Читать книгу Fairytales for adults in the fourth dimension - Slava Sarazhin - Страница 4

The endless prairie was like an old woman's dream. The sun-scorched grass rustled in the sunlight, and only a lonely tree raised its twisted branches skywards in a futile plea for rain. An old Indian from the Dakota tribe rocked backwards and forwards on the back of a spotted mustang.

The mustang slowly moved its legs, occasionally pulling a clump of dry grass from the baked earth. The hunt had been unsuccessful, and the wounded bison turned out to be tricky, just like the shaman from Dakota's tribe, and perhaps it really was him. It was not without reason that hunting alone was taboo.

But the Dakota knew no fear. His old wigwam was full of holes and the winds blew straight through it, and his son, his father's pride and joy, was growing so fast… He needed a lot of meat and fat. Strapped to his belt, decorated with beads and bouncing against the mustang's sides, were a couple of prairie dogs that he had caught. Not a rich catch for a three-day hunt. The old Indian's body was as sticky as the sultry air. The bison had got away, and he and his old mustang were exhausted.

Then he heard dogs barking ahead of him, and in the flickering hot air, he recognized the outlines of his tribe's pointed wigwams. The mustang pulled back his ears, snorted, shook his mane to fend off the pesky horseflies, and trotted on quickly, expecting a welcome break. The bitter smell of wood smoke, and the leaping barking dogs became mixed with other sounds, creating a unique noise which was pleasing to the ear.

There was the sound of a young child, the neighing of a foal, and the sound of pots hanging over the fire. A woman screamed at an insolent dog that had dragged off a marrow bone. The Dakota shrugged his shoulders. He didn't want anybody to see how depressed he was by his failure. A shaman emerged from his wigwam and stared at the old Indian with his eagle eyes. An easy grin distorted his deeply wrinkled face.

But all the heavy thoughts vanished like dust, as if washed away by the rain on the pelts of a wigwam when the boy ran to greet the Dakota. His braided hair bounced against his shoulders, like the prairie dogs his father had brought back from his hunting trip. Running to the mustang, the boy deftly grasped the outstretched hand and was pulled up onto the horse's back. The old Indian hugged his son tightly, and the mustang carried them to the family wigwam, where a woman was waiting for them. The boy dropped to the ground, took the catch that his father offered and handed it to the woman without saying a word. She disappeared into the dark wigwam, also without saying a word.

"When can I go hunting with you?" Asked the boy, helping his father to remove the threadbare blanket from the mustang.

"You still have a lot to learn, boy," replied the Indian wearily. "The bison have become cautious and cunning as a fox, and there are fewer and fewer of them. Only a skilled hunter can hunt enough meat to survive, and also you need a lot of patience to catch a mustang suitable for hunting for yourself."

"I'm ready," said the boy. "I'll be a good hunter. No, I'll be the best hunter in the prairies. No bison will be able to hide from my spear."

"To become the best hunter in the prairie, you need to know a lot. It is not enough just to be brave and strong. You'll need the wisdom of the ancestors, the magic of the shaman, and the eyes of an eagle. You will need the lightning swiftness of the rattlesnake and the cunning of the coyote. You have to learn a lot of things, my boy."

"What do I need to do for this?" Asked the boy excitedly, crumpling the edge of his jacket.

"We'll go down the path of learning and will take small steps. We will go as slowly as an experienced pathfinder, who studies the tangled trail. Also…" The old Indian's eyes settled on a piece of wool which was being rolled along by the wild wind.

"Also," he repeated confidently, "every time you take a step, every time that you learn something new, every time you achieve something, no matter how small, promise me that you will add to the length of rope that you will begin to weave from this piece of wool!"

He gave his son the piece of wool and the boy stared back at him with a puzzled expression.

"But… but why would I need to do that?" The boy asked with surprise.

"You have to count each victory, each new piece of knowledge, each new piece of wisdom gained. The length of the rope will indicate how successful you are. As the lasso gets longer, your knowledge and experience will continue to grow, and when you weave a new piece into the rope, think about what the new piece of knowledge that you have found means, what you have achieved, and how much wiser you have become. Do not let fear stop you."

"I will do as you have you have instructed me," the boy said, and turned and went to the women to get his first lesson. To learn how to make a strong rope from a simple ball of wool.

P.S. As time passed, the boy became a young man. He caught his mustang with a strong lasso, made by his own hands, using the wisdom and knowledge he had learned in life. Believe me, the Dakota tribe would never starve, and the women would no longer look longingly at the worn hides of their wigwams while his mustang's hooves shook the dusty soil on the endless prairie. The white feathers of the noble eagle flying over his head were witness to his prowess.