Прыгоды з жыцця прыроды
Adventures from the life of nature
Вячаслаў Грамыка
Для сярэдняга школьнага ўзросту
Выдавец: Беларусь
Памер: 263с.
Мінск 2003
Time passed by, the castle was forgotten and even nowadays only a few people know about it. Mostly, perhaps, the residents of small villages in the neighborhood.
Gradually the roof and the rafters ruined, the whole ceiling ruined, too, and only the untouched walls with small windows and the ceiling of the first floor, which were more or less preserved, stood lonely on the formerly vast ground. The castle was overgrown with high grass. Here and there one could see the remainders of the once well-trimmed live fence, and three very large brick poles of the gate indicated the place where the main entrance had once been.
In the quiet of the night, in the moonlight, the castle impressed by its mystery and obscurity. We felt uncontrollable fear when we sometimes came there at night and hid in the bushes not far from the castle looking out in the hope to see the ghost.
That time, too, when the three of us — all young and strong fellows — were approaching the castle, we trembled with fear involuntarily. When suddenly a frightened night bird squealed loudly quite nearby on a forest path we froze in terror and only after some minutes we could breathe with relief.
None of us had any desire to come closer to the castle. After sitting on the border of the forest for about half an hour and staring at the silent walls, which visibly stood out in the quiet moonlight, we decided to go back. This time the ghost didn't make its apparition, and nobody wanted to wait any longer.
Only on the way to the camp I told my friends that the ghost, which made its apparition in the castle, was not fiction because
now and then it could be really seen. The farmers from the small village of Roudnya told me about an old man who lived alone not far from their village. Nobody knew how old he was, because all his relatives had died long ago, but the old man was still active though, they said, something was wrong with his mind. He kept aloof and lonely trying to avoid meeting the farmers and spent most of the time either staying at home or wandering about the forest picking mushrooms and berries or walking around without any purpose.
So I was told that the old man had once been the butler in the Count Tyshkevich's castle. He supervised the order, received guests and served expensive and tasty dishes at parties. His life was not bad at all at that time and he might have gone crazy when the Soviets came to power and he lost his titbit. When his memories prevented him from sleeping he would get up at midnight and go to the ruins of the old castle. He would make a round of the remainders of the once luxurious chambers silently, then go up to the first floor and for some time he would imagine that he was again walking in the palace serving the guests delicious dishes.
If somebody happened to be near the castle at this hour it looked as if there were real ghosts in the castle. If you tried to make it out from the distance you could see only some dark shadows moving in the castle and nobody dared to come closer at this hour; you could hardly meet a man here, and here you see... It's really terrifying!
Sometimes we managed to talk our girls into going and having a look at the ghost. We went there at midnight and on the way to the castle we told different terrible stories. We approached the castle watchfully not pretending to hide our fear so as to scare our girls even more.
At this time we, three young fellows, reached our shelter of branches, lay down on the fern bedding in our sleeping bags and we were asleep in no time.
We slept that way and woke up at about eight. It was not late for us, as we had come back only at 4 o'clock in the morning or maybe even later, but we couldn't help admiring the wonderful morning birds' singing, which was modulating in the air. Sitting
on a high fir-tree with its characteristic thin peep, a redbreast robin greets the morning.
“Phitz! Phju-phju-phju-phju... Phitz! Phju-phju-phjuphju...” repeats a chaffinch.
“Tzen-tzen-tzen-tzen-tzen,” like a thin spring sings a chiffchaff from the thicket of the river bank.
And now a song-thrush began its melody and at once other thrushes joined the choir, and even a nightingale, who sings only at night, joined them in their morning song.
An oriole, which is usually reticent and silent, hiding in the thick top of a lime-tree, also gives its characteristic staccato sounds:
“Phitzju etzju-phitzju-etzju!”
Then it stops for a moment, listens and begins again.
“Phitzju-etzju! Phitzju-etzju!”
And a skylark sings its merry song in the clear morning air; somewhere in the backwoods the mumbling of the hoopoe can be head: “Oup-oup-oup! Oup-oup-oup-oup-oup”...
And what a beauty around! The forest stands as if fascinated not stirring or moving a branch as if not wanting to interfere with this many-voiced choir. Singing can be heard from everywhere — from the sides, from the backwoods and from just above the shelter of branches where you sit. The whole army of forest birds twitters without a moment break and it seems that the forest itself, its green leaves and thin branches also sing with great inspiration and self-oblivion.
Large dewdrops are still hanging down from the soft grass as if bright silver beads, they are iridescent and shining.
Suddenly the forest opened in its full width, threw open that invisible door and appeared quite different from that of yesterday — even more gorgeous and kind, friendly and generous.
We admired the unique beauty of the scenery for some time, of its everlasting purity, then either went for a walk along the Islach bank, or went back to the shelter of branches, lay down on the fern bedding and listened to the songs of birds. At about 10 or 11 o'clock when the birds' choir became not so loud and the sun was high in the sky, we made a fire, boiled potatoes,
which we washed in the river water, and ate our simple meal with slices of bacon and green onion with great appetite.
Then we had a rest again for some hours and even had a nap, then swam in +he river and sunbathed on the stretch, washed out by waves. Some hours later we began to pack our things, as we wanted to get to the highway before dark.
Our souls were so joyful and bright that the heart seemed to be ready to sing a merry song, it was such a good carefree period when we had just passed the exams and tests and completely forgotten about stuffy classrooms, our professors and their assistants. The time of independent work was somewhere in the future and we were masters of ourselves and nobody could order us what to do.
Such a beauty around! Live and be happy, take everything from life and if anybody reminded us about death we would consider him a madman. Nevertheless, it was quite close.
And it happened not because of anybody's fault or malicious intent. One of my friends, rummaging near the rucksacks, noticed my gun, which hasn't been disassembled yet and was lying among my things. It wasn't the first time that he examined it attentively, he had even assembled and disassembled it, put to the shoulder and aimed it at birds, and who knows why he did it again?
It must have been the boyish thirst for weapons — with strange curiosity he took the gun and suddenly asked me:
“May I shoot only once?”
At his age it wasn't good to spoil even one cartridge, but I suddenly remembered that there was a blank cartridge in my game-bag. It wasn't screwed tight and on the way a cardboard wad, which covered the top of the cartridge, displaced and slipped out. The shot fell out and there was only powder in it and inside the cartridge case there was only a felted wad that previously separated the shot from the powder. I had left the bag intending to load it later when I would fill cartridges next time. And right now my friend asked me to let him make a shot. Well, let it be.
“Shoot if you want it so much,” I said, “only take a blank cartridge, there is one in the game-bag.”
“An which one is blank?”
“You'll see it, as it is empty. You'll find it easily, there is a hole on its top. The others are full, that one is empty.”
He tock the cartridge from the game-bag, carefully and skillfully sent it into the cartridge chamber and clicking the barrels, like a naughty boy, directed the gun at me at the level of my head.
I stood straight quite close to him and looked in his direction and could even see the chromium-plated holes of the barrels and the sight hypnotized me.
“Well, I'm shooting now,” said my friend light-heartedly.
I was quite a naughty and unrestrained boy in my childhood myself, but yet in matters concerning weapons or hunting, I formed a habit of being particularly careful and always remembered about the culture of hunting and tried to follow those inviolable and sacred rules under any circumstances.
“You may shoot, but raise the barrel up, hunters never aim at people and in general it is not wise.”
Without saying a word he raised the barrels a little bit higher than my head, stood still for a moment as if getting some particular satisfaction from all that, smiling, pulled the trigger and then even was slightly pushed back as a result of the gun recoil to his shoulder.
The shot seemed to me too strong and suspicious, not at all similar to the one when you fire a blank cartridge. Even an expressive swift whistle blew over my head.
Without thinking long, I came up to my rucksack, took my game-bag and... That unloaded cartridge was in its place.
“Listen, what have you fired with?”
“Why? I used the unloaded cartridge as you had said!”
“And what's this?” I stretched out the cartridge case for him.
He looked at me in surprise and, evidently seeing misunderstanding and confusion on my face, shrugged his shoulders silently.
And then I understood everything, sank onto the ground, as if shot, sat down embracing my head with my hands.
Leaving for the dense forest where you can meet either a wolf or a bear, out of caution, just in case, 1 took a few cartridges
loaded with Mayer bullets. Hunters know perfectly well what type of bullet it is.
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