Book -11 Aliens novella

Speys V.

– Hello, grandfather!

– Ah, it's you, Valik. Come in, come in. "The old man said in a soft, kind voice.

– I'm driving, but it's time to see the bee already?

It's time, it's time. It's already been a long time. Oh- ho- ho. What did you do earlier?

– That's why I came so early. "I'm sorry," I answered, grief.

"Well, nothing." The beekeeper smiled crookedly.

He, with a puff, rose heavily and headed for the centrifuge with an old, shuffling gait:

"And I've prepared you a medication." And grunting, he took a frame from the barrel with heavy honeycombs full of amber honey.

– Take the mug and get the water.

Honey, mixed with wax honeycombs, melted in the mouth and was much more delicious than honey, which is eaten just a spoon. I took out the neat chewed lumps from my mouth and threw them in a bucket, where The beekeeper dumped pieces of wax to then fuse the wax ingot. These bars he exchanged for wax screensavers in the framework with marked on them neat hexahedrons, for future bee masonry. Having filled with honey, I drank two three sips of water from a heavy copper mug and again began to chew juicy honey combs. And so, relishing, ate and ate until the beekeeper stopped me: – Come on, show me your stomach.

I tore up the shirt, revealing a swollen, like a drum and a round belly.

He deliberately surprised, carefully examining and probing my belly with a rough hand. "So honey started to perform!"

«And maybe I'm full and I will have a turn in the intestines?" – I thought cautiously. And he did not dare to ask a clever beekeeper about this, instead he asked:

– I'm driving, but, what is this for your mug like that?

– What is this?

– Well, such here, like and small, and heavy. "I turned a copper mug in my hands,

– From our house and a large mug, and light.

– Well, so you have, and then we have.

This usually ended the conversation. But, I wanted to talk. I looked inquisitively at the gray, shaggy eyebrows of the old man, and continued:

– And what are you reading?

– What do I read? Err, it's still too early for you to know.

He closed the massive binding of the book and pushed the thick volume aside. Then he got up from his chair, attentively, examining some lines traced in pencil on the windowsill. The shadow from the window frame already coincided with one of them. Gruffly grunting, the old man said:

– Well, now it's time to go lady.

It was insulting in the heart of the old man. And what is he so taciturn, scares the honey that appeared on his stomach. Yes, apparently, the bee- keeper does not like the guests. On the way home, I stopped in front of the garden fence. He looked around at the sides, then hastily pulled up his shirt and carefully examined his stomach. The belly glistened with droplets of sweat that protruded all over its surface, and those droplets were so similar to the droplets of honey that the finger unwittingly reached out to the sticky beads and collected several on a bundle of finger. To taste, the droplets turned out to be the most ordinary bottoms and were bitterly saline. If only his boys noticed him, friends. Peace would run away from him forever. But they were not there and the boy continued to study his bulging belly. He even turned to the sun, but all in vain, except for small sparkles- drops of sweat, honey was nowhere to be found. So the beekeeper deceived him? Again, annoyance came to the throat of a treacherous lump. I frowned, tucked my shirt into my pants, put on my right shoulder a harness- brace, so that they would not fall off, jump over the fence …

Summer, hot season for rural workers working in the field. Summer day passes quickly, like one minute. For children running to kindergartens, and schoolchildren vacationing on vacation, the summer day rushes in a moment, changing the morning to noon, noon for the evening. And the herds are already roaring, returning from the pastures, in the brass rays of the setting sun. Hear calls from mothers calling home to play children.

In the evening, at dinner, I asked my mother:

– Mom, who's the beekeeper?

Mother replied in displeasure:

– You better ask your grandmother.

I scowled again.

"Well, why, why do not they talk to me kindly? Err, here Father Valchi always with a smile, always tells everything about everything in the world. " But, curiosity prevailed. And I went up to my grandmother, who at that time was busy, as always, by the stove. Grandmother turned to me a face, all dug with deep fine wrinkles, with an ever trembling chin: – What are you jumping from behind the table? Sit down, I hear. "I sat down again at the table." I'll get potatoes and meat now. " Grandmother, deftly using the pitchforks, removed the hot pot from the stove.

– Ba ah, ah, grandmother?

– Yes, I hear, I hear. Chogee to you?

– And who is the bee- keeper? – I was not building.

– Yes identity Fedos Kuzmovich, dyachek!

– Ba ah, ah, grandmother, what's that, dyachek?

– This is the one who reads the psalms in the church. Here you go with me to stick a pasture there and See.

Chapter 3

My grandmother was my best friend. Always a defense, always an adviser – a friend in one word. My mother, busy at work on a state farm, practically did not work on me – once. And I grew up without proper motherly affection, on my own. I did not have a father. Who is the father? His appointment in the family I do not know. But the unconscious feeling attracted me to other people's fathers. And visiting my friends, at times I did not want to go home; my friend's father felt such confidence. Such a filial atmosphere surrounded my father by children, that I always regretted returning home. What can I say, I secretly envied neighbor Vale and her brother Volodya Sinilov?

One day, I remember this for life; my father took the children to the store. And I, like a homeless little dog, got stuck in the neighbors. There's nothing but no. And a gun shooting cork, and balls, and even a scooter. Father bought toys for children, to choose from. Volodya got a gun and a scooter. Valya, the ball and the doll. To me, of course, nothing…

It's time for the Easter holiday. My grandmother wore clean festive clothes, she gave me a white shirt and new breeches, just below the knees. On the pants of the bridge were buckles on the buttons under the knees. And my grandmother and I went to the church. From the basket that my grandmother carried, a spicy scent of puffs, pies with homemade cottage cheese, and baked crosses on buns, and dyed eggs emanated.

At the iconostasis, the priest in a long robe to the toe was standing with his back to the parishioners and singing a prayer book in a singing voice:

– Our Father, Thou art in heaven. Hallowed be Thy name. They will be done…

The church choir, from pious old women, sang along with his sonorous voices. Fedosy Kuzmovich stood facing the choir in a black suit and shiny boots, leaning on a narrow platform. On his long nose sat round glasses. Through them he examined the texts of the Bible and sang with a tenor with the choir. In the church hall a crowd of people was crowded, quickly crossed in the pauses of the choir. And the sign of the cross, and the choir, and the solemn silence of the parishioners, filled the space of the church hall and my imagination with the sensation of some mystery. And succumbing to the general impulse of piety, I folded the three thumbs of my right hand into the "bundle", as my grandmother taught me, and with a sinking heart – was baptized. The gesture made a trembling sense of expectation of a miracle. I suddenly thought that, here, something should happen. At that time the choir sang: