Even on the most detailed map, this tiny settlement is no longer marked.…
Instantly parting, the forest missed a country road, which seemed to burst into this quiet, gray, squat village. At first glance, it seemed that she was not elderly. But the neat, well-kept small vegetable gardens and flower beds indicated that there were still people here, that village life was still smoldering here. The noise of a car moving slowly along the road made residents look out of the windows, and some even went out into the courtyard and approached the springs to ask who had come to the God-forsaken place and why.
The first words of greeting, acquaintances and further conversations have always interested me-the peculiarities of the language, the manner of conversation, the richness and versatility of local folklore. It's always unpredictable and unique. Like a legend, a fairy tale, or just a story, whatever you want, which I heard on a swinging bench under a large spreading lime tree by a well, covered with an old wooden bed headboard split in several places.
Who would have thought that I would ever hear a story about stacks of straw! Yes, yes, the usual stacks of straw that appear in autumn on the expanses of collective farm fields, by roads, on the edge, closer to villages and towns. Although the classic, if I may say so, stacks of straw are already gradually becoming a thing of the past. Thanks to new grain harvesting technologies, our fields are filled with straw bags and coils tied with strong twine, transparent mesh or white cellophane, which looks very unusual, unnatural and even disgusting and has nothing to do with the soothing autumn landscape. But in these places you can still see ordinary stacks. Large long structures made of a large amount of yellow straw, resembling ... but let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'll tell you how I heard it.
.. After the hot harvest season, the expanses of the fields calmed down and quieted down. It was as if time itself had calmed down and quieted down. The stacks of straw frozen in the fields resemble large shaggy golden caterpillars. It was as if, tired after a long, difficult journey, they froze, froze where they were caught by this quietest time. All this happened just when they needed it, secretly from the human eye, at the will of an unknown, unsolved force. Just when it was necessary for a new stage in eternal development to begin. And not even them, these golden haystack caterpillars, but completely different unusual creatures that will appear from the haystacks after a while, the time of conception, formation and maturation. And this time will be cold and dark - the time of the long winter. And you will need to get wet and gather your strength, conserve heat, conserve the energy of the sun for a new life of these mythical creatures. Spring will come, warmth and light, lots of warmth and light. And these gray scabs of darkened caterpillars will burst, and unnecessary husks will fall off, and big, big beautiful creatures with unique patterns on unusual wings will appear, with magical wind singing in these wings. Creatures that look like butterflies or angels.
Legend has it that many people will see this birth, transformation, and this incredibly beautiful phenomenon. But that was a long time ago. No one will tell you when this magical phenomenon stopped happening. Only this legend or fairy tale has been preserved in the memory of generations ... haystacks, which, as always, were built at the end of the summer heat.
So this time, everything is happening as always. A long line of terribly creaking sledges is moving from cattle yards from villages barely visible among the snow. The men in red, black, and white sheepskin coats reek of vodka and tobacco for miles. The horses smell of stable and hay. And this wagon train, which looks like a long old snake, is moving towards the stacks. And the usual work begins. Sharp, shiny pitchforks swing into the sides of the stacks, tearing off flakes of warm mass. She falls on a sledge and is taken to long dark buildings full of horned animals, where she throws herself at their feet and after a while turns into manure, which gives off steam and a pungent smell.
- And what about the haystacks that remain in the field until spring? - I ask a tricky question. - What happens to them, and why don't any of them appear…
"Did you know, good man," the narrator interrupts me, "that not every egg gives birth to a chicken?"
And all of a sudden, I really wanted everyone to…
The village disappears instantly behind the small hills. Outside the car window, freshly harvested fields float by, with stacks of straw frozen in some places, which now seem to me like large caterpillars.