine cones, crushed them and began to pour nuts into his pockets. The hands were doing their job, and the question was being solved in the head, one single question: “Where to go?” Now the pockets are full of nuts, the cartridges have been checked, a belt is attached to the bag instead of a strap, but the issue is still not resolved. Finally, Vasyutka threw the bag over his shoulder, stood for a minute, as if saying goodbye to the place he lived in, and went due north. He reasoned simply: the taiga stretches for thousands of kilometers to the south, you will get completely lost in it. And if you go north, then after a hundred kilometers the forest will end and begin. Vasyutka understood that going out into the tundra was not salvation. Settlements there are very rare, and you are unlikely to come across people soon. But at least he can get out of the forest, which blocks the light and oppresses him with its gloominess.

The weather was still good. Vasyutka was afraid to think about what would happen to him if autumn raged. By all indications, the wait won't be long.

The sun was setting when Vasyutka noticed skinny stems of grass among the monotonous moss. He quickened his pace. Grass began to appear more often and no longer in individual blades, but in bunches. Vasyutka became worried: grass usually grows near large bodies of water. “Is the Yenisei really ahead?” - Vasyutka thought with surging joy. Noticing birches, aspens, and then small bushes between the coniferous trees, he could not restrain himself, ran and soon burst into dense thickets of bird cherry, creeping willow, and currant. Tall nettles stung his face and hands, but Vasyutka did not pay attention to this and, protecting his eyes from the flexible branches with his hand, made his way forward with a crash. A gap flashed between the bushes.

The shore is ahead... Water! Not believing his eyes, Vasyutka stopped. He stood like that for some time and felt that his legs were getting stuck. Swamp! Swamps most often occur near the shores of lakes. Vasyutka’s lips trembled: “No, it’s not true! There are swamps near the Yenisei too.” A few jumps through thicket, nettles, bushes - and here he is on the shore.

No, this is not the Yenisei. Before Vasyutka’s eyes is a small, dull lake, covered with duckweed near the shore.

Vasyutka lay down on his stomach, scooped up the green mush of duckweed with his hand and greedily pressed his lips to the water. Then he sat down, with a tired movement took off the bag, began to wipe his face with his cap, and suddenly, clinging to it with his teeth, he burst into tears.

Vasyutka decided to spend the night on the shore of the lake. He chose a drier place, hauled in some wood, and lit a fire. It's always more fun with a sparkle, and even more so alone. Having fried the cones in the fire, Vasyutka rolled them out of the ash one by one with a stick, like a baked potato. His tongue was already hurting from the nuts, but he decided: as long as he had enough patience, not to touch the bread, but to eat nuts and meat, whatever he had to.

Evening was falling. Through the dense coastal thickets, reflections of the sunset fell on the water, stretched in living streams into the depths and were lost there, without reaching the bottom. Saying goodbye to the day, here and there titmice tinkled sadly, a jay cried, and loons moaned. And yet it was much more fun by the lake than in the thick of the taiga. But there are still many mosquitoes here. They began to pester Vasyutka. Waving them off, the boy carefully watched the ducks diving onto the lake. They were not at all frightened and swam near the shore with a masterly quack. There were a lot of ducks. There was no reason to shoot one at a time. Vasyutka, grabbing a gun, went to the toe that jutted into the lake and sat down on the grass. Next to the sedge, on the smooth surface of the water, circles kept blurring. This caught the boy's attention. Vasyutka looked into the water and froze: fish were swarming around the grass, densely, one next to the other, moving their gills and tails. There were so many fish that Vasyutka began to doubt: “Algae, probably?” He touched the grass with a stick. Schools of fish moved away from the shore and stopped again, lazily working with their fins.

Vasyutka has never seen so many fish before. And not just any lake fish: pike, sorog or perch. No, but he recognized the wide backs and white sides of peleds, whitefish, and whitefish. This was the most amazing thing. There are white fish in the lake!

Vasyutka knitted his thick eyebrows, trying to remember something. But at that moment a herd of wigeon ducks distracted him from his thoughts. He waited until the ducks were level with the cape, targeted a couple and fired. Two elegant wigeons turned upside down with their bellies and often moved their paws. Another duck, with its wing protruding, swam sideways from the shore. The rest were alarmed and noisily flew to the other side of the lake. For about ten minutes, herds of frightened birds flew over the water.

The boy pulled out a couple of ducks with a long stick, but the third managed to swim far away.

Okay, I’ll get it tomorrow,” Vasyutka waved his hand.

The sky had already darkened and twilight was falling in the forest. The middle of the lake now resembled a hot stove. It seemed that if you put slices of potatoes on the smooth surface of the water, they would instantly bake and smell burnt and delicious. Vasyutka swallowed his saliva, looked again at the lake, at the bloody sky and said with alarm:

There will be wind tomorrow. What if it still rains?

He plucked the ducks, buried them in the hot coals of the fire, lay down on the fir branches and began to crack nuts.

The dawn was burning down. There were sparse motionless clouds in the darkened sky. The stars began to appear. A small, nail-like moon appeared. It became lighter. Vasyutka remembered the words of his grandfather: “Started - to the cold!” - and his soul became even more anxious.

To drive away bad thoughts, Vasyutka tried to think first about home, and then he remembered school and comrades.

How much in life did Vasyutka want to know and see? A lot of. Will he find out? Will he get out of the taiga? Lost in it like a grain of sand. What now at home? There, behind the taiga, people seem to be in another world: they watch movies, eat bread... maybe even candy. They eat as much as they want. The school is probably now preparing to welcome students. A new poster has already been hung above the school doors, on which it is written in large letters: “Welcome!”

Vasyutka was completely depressed. He felt sorry for himself and began to feel remorse. He didn’t listen in class and during recess he almost walked on his head and smoked in secret. Children from all over the area come to school: Evenks, Nenets, and Nganasans. They have their own habits. It happened that one of them would take out a pipe during class and light a cigarette without further consideration. Children - first graders - are especially guilty of this. They just came from the taiga and don’t understand any discipline. If teacher Olga Fedorovna begins to explain to such a student about the harmfulness of smoking, he will be offended; If they take the phone away, it roars. Vasyutka himself also smoked and gave them tobacco.

Eh, now I wish I could see Olga Fedorovna... - Vasyutka thought out loud. - I should shake out all the tobacco...

Vasyutka was tired during the day, but sleep did not come. He added some wood to the fire and lay down on his back again. The clouds have disappeared. Distant and mysterious, the stars winked, as if calling me somewhere. One of them rushed down, traced the dark sky and immediately melted away. "It went out

an asterisk means someone’s life was cut short,” Vasyutka recalled the words of grandfather Afanasy.

Vasyutka felt completely sad.

“Maybe ours saw her?” - he thought, pulling his padded jacket over his face, and soon fell into a restless sleep.

Vasyutka woke up late, from the cold, and saw neither the lake, nor the sky, nor the bushes. Again there was a sticky, motionless fog all around. Only loud and frequent slaps were heard from the lake: it was fish playing and feeding. Vasyutka stood up, shivered, dug out the ducks, fanned the coals. When the fire flared up, he warmed his back, then cut off a piece of bread, took one duck and began to eat quickly. The thought that bothered Vasyutka last night came into his head again: “Where are there so many white fish in the lake?” He had heard more than once from fishermen that some lakes supposedly contained white fish, but these lakes should be or were once flowing. "What if?.."

Yes, if the lake is flowing and a river flows out of it, it will eventually lead it to the Yenisei. No, it's better not to think. Yesterday I was overjoyed - Yenisei, Yenisei - and saw a swamp cone. No, it’s better not to think.

Having finished with the duck, Vasyutka still lay by the fire, waiting for the fog to subside. The eyelids were stuck together. But even through the viscous, dull drowsiness it was possible to say: “Where did the river fish come from in the lake?”

Ugh, evil spirit! - Vasyutka swore. - I'm attached like a leaf. "Where from, where from"! Well, maybe the birds brought caviar on their feet, well, maybe they brought fry, well, maybe... Oh, that’s it for the leshaks! - Vasyutka jumped up and, angrily cracking the bushes, bumping into fallen trees in the fog, began to make his way along the shore. I didn’t find yesterday’s killed duck on the water, I was surprised and decided that it had been dragged away by a kite or eaten by water rats.

It seemed to Vasyutka that in the place where the shores meet was the end of the lake, but he was mistaken. There was only an isthmus there. When the fog dissolved, a large, sparsely overgrown lake opened in front of the boy, and the one near which he spent the night was just a bay - an echo of the lake.

Wow! - Vasyutka gasped. “That’s where the fisheries are, probably... Here we wouldn’t have to waste water with nets.” I wish I could get out and tell you. - And, encouraging himself, he added: - What? And I will go out! I’ll go, I’ll go and...

Then Vasyutka noticed a small lump floating near the isthmus, came closer and saw a dead duck. He was stunned: “Is it really mine? How did it get here?!” The boy quickly broke the stick and scooped the bird up to him. Yes, it was a wigeon duck with a cherry-colored head.

My! My! - Vasyutka muttered in excitement, throwing the duck into the bag. - My duck! - He even started to feel feverish. - Since there was no wind, but the duck was carried away, it means there is a draft, a flowing lake!

It was both joyful and somehow scary to believe in it. Hastily stepping from hummock to hummock, Vasyutka made his way through the windfall and dense berry patches. In one place, almost from under your feet, a huge wood grouse shot up and sat down nearby. Vasyutka showed him the fig:

Don't you want this? I'll be damned if I ever contact your brother again!

The wind was rising.

Dry trees that had outlived their days swayed and creaked. Leaves picked up from the ground and torn from trees began to swirl above the lake in a wild flock. The loons moaned, signaling bad weather. The lake became wrinkled, shadows on the water swayed, clouds covered the sun, everything around became gloomy and uncomfortable.

Far ahead, Vasyutka noticed a yellow groove of deciduous forest going deep into the taiga. So there is a river there. His throat was dry from excitement. “Again, some kind of lake gut. “I’m imagining things, that’s all,” Vasyutka doubted, but he walked faster. Now he was even afraid to stop for a drink: what if he leaned towards the water, raised his head and did not see a bright groove ahead?

After running for a kilometer along a barely noticeable bank overgrown with reeds, sedges and small bushes, Vasyutka stopped and took a breath. The thickets disappeared, and high, steep banks appeared in their place.

Here it is, the river! Now without deception! - Vasyutka was delighted.

True, he understood that streams could flow not only into the Yenisei, but also into some other lake, but he did not want to think about it. The river that he had been looking for for so long must lead him to the Yenisei, otherwise... he will become weak and disappear. Look, for some reason I’m feeling sick...

To drown out the nausea, Vasyutka picked bunches of red currants as he walked, popping them into his mouth along with the stems. My mouth was cramping from the sourness and my tongue, scratched by the nut shell, was stinging.

Rain is coming. At first the drops were large and sparse, then it thickened all around, it started pouring, pouring…. Vasyutka noticed a fir tree growing widely among small aspen trees and lay down under it. There was neither the desire nor the strength to move, to start a fire. I wanted to eat and sleep. He picked out a small piece from the stale edge and, in order to prolong the pleasure, did not swallow it immediately, but began to suck. I wanted to eat even more. Vasyutka grabbed the remains of the pink salmon from the bag, grabbed it with his teeth and, chewing poorly, ate it all.

The rain did not let up. The fir tree swayed from strong gusts of wind, shaking cold drops of water over Vasyutka’s collar. They crawled down my back. Vasyutka hunched over and pulled his head into his shoulders. His eyelids began to close on their own, as if heavy weights had been hung on them, the kind that are tied to fishing nets.

When he woke up, darkness, mixed with rain, was already descending on the forest. It was still just as sad; it became even colder.

Well, loaded it, damn it! - Vasyutka cursed the rain.

He put his hands into his sleeves, pressed himself closer to the fir trunk and fell into a heavy sleep again. At dawn, Vasyutka, his teeth chattering from the cold, crawled out from under the fir tree, breathed on his chilled hands and began looking for dry firewood. The aspen forest stripped almost naked overnight. Like thin slices of beets, dark red leaves lay on the ground. The water in the river has noticeably increased. Forest life fell silent. Even the nutcrackers did not vote.

Having straightened the flaps of his padded jacket, Vasyutka protected a pile of branches and a piece of birch bark from the wind. There are four matches left. Without breathing, he struck a match on the box, let the fire burn in his palms and brought it to the birch bark. She began to writhe, curled up into a tube and began to work. A tail of black smoke stretched out. The knots flared up, hissing and crackling. Vasyutka took off his leaky boots and unwound his dirty footcloths. My legs were weak and wrinkled from the dampness. He warmed them up, dried his boots and foot wraps, tore off the ribbons from his underpants and tied them up with the sole of his right boot, which was held on by three nails.

While warming himself near the fire, Vasyutka suddenly caught something similar to a mosquito squeak and froze. A second later the sound was repeated, at first long-drawn, then several times short.

“Beep! - Vasyutka guessed. - The steamer is humming! But why is it heard from there, from the lake? Oh, I see".

The boy knew these taiga tricks: the whistle always responds to a nearby body of water. But the steamship on the Yenisei is humming! Vasyutka was sure of this. Hurry, hurry, run there! He was in such a hurry as if he had a ticket for this very ship.

At noon, Vasyutka raised a herd of geese from the river, hit them with buckshot and knocked out two. He was in a hurry, so he roasted one goose on a spit, and not in a pit, as he had done before. There were two matches left, and Vasyutka’s strength was running out. I wanted to lie down and not move. He could have moved two or three hundred meters away from the river. There, through the open forest, it was much easier to get through, but he was afraid of losing sight of the river.

The boy walked, almost falling from fatigue. Suddenly the forest parted, revealing the sloping bank of the Yenisei before Vasyutka. The boy froze. It even took his breath away - his native river was so beautiful, so wide! And before, for some reason, she seemed ordinary to him and not very friendly. He rushed forward, fell on the edge of the bank and began to grab the water with greedy sips, slap his hands on it, and plunge his face into it.

Yeniseyushko! Nice, good... - Vasyutka sniffed and smeared tears down his face with his dirty, smoke-smelling hands. Vasyutka went completely crazy with joy. He started jumping and throwing up handfuls of sand. Flocks of white gulls rose from the shore and circled over the river with dissatisfied cries.

Just as unexpectedly, Vasyutka woke up, stopped making noise and even became somewhat embarrassed, looking around. But there was no one anywhere, and he began to decide where to go: up or down the Yenisei? The place was unfamiliar. The boy never came up with anything. It’s a shame, of course: maybe the house is close, there is a mother, grandfather, father in it, there is as much food as you want, but here you sit and wait for someone to swim by, but people don’t swim in the lower reaches of the Yenisei often...

Vasyutka looks up and down the river. The banks stretch towards each other, want to close and get lost in the vastness. Over there, in the upper reaches of the river, smoke appeared. Small, like a cigarette. There is more and more smoke... Now a dark point has appeared under it. The ship is coming. There's still a long wait for him. To somehow pass the time, Vasyutka decided to wash himself. A boy with sharpened cheekbones looked at him from the water. Smoke, dirt and wind made his eyebrows even darker and his lips chapped.

Well, you've arrived, my friend! - Vasyutka shook his head.

What if I had to wander longer?

The steamer was getting closer and closer. Vasyutka already saw that this was not an ordinary steamship, but a double-decker passenger ship. Vasyutka tried to make out the inscription and, when he finally succeeded, he read aloud with pleasure:

- “Sergo Ordzhonikidze.”

Dark figures of passengers loomed on the ship. Vasyutka rushed about on the shore.

Hey, stop! Take me! Hey!.. Listen!..

One of the passengers noticed him and waved. Vasyutka followed the ship with a confused look.

Eh, you guys are still called captains! “Sergo Ordzhonikidze”, but you don’t want to help the person...

Vasyutka understood, of course, that during the long journey from Krasnoyarsk the “captains” saw a lot of people on the shore, you couldn’t stop near everyone - and yet it was insulting. He began collecting firewood for the night.

This night was especially long and anxious. It seemed to Vasyutka that someone was sailing along the Yenisei. First he heard the slap of oars, then the knock of a motorboat, then steamship whistles.

In the morning, he actually caught evenly repeating sounds: but-but-but-but... Only the exhaust pipe of a fish-collecting boat could knock like that.

Did you really wait? - Vasyutka jumped up, rubbed his eyes and shouted: - It’s knocking! - and again he listened and began to sing, dancing and singing: - The bot is knocking, knocking, knocking!..

He immediately came to his senses, grabbed his gear and ran along the shore towards the boat. Then he rushed back and began to put all the stored firewood into the fire: he guessed that he would be noticed more quickly by the fire. Sparks flew up and flames rose high. Finally, a tall, clumsy silhouette of a bot emerged from the predawn darkness.

Vasyutka desperately shouted:

On the bot! Hey, on the bot! Stop! I'm lost! Hey! Guys! Who's alive there? Hey, helmsman!..

He remembered the gun, grabbed it and started firing upward: bang! bang! bang!

Who's shooting? - a booming, suppressed voice rang out, as if a man was speaking without opening his lips. This was asked through a bullhorn from a bot.

Yes, it's me, Vaska! I'm lost! Please stop! Land quickly!..

But Vasyutka could not believe it and fired the last cartridge.

Uncle, don't leave! - he shouted. - Take me! Take it!..

The boat departed from the boat.

Vasyutka rushed into the water, walked towards him, swallowing tears and saying:

I got lost, completely lost...

Then, when they dragged him into the boat, he hurried:

Hurry up, guys, swim quickly, otherwise another boat will leave! I just caught a glimpse of the steamer yesterday...

What did you say, little guy?! - a thick bass was heard from the stern of the boat, and Vasyutka recognized the foreman of the Igarets boat by his voice and funny Ukrainian accent.

Uncle Kolyada! It is you? And it’s me, Vaska! - The boy stopped crying and spoke.

Who is Vaska?

Yes Shadrinsky. Do you know Grigory Shadrin, the fishing foreman?

Whoa! How did you get here?

And when in the dark cockpit, devouring bread with dried sturgeon on both cheeks, Vasyutka talked about his adventures, Kolyada slapped his knees and exclaimed:

Ay, said lad! Why did that capercaillie give up? I shouted obscenities and curses at my dad...

And also grandfather...

Kolyada shook with laughter:

Oh, what about Toby! He remembered Dida too! Ha ha ha! What an encore soul! Do you know if it took you out?

Sixty kilometers below your camp.

Otse tobi and well! Go to bed, let's go to sleep, my dear grief.

Vasyutka fell asleep on the sergeant major’s bunk, wrapped in a blanket and clothes that were available in the cockpit.

And Kolyada looked at him, spread his arms and muttered:

Wow, the capercaillie hero is sleeping, and his father and mother are crazy...

Without ceasing to mutter, he went up to the helm and ordered:

There will be no stop at Peschany Island and at Korasikha. Go straight to Shadrin.

It’s clear, comrade sergeant major, let’s get the lad ready in a jiffy!

Approaching the parking lot of foreman Shadrin, the helmsman turned the siren handle. A piercing howl echoed over the river. But Vasyutka did not hear the signal.

Grandfather Afanasy came down to the shore and took the clevis from the boat.

Why are you alone today? - asked the sailor on watch, throwing down the ladder.

“Don’t talk, soaring,” the grandfather responded sadly. - We have trouble, oh trouble!.. Vasyutka, my grandson, is lost. We've been looking for five days. Oh-ho-ho, what a boy he was, what a smart, sharp-eyed boy!..

What is this? - the grandfather perked up and dropped the pouch from which he was scooping up tobacco with a pipe. - You... you, soaring, don’t laugh at the old man. Where could Vasyutka come from on the bot?

I’m telling the truth, we picked him up on the shore! He made such a mess there - all the devils hid in the swamp!

Don't chatter! Where is Vasyutka? Give it quickly! Is he whole?

Tse-el. The foreman went to wake him up.

Grandfather Afanasy rushed to the ladder, but immediately turned sharply and trotted upstairs to the hut:

Anna! Anna! Found a minnow! Anna! Where are you? Run quickly! He was found...

Vasyutka’s mother appeared in a colorful apron, with her scarf askew. When she saw the ragged Vasyutka coming down the ladder, her legs gave way. She sank onto the stones with a groan, stretching out her arms to meet her son.

And now Vasyutka is at home! The hut is so heated that it is impossible to breathe. They covered him with two quilted blankets, a reindeer's fur and a down shawl.

Vasyutka lies on the trestle bed, exhausted, and his mother and grandfather are busy around him, kicking the cold out of him. His mother rubbed him with alcohol, his grandfather steamed some roots that were bitter, like wormwood, and forced him to drink this potion.

Maybe you can eat something else, Vasenka? - the mother asked tenderly, like a patient.

Yes mom, there’s nowhere to go...

How about blueberry jam? You love him!

If it’s blueberry, maybe two spoons will do.

Eat, eat!

Oh you, Vasyukha, Vasyukha! - Grandfather stroked his head, - How did you mess up? Since this is the case, there was no need to rush around. They would find you soon. Well, okay, that's a thing of the past. Flour - forward science. Yes, you say you killed the wood grouse after all? Case! We'll buy you a new gun for next year. You'll still kill the bear. Mark my words!

Oh my God! - the mother was indignant. “I won’t let you close to the hut with a gun.” Buy an accordion, buy a receiver, but don’t even have a gun!

Let's talk women's talk! - Grandfather waved his hand, - Well, the guy got lost a little. So now, in your opinion, don’t even go to the forest?

The grandfather winked at Vasyutka: he said, don’t pay attention, there will be a new gun - and that’s the whole story!

The mother wanted to say something else, but Druzhok barked on the street, and she ran out of the hut.

Grigory Afanasyevich walked out of the forest, shoulders wearily slumped, in a wet raincoat. His eyes were sunken, his face, overgrown with thick black stubble, was gloomy.

“It’s all in vain,” he waved his hand dismissively. - No, the guy disappeared...

Found! He's at home...

Grigory Afanasyevich stepped towards his wife, stood confused for a minute, then spoke, holding back his excitement:

Well, why cry? Found - and good. Why get wet? Is he healthy? - and, without waiting for an answer, he headed towards the hut. His mother stopped him:

You, Grisha, are not particularly strict with him. He's been through enough. I told you about it, it gave me goosebumps...

Okay, don't teach!

Grigory Afanasyevich went into the hut, put the gun in the corner, and took off his raincoat.

Vasyutka, sticking his head out from under the blanket, timidly and expectantly watched his father. Grandfather Afanasy coughed, smoking his pipe.

Well, where are you, tramp? - Father turned to Vasyutka, and a barely noticeable smile touched his lips.

Here I am! - Vasyutka jumped up from the trestle bed, bursting into happy laughter. “My mother wrapped me up like a girl, but I didn’t catch a cold at all.” Feel it, dad. - He extended his father’s hand to his forehead.

Grigory Afanasyevich pressed his son’s face to his stomach and lightly patted him on the back:

He started chattering, Varnak! Ooh, swamp fever! You've caused us trouble, spoiled our blood!.. Tell me, where have you been?

“He keeps talking about some lake,” said grandfather Afanasy. - Pisces, he says, are visible and invisible in him.

We know a lot of fish lakes even without him, but you won’t suddenly end up on them.

And you can swim to this one, daddy, because a river flows out of it.

River, you say? - Grigory Afanasyevich perked up. - Interesting! Come on, come on, tell me what kind of lake you found there...

Two days later, Vasyutka, like a real guide, walked up the bank of the river, and a team of fishermen in boats rose after him.

The weather was very autumnal. Furry clouds rushed somewhere, almost touching the tops of the trees; the forest rustled and swayed; The alarming cries of birds moving south were heard in the sky. Now Vasyutka didn’t care about any bad weather. Wearing rubber boots and a canvas jacket, he stayed close to his father, adjusting to his step, and said:

They, geese, seem to take off all at once, I’ll give you some! Two fell on the spot, and one still hobbled and hobbled and fell in the forest, but I didn’t follow him, I was afraid to leave the river.

Clods of mud stuck to Vasyutka’s boots, he was tired, sweaty and no, no, and even started to trot to keep up with his father.

And after all, I hit them in flight, geese...

The father did not respond. Vasyutka wandered off in silence and began again:

And what? Flying in is even better, it turns out, to shoot: you hit a few at once!

Don't boast! - the father remarked and shook his head. - And what kind of braggart are you growing into? Trouble!

“Yes, I’m not bragging: if it’s true, then why should I boast,” Vasyutka muttered in embarrassment and turned the conversation to something else. - And soon, dad, there will be a fir tree under which I spent the night. Oh, and I was chilled then!

But now, I see, he’s all gone. Go to grandpa’s boat and brag about the geese. He loves to listen to stories. Go, go!

Vasyutka fell behind his father and waited for the boat, which was being pulled by fishermen. They were very tired, wet, and Vasyutka was embarrassed to swim in the boat and also took up the line and began to help the fishermen.

When a wide lake, lost in the deep taiga, opened up ahead, one of the fishermen said:

Here is Lake Vasyutkino...

From then on it went: Vasyutkino Lake, Vasyutkino Lake.

There really were a lot of fish in it. Grigory Shadrin’s brigade, and soon another collective farm brigade, switched to lake fishing.

In winter, a hut was built near this lake. Through the snow, collective farmers threw fish containers, salt, and nets there and opened a permanent fishery.

Another blue spot, the size of a fingernail, appeared on the district map, under the words: “Vasyutkino Lake.” On the regional map this is a speck about the size of a pinhead, without a name. On the map of our country, only Vasyutka himself will be able to find this lake.

Maybe you saw spots on the physical map in the lower reaches of the Yenisei, as if a careless student had splashed blue ink from his pen? Somewhere among these blots there is one that is called Vasyutka Lake.

Astafiev V.P. Collected works in 15 volumes, 1997, Krasnoyarsk, volume 1, pp. 128-151

You won't find this lake on the map. It's small. Small, but memorable for Vasyutka. Still would! It's no small honor for a thirteen-year-old boy to have a lake named after him! Even though it is not big, not like, say, Baikal, Vasyutka himself found it and showed it to people. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised and don’t think that all the lakes are already known and that each has its own name. There are many, many more nameless lakes and rivers in our country, because our Motherland is great and, no matter how much you wander around it, you will always find something new and interesting.

The fishermen from the brigade of Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin - Vasyutka’s father - were completely depressed. Frequent autumn rains swollen the river, the water in it rose, and the fish began to be difficult to catch: they went deeper.

The cold frost and dark waves on the river made me sad. I didn’t even want to go outside, let alone swim out to the river. The fishermen fell asleep, became tired from idleness, and even stopped joking. But then a warm wind blew from the south and seemed to smooth out people’s faces. Boats with elastic sails glided along the river. Below and below the Yenisei the brigade descended. But the catches were still small.

“We don’t have any luck today,” grumbled Vasyutkin’s grandfather, Afanasy. - Father Yenisei has become impoverished. Previously, we lived as God commanded, and the fish moved in clouds. And now the steamships and motorboats have scared away all the living creatures. The time will come - the ruffs and minnows will disappear, and they will only read about omul, sterlet and sturgeon in books.

Arguing with grandfather is useless, that’s why no one contacted him.

The fishermen went far to the lower reaches of the Yenisei and finally stopped. The boats were pulled ashore, the luggage was taken to a hut built several years ago by a scientific expedition.

Grigory Afanasyevich, in high rubber boots with turned-down tops and a gray raincoat, walked along the shore and gave orders.

Vasyutka was always a little timid in front of his big, taciturn father, although he never offended him.

- Sabbath, guys! - said Grigory Afanasyevich when the unloading was completed. “We won’t wander around anymore.” So, to no avail, you can walk to the Kara Sea.

He walked around the hut, for some reason touched the corners with his hand and climbed into the attic, straightening the bark plates on the roof that had slid to the side. Having gone down the decrepit stairs, he carefully shook off his pants, blew his nose and explained to the fishermen that the hut was suitable, that they could calmly wait for the autumn fishing season in it, and in the meantime they could fish by ferries and nets. Boats, seines, floating nets and all other gear must be properly prepared for the big move of fish.

Monotonous days dragged on. Fishermen repaired seines, caulked boats, made anchors, knitted, and pitched.

Once a day they checked the lines and paired nets - ferries, which were placed far from the shore.

The fish that fell into these traps were valuable: sturgeon, sterlet, taimen, and often burbot, or, as they are jokingly called in Siberia, settler. But this is calm fishing. There is no excitement, daring and that good, hard-working fun that bursts out of the men when they pull out several centners of fish with a half-kilometer net for one ton.

Vasyutka’s life began to be completely boring. There is no one to play with - no friends, nowhere to go. There was one consolation: the school year would soon begin, and his mother and father would send him to the village. Uncle Kolyada, the foreman of the fish collection boat, has already brought new textbooks from the city. During the day, Vasyutka will look into them out of boredom.

In the evenings the hut became crowded and noisy. The fishermen had dinner, smoked, cracked nuts, and told tales. By nightfall there was a thick layer of nutshells on the floor. It crackled underfoot like autumn ice on puddles.

Vasyutka supplied the fishermen with nuts. He chopped all the nearby cedars. Every day we had to climb further and further into the forest. But this work was not a burden. The boy liked to wander. He walks through the forest alone, hums, smokes (he secretly stole shag from the fishermen), and sometimes fires a gun.

...Vasyutka woke up late. There is only one mother in the hut. Grandfather Afanasy went somewhere. Vasyutka ate, leafed through his textbooks, tore off a piece of the calendar and happily noted that there were only ten days left until the first of September. Then he collected pine cones.

The mother said displeasedly:

“You have to prepare for school, but you disappear in the forest.”

-What are you doing, mom? Should someone get the nuts? Must. After all, fishermen want to click in the evening.

- “Hunting, hunting!” They need nuts, so let them go on their own. We got used to pushing the boy around and littering in the hut.

The mother grumbles out of habit because she has no one else to grumble at.

When Vasyutka, with a gun on his shoulder and a cartridge belt on his belt, looking like a stocky little man, came out of the hut, his mother, as usual, sternly reminded:

“Don’t stray too far from your plans, you’ll perish.” Did you take any bread with you?

- Why do I need him? I bring it back every time.

- Do not speak! Here's the edge. She won't crush you. It has been this way since time immemorial; it is still too early to change the taiga laws.

You can't argue with your mother here. This is the old order: if you go into the forest, take food, take matches.

Vasyutka obediently put the edge into the bag and hurried to disappear from his mother’s eyes, otherwise he would find fault with something else.

Whistling merrily, he walked through the taiga; I followed the marks on the trees and thought that, probably, every taiga road begins with a hole. A man will make a notch on one tree, move away a little, hit it again with an ax, then again. Other people will follow this person; They will knock the moss off the fallen trees with their heels, trample down the grass and berry patches, make footprints in the mud, and you will get a path. The forest paths are narrow and winding, like the wrinkles on Grandfather Afanasy’s forehead. Only some paths become overgrown with time, and the wrinkles on the face are unlikely to heal.

Vasyutka, like any taiga dweller, developed a penchant for lengthy reasoning early on. He would have thought for a long time about the road and about all sorts of taiga differences, if not for the creaking quacking somewhere above his head.

“Kra-kra-kra!..” came from above, as if they were cutting a strong branch with a dull saw.

Vasyutka raised his head. At the very top of an old disheveled spruce I saw a nutcracker. The bird held a cedar cone in its claws and screamed at the top of its lungs. Her friends responded to her in the same vociferous manner. Vasyutka did not like these impudent birds. He took the gun off his shoulder, took aim and clicked his tongue as if he had pulled the trigger. He didn't shoot. He had had his ears torn out more than once for wasted cartridges. The awe of the precious “supply” (as Siberian hunters call gunpowder and shot) is firmly drilled into Siberians from birth.

- “Kra-kra!” - Vasyutka mimicked the nutcracker and threw a stick at it.

The guy was annoyed that he couldn’t kill the bird, even though he had a gun in his hands. The nutcracker stopped screaming, slowly plucked itself, raised its head, and its creaking “kra” rushed through the forest again.

- Ugh, damned witch! – Vasyutka swore and walked away.

Feet walked softly on the moss. There were cones scattered here and there, spoiled by nutcrackers. They resembled lumps of honeycombs. In some of the holes of the cones, nuts stuck out like bees. But there is no use in trying them. The nutcracker has an amazingly sensitive beak: the bird does not even remove empty nuts from the nest. Vasyutka picked up one cone, examined it from all sides and shook his head:

- Oh, what a dirty trick you are!

Vasyutka scolded like that for the sake of respectability. He knew that the nutcracker is a useful bird: it spreads cedar seeds throughout the taiga.

Finally Vasyutka took a fancy to a tree and climbed it. With a trained eye, he determined: there, in the thick pine needles, were hidden entire broods of resinous cones. He began to kick the spreading branches of the cedar with his feet. The cones just started falling down.

Vasyutka climbed down from the tree, collected them in a bag and, slowly, lit a cigarette. Puffing on a cigarette, he looked around the surrounding forest and took a fancy to another cedar.

“I’ll eat this one too,” he decided. “It will probably be a little difficult, but that’s okay, I’ll tell you.”

He carefully spat out the cigarette, pressed it down with his heel and walked away. Suddenly something clapped loudly in front of Vasyutka. He shuddered in surprise and immediately saw a large black bird rising from the ground. "Capercaillie!" – Vasyutka guessed, and his heart sank. He shot ducks, waders, and partridges, but he had never shot a wood grouse.

The capercaillie flew across a mossy clearing, swerved between the trees and sat down on a dead tree. Try sneaking up!

The boy stood motionless and did not take his eyes off the huge bird. Suddenly he remembered that wood grouse are often taken with a dog. Hunters said that a capercaillie, sitting on a tree, looks down with curiosity at a barking dog, and sometimes teases it. Meanwhile, the hunter quietly approaches from the rear and shoots.

Vasyutka, as luck would have it, did not invite Druzhka with him. Cursing himself in a whisper for his mistake, Vasyutka fell on all fours, barked, imitating a dog, and began to carefully move forward. His voice broke from excitement. The capercaillie froze, watching this interesting picture with curiosity. The boy scratched his face and tore his padded jacket, but did not notice anything. Before him in reality is a wood grouse!

...It's time! Vasyutka quickly got down on one knee and tried to land the worried bird on the fly. Finally the trembling in my hands subsided. The fly stopped dancing, its tip touched the capercaillie... Bang! - and the black bird, flapping its wings, flew into the depths of the forest.

“Wounded!” – Vasyutka perked up and rushed after the shot wood grouse.

Only now did he realize what the matter was and began to reproach himself mercilessly:

– He banged it with small shot. Why is he petty? He’s almost like Druzhka...

The bird left on short flights. They became shorter and shorter. The capercaillie was weakening. Now he, unable to lift his heavy body, ran.

“Now I’ll catch up!” – Vasyutka decided confidently and started running harder. It was very close to the bird.

Quickly throwing the bag off his shoulder, Vasyutka raised his gun and fired. In a few leaps I found myself near the wood grouse and fell on my stomach.

- Stop, darling, stop! – Vasyutka muttered joyfully. – You won’t leave now! Look, he's so quick! Brother, I also run – be healthy!

Vasyutka stroked the capercaillie with a satisfied smile, admiring the black feathers with a bluish tint. Then he weighed it in his hand: “It will be about five kilograms, or even half a pound,” he estimated and put the bird in the bag. “I’ll run, otherwise my mother will hit me on the back of the neck.”

Thinking about his luck, Vasyutka, happy, walked through the forest, whistling, singing whatever came to mind.

Suddenly he realized: where are the lines? It's time for them to be.

He looked around. The trees were no different from those on which the notches were made. The forest stood motionless, quiet in its sad reverie, just as sparse, half-naked, entirely coniferous. Only here and there were frail birch trees with sparse yellow leaves visible. Yes, the forest was the same. And yet there was something alien about him...

Vasyutka turned sharply back. He walked quickly, carefully looking at each tree, but there were no familiar notches.

- F-fu, damn it! Where are the places? – Vasyutka’s heart sank, perspiration appeared on his forehead. - All this capercaillie! You rushed like crazy, now think about where to go? – Vasyutka spoke out loud to drive away the approaching fear. - It’s okay, now I’ll think about it and find the way. Soooo... The almost bare side of the spruce means that direction is north, and where there are more branches - south. Soooo...

After this, Vasyutka tried to remember on which side of the trees the old notches were made and on which side the new ones were made. But he didn’t even notice this, he kept busy.

- Oh, dumbass!

Fear began to weigh even more heavily. The boy spoke out loud again:

- Okay, don't be shy. Let's find a hut. We have to go one way. We must go south. The Yenisei makes a turn at the hut, you can’t pass by it. Well, everything is fine, but you, zander, were afraid! – Vasyutka laughed and cheerfully commanded himself: “Arsh step!” Hey, two!..

End of introductory fragment.

Text provided by LitRes LLC.

Read this book in its entirety, by purchasing the full legal version on liters.

You can safely pay for the book with a Visa, MasterCard, Maestro bank card, from a mobile phone account, from a payment terminal, in an MTS or Svyaznoy store, via PayPal, WebMoney, Yandex.Money, QIWI Wallet, bonus cards or another method convenient for you.

Vasyutka was 13 years old and he, together with his father’s fishing crew, was in the taiga on the banks of the Yenisei River. One day, as usual, he went into the forest to get pine nuts, but he chased a wood grouse and got lost. He was not at a loss, lit a fire, cooked the killed wood grouse and was able to spend the night peacefully. He spent the next day looking for a way home, but to no avail. In the evening he went to a lake in which there were many ducks and fish. He remembered that there can only be a lot of fish in a lake that is connected by a river to the Yenisei. In the end, he found this river and followed it to the Yenisei. There he met a boat that took him home. My father’s team, having listened to Vasyutka, went to this lake and fulfilled all the standards for catching fish. And since then the lake has been called Vasyutkino.

Summary (details)

This lake cannot be found on the map. It is small, but memorable, Vasyutkino. Named after the thirteen year old boy who found it. Not every lake in our country has a name, it is so large and vast. There are still many unnamed lakes and streams to be found. No matter how much you wander around our Motherland, new and interesting places will open up all the time. Vasyutkin's father, Grigory Afanasyevich Shadrin, was a foreman of fishermen. His whole life depended on his catch, which had recently become very small. The fish became difficult to catch, went deeper and the fishermen became completely depressed. In search of a good place, they stopped on the nearest shore and laid out their nets. Gradually the fishing began.