Valery bryusov is a mountain of a star.

Dedicated to Yu. Kazakov

I arrived in Zakopane late at night. Snow was falling, very large, which seemed decorative from this. Everything around: small cottages, cafes near the station, charioteers in hats, horses dressed like fashionistas - all this also seemed decorative, made especially for those who come here to ski.

The athletes arrived with the same last train. They got on the bus of their base and drove off into the mountains. I was left alone in the echoing station square. Far below, in the city, the clock of the big town hall chimed thinly, icily.

I went up to the old driver and asked:

Will you take me to the boarding house?

I ask sir. - The charioteer threw a fragrant sheep cavity over me, sat on the beam and, dangling his legs in white felt trousers, asked: - Come on, horse.

The horse went. The bells rang - as icy as the clock on the big town hall.

Does Pan want to go fast?

No, if you can - not quickly.

Can. Whether it is fast or slow - there is only one tariff.

Your Russian is good.

I'm an old Pole.

Well, complete ... Are you old?

Highly. Does Pan want to talk or is it better to go in silence?

As you please.

Oh, pan bardzo is delicate. I think I'll sing softly.

Around - both high above and far, far below - lights winked at each other. From them I guessed the outlines of the mountains. It seemed to me that I heard music hiding behind these winking distant lights in the mountains. The road was rolling, the sleigh went easily. Heavy snow was still falling. On the branches were soft white boulders. The road zigzagged down, amid huge soft snowdrifts. I thought that, although the New Year has already arrived, Santa Claus with a bag in which gifts are hidden, still walks around here and sings a quiet song, just like my driver.

I rang the doorbell for a long time, and then I was about to look for another boarding house, but the driver was already singing a song very far away, and the bells rang barely audible.

I stood on the porch and heard how everything was asleep ... Even the snow ended, as if I was tired and also fell asleep, lying on the ground. The moon peeped out, and immediately the mountains around became visible. They were very tall and jagged. The snow on the mountains was different from the snow in the valley. There he was as if electric, illuminated from within by a lifeless blue light.

Who is?

Please open.

The door opened, and I smelled of warmth, freshly baked bread and slightly burnt coffee.

Good evening. What does the pan want? - asked the woman with gray curls.

I need a room.

Pan alone?

I'll show Pan his apartment.

We climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor. The woman opened a small door and I entered a tiny room. The moonlight made her blue. The mountains and the sky were visible from the window.

If the pan is hardened, then you can open the window.

I'll open.

Please downstairs in five minutes for coffee.

I answered in Polish:

Zenky bardzo, lady ...

The woman smiled a strict teacher's smile, made a knixen and left.

I opened the window and immediately heard the cold chime of the clock on the town hall. The air in the room turned blue. Heated during the day by the mountain sun, he kept the smells of summer.

The lights in the mountains were no longer winking. Silence lay over Zakopane, and only bells rang somewhere far away.

When I went to the cold bed, I suddenly felt as if I was once at home. I sat alone at night and worked. And in front of me was a black telephone. I called my friend and asked:

Do you know my new number?

He wrote it down.

Bye, - I said and hung up.

And a minute later he called me and asked:

Good evening, old man, how are you?

Thanks. Better now. And you?

And I, as always, good. Sleep.

Then I felt calm and healthy after his call. And now I was lying, looking at the mountains and trying to sleep. There was a soft knock on the door.

Good night, sir ...

Good night, lady, - I answered, smiling, and immediately fell asleep.

There is no end, there is only a beginning. And the beginning of all beginnings is morning. And the beginning of the morning is the sun. It woke me up - swift and bright. In winter, the sun appears blue in the mountains. Exuberant sunlight burst into my room, cut my eyes with the reflection from the mirror, highlighted a glass of water on the table with a red edge, and froze in the glass of the chandelier - each with its own special color. The sun frolicked in my room like a puppy. I lay and remembered the Warsaw clinic. There were newborns with heart defects. The mothers looked at them with tenderness and calmness. And the doctor who took me through the wards said quietly:

Do you see that woman? Her son will die in five days. And this girl will probably die tomorrow night.

When we arrived at his office, he took off his robe and said:

That's it, my dear ...

I asked:

Has it always been?

He replied:

And will it always be?

No. Only as long as there is war in the world. In my opinion, heart disease stems from fear.

The cable car led to the mountains. About forty people were crammed into the trailer. All were with skis, in thick jumpers and hats with baby pompoms. The faces of the people were black and chapped from the harsh winter tan.

Here he jumped, - the boy explained to his friend. “They called upstairs, and the SS were waiting for him there. And he saw their jackets. At that time he was passing over the gorge. You see, there’s about two hundred meters, no less. He managed to put on his skis and jumped from the trailer into the gorge, and there he went down the slope. They fired at him with machine guns, but he left them anyway.

Could you jump like that? the girl asked sternly.

The guy once again looked at the sharp, razor-sharp peaks that floated below us, at the tiny strip of snow that went between the stones, at the rocks that were piled even lower by an impregnable wall and which he probably would have had to bend around all the way, and answered:

Help me open the door.

The girl's eyes became frightened.

She said:

What are you ...

And put her hand on the guy's huge shoulder.

There is an observatory at the very top of the Polish Tatras. Skiers stand under telescopes and fix mounts. Scientists smile at them, and then lean back to telescopes to look at the stars invisible to the naked eye. One by one, the skiers slide down. They are cosmic in their speed. There was a man nearby, for a moment - and he is not, only a tiny red or blue dot is visible far below on a dazzling canvas of snow.

Five minutes later, there was no one on the site at the observatory. Scientists froze near their telescopes. Silence. Only the wind sometimes blew in gusts. It will ring, invisible, and be carried away.

Does the pan want to be photographed?

I turn around. A tall guy in a sheepskin coat stands next to me. He has two apparatus on his chest. Next to him is a huge St. Bernard.

I will give you a dog and take a picture of you in memory of the Tatras. Dog rescuer. I am also a lifeguard and take pictures of visitors a little more.

The guy nods his head at the brass bell on top.

If there is a storm and not all skiers go down, I will ring the bell so that they hear the sounds and come to me. And the dog will run to them and drag them if they get tired or scared.

May I ring the bell?

So there is no snowstorm ...

I understand…

Oh, I see! Pan wants to try it, right? Please, bardzo, I didn't understand you at first. Only not very loudly, please.

Okay, I'm quiet.

I walked over to the bell and pulled on a thick tarred rope that smelled of a ship. "Dzin-n-n", - a heavy, drawn-out sound floated over the mountains. The dog began to break free from the hands of the owner.

It's nothing, - said the guy, - don't be afraid of him.

And he dismissed the dog. He first spun in place, and then rushed down, following the skiers. White, he disappeared into the snow in a minute.

Maybe call again to get him back?

He will then bring a very angry skier, ”the guy grinned. He would never come back alone. For us, the ringing of the bell is just a signal, for him it is work. I'll get it back now.

The guy shouted, covering his mouth with his palms, like a megaphone:

Joe! Eh Joe!

The dog returned as quickly as it disappeared. He looked at the guy with big sad eyes and sat up, whining.

It's okay, ”the guy said. - Do not worry. You see, there is no snowstorm, we were just joking ...

The guy gave the dog a piece of sugar and patted the thick gray fur.

When he's resting, you can ring the bell again.

No, I won't ring the bell again.

I think I'll take a picture of you against the background of a bell with a dog hugging.

Yes. With a dog comes out very heroic. The ladies like it.

Do you think heroic?

Let's get heroic.

And you can also lyrically. One of your skiers said that a Soviet poet wrote poetry about a dog that gives a paw for friendship.

This is Yesenin.

I forgot, she often called his name, but for some reason I forgot. In general, it is very good when writers write poems about dogs. I shot lyrically - this is when the dog gives a paw, and you stroke his head.

No, let's better be heroic.

Okay. Uh, Joe, go to Pan.

The dog came up to me and poked a huge muzzle in the chest.

Let's hug, Joe, I said.

The dog sighed impulsively, looked at the owner and sat down. I hugged him. The guy snapped the camera several times. He shouted.

Bardzo will be heroic, sir! Leave the address, I will send your portrait by air mail.

There is another road to the mountains in Zakopane. Only this is not a trailer that hangs over bottomless abysses, but a smooth funicular. Here on the funicular, there are no such strong guys and girls. There are more and more fragile women with small children. Women climb the mountains with blankets and beach bags. The little ones are dressed like real skiers. They wear thick jumpers, thin trousers that fit tightly around their legs, and coarse boots, just like those of adult skiers.

Upstairs in sun loungers, undressed, are the parents. They sunbathe. The legs are wrapped in rugs, and the noses are covered with tissue paper.

Children at this time stand in the pen next to a long, elderly, very strong coach. He is wearing a light shirt, his neck is bronze, cast, his cheeks are cut with two longitudinal wrinkles, his eyes are hidden under thick eyebrows, burnt out in the sun to a gray hair. fall, he staggers from side to side, the speed is increasing, the little boy is about to flop, and the coach says quietly:

Boldly! Boldly! Boldly!

The kid still falls. The coach waits until he gets up, winks in a friendly way at his student: with whom, they say, does not happen - and, like a spell, repeats again:

Boldly, baby, boldly!

And again the boy rolls down, falls, rises, looks at the coach. He again winks at him in a friendly way and repeats his only one: "Boldly!" And when the boy slid down and stopped, beaming and proud, the coach smiled and said:

Well done!

He drove off to the "bear" - a man dressed in a bearskin, with a bared mouth, with brown glass eyes, and asked:

You still have some candies, give them to me, please.

You know that I cannot live without them.

I beg you very much.

But then I'll smoke ...

Nothing will happen to you. Be patient, I'll bring you candy in an hour.

Do you want to treat some lady?

This time, Pan.

The "bear" crawled into his pocket for a long time, and then, pulling his tanned hand out from under the yellow, twisted claws, said:

The coach returned to the site, handed the lollipops to the boy and said:

Take it.

Thanks.

You drive well, I am pleased with you.

I can move out again.

And the baby, holding the candies in his hand, rushed down, stretching his head forward and pulling back his thin bird's shoulders.

Then a little girl of about five moved out. She fell down and cried. The coach rode up to her, held out a bamboo stick, the girl clung to it, got up and rolled down in tears, still not letting go of the coach's bamboo stick. So they went down - side by side.

Will you go again? the coach asked.

Sure.

The girl closed her eyes and shook her head.

Are you afraid?

What are you afraid of?

I'm afraid to fall again.

Did it hurt when you fell?

The girl touched her knee and smiled through her tears.

No, she said, I didn't hurt.

You see…

The girl pushed off with her sticks and rolled down. The coach lit a cigarette, threw down the match and began to say quietly:

Boldly! Boldly! Boldly!

And suddenly I really wanted to see the same calm coach go through my whole life and repeat his word. It is very necessary for both old people and children.

The evening came to Zakopane unexpectedly and beautifully. The sun broke against the trident of the mountains, spread over the peaks in a red sunset streak, and the sky immediately became empty and deserted, like an evacuated city. The sun had just gone out, and a yellow penny of the moon hung over the town hall. The streets have become decorative, just like yesterday. Lights blinked in the mountains, bells rang, and the silence became close and all-embracing. In the cold, blue display cases were lean mannequins dressed in red ski suits. The roofs of the houses seemed covered with thin cellophane: in the daytime the sun melts the snow, and at night it freezes, tightens up with fragile ice. The toboggan run glowed with dazzling steel rails knocked out of the snow by runners. The road went into the mountains. Joe the dog was sleeping there, and his owner was probably sitting by the stove and developing pictures - both lyrical and heroic, everything.

For some reason, I recalled a red-faced Austrian who chased a woman in the Tatras who loved to ride from the mountains into a blizzard. I remembered him both in Laos, and at home, and now here, in Poland. I don’t know why he is so often remembered to me now ... God knows why we are reminded of people who, it would seem, just like that - without a trace ...

The restaurant was stuffy and fun. Jazz played a song, and people in jumpers and sweatpants danced and sang. There were no free tables in the hall. I went to the counter and asked for a brandy. The bartender poured a little cognac into a pot-bellied dark glass, I warmed the glass in my palms and felt the sharp smell of prunes.

Old cognac, - said the bartender, - and very strong. Want some water?

Yes. And a lemon, please.

I'm afraid the lemon will ruin everything.

Then don't.

The bartender walked away, rattling his wooden foot. The fat singer, cut short in a childish way, sang with her eyes closed:

Are you happy
Am I happy
tell me
Ave Maria?!

The bartender remarked:

Good song, huh?

I like.

There was no one at the counter because everyone had gone to dance. The bartender sat down on a high chair, lit a cigarette and said sadly:

I used to work as a bear.

Well, you know, I walked in bearskin and rang the bell. It's nice when tame bears walk around town and ring bells, isn't it?

Children like ...

Why only children?

Well, after all ...

Oh no, trust me, adults like it too. Only children are more sincere in expressing feelings. To be honest, I really want to play hide-and-seek, for example, but only the kids don't take it because of their legs, and I just can't persuade adults to play.

He dripped himself a little wine, drank it, put out his cigarette and, looking into the hall, grinned.

I used to hate those in tuxedos. You know, capitalism and all that stuff. Do you see the guy in the tuxedo?

This is my student. He is now the head of the sports school in the mountains. You understand, he can't live without a tuxedo, this dandy.

Have you been a skier?

I was a champion. And I did a little bit of moonlighting as a bear, I told you. And when I walked away from the SS men straight from the cable car, I was shot. Well, in the detachment I had to chop off my leg, because there was no doctor, and I walked with a leaky leg for forty kilometers slalom. More cognac?

A tall guy entered the hall - a lifeguard from the top. He went to the bar, kissed the bartender and said:

Good evening dad. Well, how are you?

I'm good.

It's quiet in the mountains, I decided to come down to you for a minute.

Thanks. Do you want a drink?

Perhaps not, I have to go back. - The guy noticed me and said: - Oh, sir, I developed the film, you turned out to be bardzo heroic.

The singer finished singing:

Are you happy
Am I happy
Tell me,
Ave Maria?!

A guy in a tuxedo, the head of a sports school, came up to the counter. The tuxedo sat on him like a minister. The tight collar cut into the bronze neck. His shoes were defiantly pointed. The lifeguard stepped lightly on his foot with his huge boot and winked:

You have nothing girl, huh?

Stay calm.

I envy.-

This black feeling is absolutely alien to the spirit of our youth.

And yet.

But, but! Quiet on the descent! Don't shoot her with your eyes.

She will come to my top.

Then you will ride out on your ass with Joe.

Yes Yes! Pan Josef, give me a chocolate bar for my lady.

The bartender handed the head of the school a chocolate bar, patted his cheek and said:

Boldly, sonny, boldly.

My hostess gave me coffee and said good night. I went to the ice bed. The clock chimed on the town hall. The blue light of the moon floated in the room. The sky was clear, clipped by white, fragile mountain peaks. A driver rode under the window, and for a long time the tight chime of bells hung in the air. I remembered the bartender. When I was leaving, he said:

Eh, sonny ... You should never pickle anything. Understand: life should still be joy ...

Bryusov Valery

Mountain Stars

Valery Bryusov

Mountain Stars

DEDICATION

When I entered the desert ten years ago, I believed that I had parted with the educated world forever. Taking up my pen and writing memoirs made me absolutely extraordinary events. What I saw, perhaps, none of the people saw. But deep down I experienced even more. My beliefs, which seemed unshakable to me, are destroyed or shaken. I see with horror how much domineering truth there is in what I have always despised. These notes might have a purpose: to warn others like me. But they will probably never find a reader. I write them with juice on the leaves, I write in the wilds of Africa, far from the last traces of enlightenment, under the Bechuan hut, listening to the ceaseless roar of Mozi-oa-Tunya (* 1). Oh great waterfall! The most beautiful thing in the world! In this desert, you alone, perhaps, comprehend my worries. And I dedicate these pages to you.

The firmament was deep blue and the stars were large and bright when I opened my eyes. I did not move, only my hand, and in my sleep, gripping the handle of the dagger, leaned on it harder ... Then I got up and sat down. The big fire, which had been laid out against wild animals in the evening, was extinguished, and my negro Mstega was sleeping, buried in the ground ...

Get up, - I shouted, - take the spear, follow me!

We went in the direction from which we heard the groans. For about ten minutes we wandered at random. Finally I noticed something bright ahead.

Who lies here without a fire? I called. - Answer, or I will shoot. - I said these words in English, and then repeated them in the local Kaffir dialect (* 2), then again in Dutch, in Portuguese, in French. There was no answer. I approached, revolver at the ready.

On the sand in a pool of blood lay a man dressed in European style. It was an old man of about sixty. His entire body was wounded by the blows of the spears. The bloody trail led far into the desert; the wounded man crawled for a long time before he fell completely.

I ordered Mstega to make a fire and tried to bring the old man to his senses. Half an hour later, he began to move, his eyelashes rose, and his gaze, at first dim, then cleared up, rested on me.

Do you understand me? I asked in English. Having received no answer, I repeated the question in all languages \u200b\u200bI knew, even Latin. The old man was silent for a long time, then he spoke in French:

Thank you my friend. I know all these languages, and if I was silent, then for my own reasons. Tell me where did you find me?

I explained.

Why am I so weak? Are my wounds dangerous?

You won't get through the day.

As soon as I uttered these words, the dying man trembled all over, his lips curved, his bony fingers dug into my hand. His measured speech was replaced by hoarse screams.

It cannot be! .. Not now, no! .. at the pier! .. you are mistaken.

Perhaps, I said coldly.

Let the lord wait, - he moaned dully, - the sorcerer will say everything, he heard about it from the fathers as a boy. There, in the middle of the Cursed Desert, stands the Mountain of the Star, high up to the sky. Demons live in it. Sometimes they leave their country and devour babies in kraals. Whoever goes into the desert will perish. And you can't talk about her ...

I've had enough. I lowered my Winchester and walked slowly among the dumbfounded crowd to the hut assigned to me. It seemed unsafe to stay in the village overnight. In addition, I realized that the Cursed Desert could only be walked at night. I ordered Mstega to get ready for the journey. We took with us a supply of water for five days, some provisions and everything needed for a hut, so that there was somewhere to hide from the heat. I divided the whole load into two equal packs, myself and Mstege. Then he sent to tell the chief of the tribe that we were leaving. The whole village came out to see us off, but everyone kept a considerable distance. I walked to the edge of the desert whistling merrily. A month has risen. The edges of the strata glowed fancifully under the moonbeams. At that time I heard someone's voice. Turning around, I saw that the sorcerer stepped forward from the crowd and also stood on the edge of the desert. Stretching out his hands in our direction, he clearly pronounced the established words. It was a spell that doomed us to the avenging spirits for disturbing the tranquility of the desert.

The moon was still not high, and long shadows from the hands of the sorcerer followed us into the desert and for a long time clinging to our legs with persistence.

In the evening that same day, I began the journey that had been promised to the old man. The map of that part of Africa, still almost unexplored, was known to me much better than any European geographer ... Moving forward, I more and more persistently collected information about the area where I was going. At first, only the most knowledgeable could answer me that there is a special Cursed Desert. Then people began to meet who knew different legends about this desert. Everyone spoke of her reluctantly. After [several] days of travel, we came to the countries adjacent to the Cursed Desert. Everyone here knew her, everyone saw her, but no one was in her. Before, there were daredevils who entered the desert, but it seems that none of them returned.

The boy, whom I took as a guide, took us to the very desert by the nearest paths. Behind the forest, the path went through the magnificent steppe. In the evening we reached the temporary Bechuan village, stretched out at the very edge of the desert. They greeted me respectfully, gave me a special hut and sent me a heifer as a present.

Before sunset, leaving Mstega to guard the property, I went alone to look at the desert. In my wandering life, I have never seen anything stranger than the border of this desert. The vegetation did not disappear gradually: there was no usual transitional strip from green meadows to barren steppe. Immediately for two or three fathoms, the pasture turned into a lifeless rocky plain. On the rich soil, covered with tropical grass, gray shale or saline layers suddenly overlapped in corners; piling up on top of each other, they formed a wild jagged plane that extended into the distance. On this surface, cracks and crevices snaked and stretched, often very deep and up to two arshins wide, but it itself was as hard as granite. The rays of the setting sun reflected here and there from ribs and notches, blinding the eyes with shimmers of light. Yet, looking closely, one could discern a pale gray cone on the horizon, the top of which sparkled like a star. I returned to the kraal pensive. Soon I was surrounded by a crowd: they gathered to watch the white man walking into the Cursed Desert. In the crowd I noticed a local sorcerer too. Suddenly, stepping up to him, I directed the muzzle of the Winchester to the level with his chest. The sorcerer was petrified with fear; evidently he was familiar with the gun. And the crowd swung away.

Valery Yakovlevich Bryusov

Mountain Stars

Dedication

When I entered the desert ten years ago, I believed that I had parted with the educated world forever. Taking up my pen and writing memoirs made me absolutely extraordinary events. What I saw, perhaps, none of the people saw. But deep down I experienced even more. My beliefs, which seemed unshakable to me, are destroyed or shaken. I see with horror how much domineering truth there is in what I have always despised. These notes might have a purpose: to warn others like me. But they will probably never find a reader. I write them with juice on the leaves, I write in the wilds of Africa, far from the last traces of enlightenment, under the Bechuan hut, listening to the incessant rumble of Mozi-oa-Tunya. Oh great waterfall! The most beautiful thing in the world! In this desert, you alone, perhaps, comprehend my worries. And I dedicate these pages to you.

The firmament was deep blue and the stars were large and bright when I opened my eyes. I didn’t move, only my hand, and in my sleep, gripping the handle of the dagger, leaned on it harder ... The groan was repeated. Then I got up and sat down. A big bonfire, laid out in the evening against wild animals, was extinguished, and my negro Mstega slept, buried in the ground ...

- Get up, - I shouted, - take the spear, follow me!

We went in the direction from which we heard the groans. For about ten minutes we wandered at random. Finally I noticed something bright ahead.

- Who lies here without a fire? I called. - Answer, or I will shoot. - I said these words in English, and then repeated them in the local Kaffir dialect, then again in Dutch, in Portuguese, in French. There was no answer. I approached with my revolver at the ready.

I ordered Mstega to make a fire and tried to bring the old man to his senses. Half an hour later, he began to move, his eyelashes rose, and his gaze, at first dim, then cleared up, rested on me.

- Do you understand me? I asked in English. Having received no answer, I repeated the question in all languages \u200b\u200bI knew, even Latin. The old man was silent for a long time, then he spoke in French:

“Thank you, my friend. I know all these languages, and if I was silent, then for my own reasons. Tell me where did you find me?

I explained.

- Why am I so weak? Are my wounds dangerous?

“You won't survive the day.

As soon as I uttered these words, the dying man trembled all over, his lips curved, his bony fingers dug into my hand. His measured speech was replaced by hoarse screams.

- It can't be! .. Not now, no! .. at the pier! .. you are mistaken.

“Perhaps,” I said coldly.

“Let the lord wait,” he moaned dully, “the sorcerer will say everything, he heard about it from his fathers as a boy. There, in the middle of the Cursed Desert, stands the Mountain of the Star, high up to the sky. Demons live in it. Sometimes they leave their country and devour babies in kraals. Whoever goes into the desert will perish. And you can't talk about her ...

The moon was still not high, and long shadows from the hands of the sorcerer followed us into the desert and for a long time clinging to our legs with persistence.

- And what, - I asked slowly, - does my father know any prayers before death?

“I know,” the sorcerer answered unsteadily.

- So let him read them, because now he will die.

I snapped the trigger. The negroes in the distance let out a cry.

“You will die,” I repeated, “because you are hiding from me what you know about the Cursed Desert.

I watched the change of mood on the sorcerer's face. His lips curled up, wrinkles on his forehead moved and opened. I put my finger on the dog. It could happen that the sorcerer really doesn't know anything, but in a moment I would pull the trigger. Suddenly the sorcerer fell to the ground.

- I just lost a lot of blood.

I smiled:

- You keep losing it; I was unable to stop the bleeding.

The old man began to cry, begged to save him. Finally, his throat began to bleed and he passed out again. The second time he woke up, he was calm again.

“Yes, I'm dying,” he said. “You're right. It's hard now. But listen. Fate has made you my heir.

“I don’t need anything,” I said.

“Oh, don’t think,” the old man interrupted, “it’s not about treasure, not about money. Here is something else. I own a secret.

He spoke hastily, confusedly; then he began to tell his life, then jumped to the latest events. There was a lot I didn't understand. Probably, the majority in my place would consider the old man insane. Since childhood, he was fascinated by the thought of interplanetary relations. He devoted his whole life to her. In various scientific societies, he made reports on the projectiles invented by him for flight from Earth to another planet. He was ridiculed everywhere. But heaven, in his words, preserved the reward of his old age. On the basis of some remarkable documents, he was convinced that the question of interplanetary communications had already been resolved precisely by the inhabitants of Mars. At the end of the XIII century of our chronology, they sent a ship to Earth. This ship landed in Central Africa. According to the old man's assumption, there were not travelers on this ship, but exiles, daring fugitives to another planet. They did not start exploring the Earth, but only tried to get comfortable. Having protected themselves from the savages with an artificial desert, they lived in its middle as a separate independent society. The old man was convinced that the descendants of these settlers from Mars still live in that country.

As I entered the desert ten years ago, I believed that I had parted with the educated world forever. Taking up my pen and writing memoirs made me absolutely extraordinary events. What I saw, perhaps, none of the people saw. But deep down I experienced even more. My beliefs, which seemed unshakable to me, are destroyed or shaken. I see with horror how much domineering truth there is in what I have always despised. These notes might have a purpose: to warn others like me. But they will probably never find a reader. I write them with juice on the leaves, I write in the wilds of Africa, far from the last traces of enlightenment, under the Bechuan hut, listening to the incessant rumble of Mozi-oa-Tunya. Oh great waterfall! The most beautiful thing in the world! In this desert, you alone, perhaps, comprehend my worries. And I dedicate these pages to you.

...

1

- Get up, - I shouted, - take the spear, follow me!

We went in the direction from which we heard the groans. For about ten minutes we wandered at random. Finally I noticed something bright ahead.

I ordered Mstega to make a fire and tried to bring the old man to his senses. Half an hour later, he began to move, his eyelashes rose, and his gaze, at first dim, then cleared up, rested on me.

“Thank you, my friend. I know all these languages, and if I was silent, then for my own reasons. Tell me where did you find me?

I explained.

- Why am I so weak? Are my wounds dangerous?

“You won't survive the day.

As soon as I uttered these words, the dying man trembled all over, his lips curved, his bony fingers dug into my hand. His measured speech was replaced by hoarse screams.

- It can't be! .. Not now, no! .. at the pier! .. you are mistaken.

“Perhaps,” I said coldly.

The moon was still not high, and long shadows from the hands of the sorcerer followed us into the desert and for a long time clinging to our legs with persistence.

2

Valery Bryusov

Mountain Stars

Dedication

- Get up, - I shouted, - take the spear, follow me!

We went in the direction from which we heard the groans. For about ten minutes we wandered at random. Finally I noticed something bright ahead.

I ordered Mstega to make a fire and tried to bring the old man to his senses. Half an hour later, he began to move, his eyelashes rose, and his gaze, at first dim, then cleared up, rested on me.

“Thank you, my friend. I know all these languages, and if I was silent, then for my own reasons. Tell me where did you find me?

I explained.

- Why am I so weak? Are my wounds dangerous?

“You won't survive the day.

As soon as I uttered these words, the dying man trembled all over, his lips curved, his bony fingers dug into my hand. His measured speech was replaced by hoarse screams.

- It can't be! .. Not now, no! .. at the pier! .. you are mistaken.

“Perhaps,” I said coldly.

The moon was still not high, and long shadows from the hands of the sorcerer followed us into the desert and for a long time clinging to our legs with persistence.

- And what, - I asked slowly, - does my father know any prayers before death?

“I know,” the sorcerer answered unsteadily.

- So let him read them, because now he will die.

I snapped the trigger. The negroes in the distance let out a cry.

“You will die,” I repeated, “because you are hiding from me what you know about the Cursed Desert.

- I just lost a lot of blood.

I smiled:

- You keep losing it; I was unable to stop the bleeding.

The old man began to cry, begged to save him. Finally, his throat began to bleed and he passed out again. The second time he woke up, he was calm again.

“Yes, I'm dying,” he said. “You're right. It's hard now. But listen. Fate has made you my heir.

“I don’t need anything,” I said.

- Do you have exact directions of the place? I asked.

“I calculated the approximate longitude and latitude ... the error is not more than ten minutes ... maybe a quarter of a degree ...

Everything that happened to the old man afterwards was to be expected. Not wanting to share his success, he himself went to research ...

“You, I entrust you with my secret,” the dying man said to me, “take up my work, finish it in the name of science and humanity.

I laughed:

- I despise science, I don't like humanity.

“Well, for the glory,” said the old man bitterly.

“Completeness,” I objected. - What do I need fame for? But I still wander in the desert and can look into that country out of curiosity.

The old man whispered resentfully:

“I have no choice… Let it be so… But swear that you will do your best to get there… that only death will stop you.

I laughed again and took an oath. Then the dying man, with tears in his eyes, uttered several numbers in a trembling voice - latitude and longitude. I marked them on the butt of my gun. The old man died shortly after noon. His last request was that I mention his name when I write about my journey. I fulfill this request. His name was Maurice Cardeaux.

I did not foresee all the difficulties of the path when I entered the Cursed Desert. From the very first steps we felt how hard it was to walk on this rocky, cracked soil. It was painful for my feet to step on the notches of the layers; the play of the moonlight deceived the eye, and every minute we could stumble into a crevice. There was a fine dust in the air, cutting his eyes. The monotony of the terrain was such that we constantly strayed from the direct direction and circled: we had to follow the stars, because the outline of the Mountain was not visible in the darkness. At night it was possible to walk still briskly, but as soon as the sun rose, unbearable heat seized us. The soil quickly heated up and burned my feet through my shoes. The air became a fiery vapor, as if over a melted stove - it was painful to breathe. I had to hastily set up a tent and lie under it until evening, almost without moving.

We walked this Cursed desert for six days. The water that was in our furs quickly deteriorated, smelled of leather, and tasted disgusting. Such water almost did not satisfy thirst. By the third morning we had a very small remnant of it, muddy residues at the bottom of the fur. I decided to divide this remainder between us to the end, since in the afternoon it would have deteriorated completely. On the same day, the usual torment of thirst began: the throat ached, the tongue became hard, large, and quickly disappearing mirages appeared. But on the fourth night we went on without stopping. It seemed to me that Mount Star is close, that it is closer to it than back, to the border of the desert. In the morning, however, I saw that the silhouette of the Mountain had hardly grown, still inaccessible. On this fourth day, delirium finally possessed me. I began to dream of lakes in palm oases, herds of antelopes on the shore and our Russian rivers with creeks where willows bathe weeping branches, I dreamed of a month reflected in the sea, shattered in waves, and a rest in a boat behind a coastal cliff, where the surf was always worrying, the shaft runs behind the shaft, foams and rises high in spray. A vague consciousness remained in the dream, it said that all these pictures were a ghost, that they were inaccessible to me. I longed not to dream, to conquer my delirium, but I didn't have the strength for that. And it was painful ... But as soon as the sun went down and the darkness fell, I suddenly woke up, suddenly stood up like a lunatic, as if at a secret call. We didn’t assemble the tent, as we could not carry it. But we went forward again, stubbornly reaching for Mount Star. She attracted me like a magnet. It began to seem to me that my life is closely connected with this Mountain, that I must, must go to it against my will. And I walked, at times ran, lost my way, found him again, fell, got up and walked again. If Mstega lagged behind, I shouted at him, threatened him with a gun. A waning month rose and illuminated the cone of the Mountain. I greeted the Mountain with an enthusiastic speech, stretched out my hands to her, begged for her help, and again walked, and again walked, now without an account, blindly ...

The night passed, the red sun rolled out to our right. The star at the top of the Mountain lit up brightly. We no longer had a tent, I shouted to Mstega not to stop.

We kept walking. Probably about noon I fell, overcome by the heat, but continued to crawl. I dropped my revolver, hunting knives, charges, jacket. For a long time I dragged my trusty Winchester along with me, but then I dropped it too. I crawled with my swollen feet on the hot ground, clinging to the sharp stones with my bloody hands. Before each new movement it seemed to me that it would be the last, that I would not be able to do another one. But in my mind there was only one thought: we must go forward. And I crawled even among the delirium, crawling, shouting out indistinct words, talking to someone. Once I started catching some beetles and butterflies, which, as it seemed to me, were scurrying around me. Coming to my senses, I looked for the silhouette of the Mountain and again began to crawl towards it. Night fell, but briefly brought comfort with its freshness. Strength was leaving me, I was exhausted to the end. His hearing was filled with a terrible ringing and roar, his eyes were covered with a thicker and thicker bloody fog. Consciousness left me completely. The last thing I remember when I woke up: the sun was not high, but it was already burning me painfully. Mstega was not with me. The first moment I wanted to make an effort to see where the Mountain is. Then, in the next instant, a thought flashed through me clearly, making me suddenly laugh. I laughed, although blood ran from my cracked lips, seeping down my chin and dropping onto my chest. I laughed because I suddenly realized my madness. Why did I go ahead? What could be near the Mountain? Life, water? And what if there is still the same dead, the same Damned Desert! Yes, of course it is. Mstega is smarter than me and, of course, went back. Well! Perhaps ... his legs will carry him to the border! And I deserve my fate. And, laughing, I closed my eyes and remained motionless. But my attention was awakened by something dark, which I felt through the drooping eyelids. I looked again. Between me and the sky hovered a kite, an African vulture kite. He smelled prey. And, looking directly at him, I began to think how he would go down to my chest, peck out the very eyes with which I was looking, and would pull pieces of meat out of me. And I thought I didn't care. But suddenly a new thought, dazzlingly bright, flooded all my consciousness. Where does the kite come from? Why would he fly into the desert? Or the Mountain of the Star is near, and near it is life, and forests, and water!

Immediately, a stream of power ran through my veins. I jumped to my feet. Close-up the high Mountain was blackened, and from its side the faithful Mstega was running towards me. He looked for me and, seeing, shouted joyfully:

- Master! Let the lord go! The water is close, I saw it.

I jumped to my feet. I rushed forward with wild leaps. Mstega ran after me, shouting something loudly. It soon became clear to me that in the middle of the Cursed Desert there was a huge hollow in which the Mountain stood. I stopped only at the edge of the cliff above this hollow.

An amazing picture opened up before us. The desert was cut off by a plumb line more than a hundred fathoms deep. Below, at this depth, a plain of regular elliptical shape was spread. The smallest diameter of the valley was ten versts; the opposite edge of the cliff, just as high, just as steep, was clearly visible beyond the Mountain.

The mountain stood in the very middle of the valley. The height of the Mountain was three times more than the height of the cliff, maybe it reached half a mile. Its shape was correct, conical. In several places, this shape was broken by small ledges that went around the entire Mountain and formed terraces. The Mountain's color was dark gray, somewhat brown. At the summit, one could see a flat platform on which towered something brightly sparkling like a golden point.

The valley around the Mountain was visible as in the plan. It was all covered with luxurious vegetation. At first, near the Mountain itself, there were groves cut by narrow alleys. Then came a wide belt of fields, which occupied most of the entire valley; These fields were blackened with freshly plowed land, since it was August; here and there their rivulets and canals plowed, converging in several lakes. At the very edge of the cliff, a belt of palm forest began again, expanding in the narrow bays of the ellipse; the forest was divided into sections by wide openings and in some places it already consisted of old trees, and in some places still of young growth.

We could see people too. In the fields everywhere one could see heaps of blacks working regularly, as if on command.

Water! Greens! People! What else did we need. Of course, we did not admire the view of the country for a very long time, I barely looked around it, I did not even understand clearly all the wonders of this picture. I knew only one thing: that the torment was over and the goal was achieved.

However, there was one more test ahead. It was necessary to go down a steep cliff a hundred fathoms deep. The cliff in its upper part consisted of the same lifeless shale beds as the desert. Fatter soil began below, bushes and grass grew. We descended, clinging to the ledges of the layers, to stones, to thorny branches. Kites and eagles, nesting on the ledges nearby, circled above us, screaming. Once a stone slipped out from under my feet, and I hung on one hand. I remember being struck by my emaciated arm, on which all muscles and veins protruded. About three fathoms from the ground, I broke off again and this time fell. Fortunately, the grass was tall and silky. I didn't crash, but I still passed out from the impact.

Mstega brought me to my senses. There was a spring nearby, surrounded by hewn stones, which ran like a living stream into the distance, to the middle of the valley. A few drops of water brought me back to life. Water! What bliss! I drank water, I breathed fresh air, lay on the lush grass and looked at the sky through the fan greenery of the palm tree. Without hesitation, without thought, I gave myself up to the joy of being.

The noise of footsteps brought me back to reality. I jumped to my feet, cursing myself for forgetting myself so. In an instant, a whirlwind flashed through my mind the awareness of our position. We were in a country inhabited by an unknown tribe, whose language and customs we did not know. We were exhausted by the suffering of the hard road and long starvation. We were without weapons, because in the desert, I threw everything, everything - even a gun, even a stiletto inseparable ... But I have not had time to take any decision as to the clearing appeared a bunch of people. One of them was wrapped up to his heels in a grayish cloak, the rest were naked Negroes of the Bechuan type. Apparently they were looking for us. I moved towards them.

- Greetings to the rulers of this country! - I pronounced loudly and distinctly in the Bechuan dialect. - Wanderers are asking for shelter.

As far as possible, I explained my words with signs. At my first words, the negroes stopped. But immediately the man in the cloak shouted to them, too, in Bechuan, albeit with a special reprimand:

- Slaves, obey and obey.

Then five people rushed at me with a frenzied roar. I thought that they wanted to kill me, and met the first one with such a blow of a fist that he rolled on the ground. But I was unable to fight multiple enemies. I was knocked down and tied tightly with special straps. I saw that they did the same with Mstega, who did not defend himself. Then they lifted us up and carried us. I understood that it was useless to shout and talk, and I only noticed the way.

We were carried in the fields for a long time, perhaps an hour. Everywhere there were heaps of working negroes who stopped in surprise at our approach. Then they carried us through the woods near the Mountain. In the Mountain itself, a dark arch became visible, leading to its depths. We were brought under its yellow vaults, and we began our journey along stone passages, poorly lit by rare torches.

We went down somewhere along narrow spirals, and the dampness of the cellar or the grave breathed on me. Finally I was thrown on a stone floor in the darkness of an underground dungeon, and I was left alone. Mstega was taken somewhere else.

At first I was stunned, but I gradually recovered and began to look around my room. It was a dungeon carved into the heart of the Mountain; in length and breadth it was about one and a half fathoms, in height a little taller than a human being. The dungeon was empty - there was no bed, no straw, no mug of water. When leaving, the negroes who had abandoned me closed the entrance with a heavy hewn stone, which I could not move. I tried to loosen my bonds, but even this proved beyond my power. Then I decided to wait.