It was Gleb who gave our train carriage the name “Henhouse on Wheels”.

The carriage was old, full of cracks, and really looked like an old henhouse, but we loved it.

There were wide sliding doors on both sides of the carriage. The doors facing the station remained closed, as they were jammed tightly shut. But the ones that opened toward the wasteland beyond the dead end worked well. There were also doors in the end walls of the carriage. These led to narrow, covered areas like balconies. People who guarded valuable goods were probably positioned there earlier.

Gleb had settled in well with our help. We brought some old blankets and air mattresses for him and ourselves. I found a Saturn-type solar lantern in the attic of my house. During the day, the lantern was charged by the sun, and at night it shone like a small sun. From somewhere or another, Yurka got an old portable TV, which they no longer make. Its screen often blinkered and distorted the colors, but Gleb was happy with it anyway.

Wide shelves similar to two-story bunk beds remained in the carriage. So, it was possible to sleep both above and below in these compartments. Gleb put my typewriter on a plastic box, which

served as a table. It looked cozy, but we could not fill in the cracks within the walls of the carriage, since there were too many of them.

“Come on,” Gleb said. “The weather is warm here. I could hold out until autumn.”

“It's not about the weather,” Yurka explained with feeling in his voice. “The station master might see light pouring out of the cracks in the evening, and we’d be kicked out of here.”

“No, he won’t,” Gleb said. “He knows that I have settled here.”

“And he doesn't say a thing?” I was surprised.

“No. He is a good guy. He has understood that I have nowhere to go,” Gleb sighed. So, once again we were thinking about the strange story of Gleb.

That is what Gleb told us.

The office of the newspaper Mayak sent him on a business trip, but he missed his train. Gleb noticed a green train on a platform at the far end. The train was more

like a museum piece - old cars with covered areas reminiscent of balconies and steep roofs. Gleb ran up to the viaduct, rushed over the tracks and stood by the train.

At that moment, the train started off in the direction that Gleb needed to go. He noticed nameplates on the cars that said - "Bridge Station - Bridge Station.

"Circle Line train or what? What the hel is Bridge Station?” Gleb thought. But there was no time to think.

Gleb jumpedon the last car. In the end, wherever this old train went, there was only one line. Gleb did not have a ticket, but he decided that he would show his press card and say that he had an urgent business trip. In an extreme case, he decided to give the conductor one ruble.

However, no one was in the train. Neither conductor nor passengers. Only pieces of garbage that had flew in from drafts caused by the open windows whirled among the shabby double benches. Gleb sat down at the open window, oblivious to the changing landscape and took out his notebook and began to write an outline for a future article. When the whole train shook, Gleb raised his head and could not understand anything. He was moving in the wrong direction. Gleb did not remember the train slowing down and changing direction, but now he was clearly moving backwards. Gleb was confused. He looked out the window.

The train passed a bridge over a ravine and ran along a wide river. Gleb saw a town on the hills with many bell towers and white domes. The train stopped and Gleb got off at an unfamiliar station. he looked around. There was a large map at

the station. Kolych wasn’t on this map. There was not one familiar city name at all.

Someone coughed behind Gleb. He looked around. Next to him stood an elderly man who was good-natured in appearance. It was the station’s master. To all Gleb’s questions, he could only answer that there was not and never had been any Bridge Station. Gleb wanted to show him the wording on the car’s nameplates,

but the train had mysteriously disappeared. In its place was an old wooden train carriage on a single-ended siding.

Thus began the troubles of Gleb.

Everywhere they looked at him as if he was crazy. Then Gleb went back to the station. What if the train that brought him here reappeared? But he only saw

the same old wooden train carriage on the dead siding.

Gleb stood there and looked around. He thought for a minute and climbed into the carriage ....

The station master wanted to arrange a hotel for Gleb, but he refused to leave the station. Gleb hoped that the train that brought him here would appear again and that he would be able to go back to Kolych.

Where is this city Kolych? Why had nobody heard about such a city if it was two hours from there by train?

But we believed Gleb. It was obvious that he hadn’t made it up. He turned out to be a good, kind guy and did not show that he was older than us. Only when Gleb was shaving, did we remember that he was over twenty.

Nevertheless, the simple things and practices that were in Starogorsk surprised him. For example, people could have lunch in a canteen and bread in a bakery free, except in restaurants, because there were dances and a stereo theater, or that he didn’t have to pay for the automatic laundry.

“But cigarettes cost alot of money!” Gleb said resentfully. But Jeremy supplied him with cigarettes.

Jeremy had inserted a tube from the radio receiver that I had brought him in his head and the pain in his head was gone. He thanked me warmly for a long time. Jeremy liked our old carriage and our company, and he often used to drop in. Jeremy played magnetic checkers with Yanka, smoked with Gleb, and sat with us when we talked about our affairs or discussed the mysterious story that happened to Gleb. Gleb never refused such conversations, but sometimes his face became sad. He took off his glasses and scratched the back of his head with them.

“This is an inexplicable leap of logic-- it’s just a basic part of being human,” Jeremy summed up with a raspy voice and wrinkled his nose.

“Can you always find an explanation for everything?” Yurka was mocking him. “Tell me, why did you smash the statues in the park?”

“That's understandable. I thought they were spies.”

“Who?!” Yurka, Yanka and I asked all at the same time.

“Spies. Not all, but some of them. I did not know exactly which of the statues were real and which were spies, so I smashed them all.”

“Whose spies were they?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremy answered.

“But they are not people, but just gypsum statues!” I said.

“I'll figure it out,” Jeremy said. Then he asked in a slightly different voice, “Guys, why are you laughing at me?”

We were embarrassed. We could not blame Jeremy for not knowing everything.

Nobody explained to him that we did not have spies.

In fact, Jeremy was very smart. He knew mathematics and physics better than our teachers, as well as electrical engineering.

He studied these sciences in the basement of the library. But he did not study history at all and was terrible with biology. His spelling was bad and we could hardly read his chicken scratch handwriting. Perhaps that was why he was very interested in the typewriter and liked to pound the keys with his hard plastic finger. His finger often got stuck between the keys, and Jeremy cursed in a creaky whisper.

Jeremy was unhappy with his hardware system. He said that they did it in a hurry just to be in time for the exhibition. After an accidental blow, his head was rebuilt and he got smart, but his design remained the same. In addition, he often grumbled that there weren't any pockets on his metal body, so I gave him the jacket in which I brought the typewriter and Jeremy was like a birthday boy all evening.

Soon Jeremy moved to the Henhouse. He brought an old trunk with him and said, “At the junkyard, the nagging of old ladies turned my life into misery. Can I stay here?”

We did not understand which old ladies he was talking about, but we all were welcoming Jeremy. Gleb said, "He’s a good dude, though a little eccentric. Where do brainy robots like him come from?”

We explained to Gleb that Jeremy was the only one of his kind. Robots-street cleaners and ticket machines in cinemas didn't count because they had no consciousness.

Jeremy had settled into the far corner of our carriage with his trunk. He was reading or scribbling something on paper using his trunk as a table. He also slept on his trunk. He sat down by the trunk, leaned against the wall and turned himself off. Only the time relay was ticking inside him, behind the tin doors.

Jeremy was no longer the same as he was in his youth. He no longer shouted songs. He spoke with moderation. Once in a while he could get irritated, but very rarely.

Usually we gathered in the Henhouse in the evenings. In the afternoons, everyone had enough to do. Yurka, Yanka and I had our school holiday.

Yanka, in addition, went to music classes every day.

Jeremy used to clean shoes for passers-by or rummage in his electronic compartments and solder his circuits there. Gleb was also busy. The station master hired him for a temporary work. Gleb filled out documents and hung wall newspapers for infrequent passengers. For that, Gleb was paid a little money and he bought a pair of new shoes and a shirt.

A Fiery Recipe

Life in the Henhouse on Wheels went on as usual.

Jeremy hung up a picture cut from a magazine - a portrait of a boy. The boy in the photo was small, probably a first grader. He was throwing back his head and laughing: his face in the picture was so happy. He had freckles on his nose, and sun seemed to shine in each eye.

Gleb went to Jeremy, and crouched next to him. He initially looked at the portrait for a long time, then said, “Nice guy. Who is that in that picture, Jeremy? Your friend or what?”

Meanwhile, Jeremy was scribbling something on paper. He rasped with reluctance,” Why do you care? I’m gonna create my Vaska….”

Then we all approached him.

“ What's 'Vaska?”

“I tell you - that one,” Jeremy nodded at the picture.

“Exactly like the picture?!” Yanka said, surprised.

“Not exactly,” Jeremy explained, not looking up from his drawings. “My Vaska will be similar in character, but in appearance he will be like me, only smaller. A small robot - boy Vaska I’ll be his father and mother.”

“Well,” Gleb said thoughtfully, and sighing for some reason. Jeremy raised his head and looked at us with his green indicators.

“But why should I live forever alone? If I have Vaska, then that would make two of us. We would travel together along the roads and see the world."

"Take me with you," said Yurka half-jokingly.

image [https://vk.com/photo292073839_457240429]image [https://sun9-11.userapi.com/s/v1/ig2/pRkyP8xobHM3XELTpLqTJv98xrGo_3SEPYL3kheW6fnZl4iGK9XtBY2ON0WGe7Fzk4fXeguYqDpNjBS0XkfaWKIj.jpg?quality=95&as=32x50,48x76,72x113,108x170,160x252,240x378,360x568,480x757,540x851,640x1009,720x1135,739x1165&from=bu&u=TI6D8pj0HD6-7BiYjJzgaIJk4mdwrPjLvt--Dh-BSgQ&cs=512x807]

We liked Jeremy’s idea. A robot-boy would made his life better. It would be great if a small iron Vaska with a cheerful character were to come into being. He could

be our friend. We would ask if he could be enrolled in school. If he would had the ability to learn like Jeremy, he would immediately become an excellent pupil.

Jeremy saw that we were happy, and he cheered up. He hummed the tune of a song and then said, “I’ going to make his arms and legs out of duralumin pipes to make it easier for him to run and play. He'd be like a little rascal. I've found an impact-resistant plastomagnet canister for making his body. I’m going to make his head out of an iron kettle. I want to give him an upturned nose.”

“It would be better for him if you make his head like yours,” Yanka objected. “To make him look like his parent.”

“I'll think about it,” Jeremy agreed.

Yurka asked spitefully, “But what would be inside his head?”

Jeremy said casually, “It's not a problem. I have designed the brains for him. I have memory-superblocks for it in my trunk. The problem is, I have no idea how to set up his power supply.”

“Well, what's the problem?” Gleb asked, surprised. “Make one the same as yours.” “Come on,” Jeremy rasped. “I’m as big as a bookcase, but how can the kiddo carry heavy batteries inside? And recharging is a big hassle. If only I had a Type PM Engine! It is the most suitable for my kid.”

“What does “Type PM” mean?” I asked. “A Propeller Machine? Like a fan propeller?”

Jeremy got a little angry, “You have a propeller in your head. PM means “perpetual motion” or, in other words, an eternal engine.”

Gleb gave a whistle.

Yurka said, “Jeremy, you're just a bit fixated on this idea. Everyone knows that the eternal engine is a load of horse feathers.”

“What is a horse? A robot?” Jeremy asked.

We just about died laughing.

An annoyed grunt sounded from Jeremy’s speaker box, “You, humans, pretend that you know everything. But if you don’t know something, then you immediately say - that can't be true, because this was not taught at school. No wonder they never showed the Shishkin’s Wheel to anyone.”

We began to ask Jeremy: what kind of wheel is that?

Jeremy was capricious for a while at first, but then told us that story.

Five years ago, an eighth-grader by the name of Shishkin brought a wheel to an exhibition of children's technical creativity. This was the exhibition, from which Jeremy escaped. It was a simple, wooden wheel, its size like that of one from a kid's bike. The wheel rested on the axle, the ends of which laying on supports. The wheel had wide spokes with small grooves with iron balls moving inside. The balls seemed to push the rim of the wheel with their weight, and the wheel was spinning ....

Yanka laughed and said, “This is a joke! This is what ancient mechanics invented to trick the simpletons. An engine like that cannot run forever!”

Jeremy nodded.

“No, it cannot. That's what they said. But the wheel was spinning…”

The engine was running. They stopped the wheel, but after a minute, it began to spin again. The wheel spun day and night and was hidden in the school principal’s office, because it disgracefully violated all the laws of physics, mechanics, and many other sciences. Shishkin was reprimanded.

Gleb shook his head and said, “Anyway, there was some kind of trick.”

“Yes, there was,” Jeremy agreed. “The balls in the wheel rolled just for show. The wheel could spin without them. Shishkin told me one on one later, what the trick was. He had drilled the wheel axle and put a Sparky in it.”

“What a Sparky?!” we all asked in unison.

“A living, eternally-lit spark. It has energy-- Type PM.”

“You are obsessed with this Type PM. There is no such thing,” Yurka said.

“But the wheel was spinning,” Jeremy protested.

“Well then, make a spark like that yourself,” Yurka advised.

Jeremy frowned immediately.

“I cannot.”

“But Shishkin did it,” Yurka said. “I think you are just as smart as he is.”

“I’m smart,” Jeremy said. “Shishkin is a boy, but I'm a robot. Only a human being can make a Sparky, robots cannot. This is what the instructions say!”

“What's written in them?” Gleb asked.

“Well .... this is how to light the Sparky. I forgot,” Jeremy creaked in displeasure.

“Jeremy, lying is wrong,” Yurka said. “You said that your electronic system does not forget anything.”

Jeremy than furiously scraped a thick pencil over the paper.

“Well, why are you silent?” I could not take it anymore. “Maybe we can make a Sparky for your Vaska!”

“That's why I'm silent,” Jeremy said.

“But you yourself wanted the PM engine,” Gleb recalled.

“I did, but then I realized that you shouldn’t make a Sparky. You will be harmed by this. A robot cannot harm a human being.”

“Harm? From what? From a Sparky?” I did not believe it.

“No. Making a living spark could cause harm.”

“But Shishkin did it,” I reminded him.

“That's his business,” Jeremy creaked. “He was not given the instructions by a robot. He got it from the Rusty Witches.”

Yurka laughed, “From whom?”

“I’ll repeat clearly: from the old Rusty Witches.”

And here we started plying poor Jeremy with more questions. Jeremy began to slowly tell us about the Rusty Witches in detail. He probably hoped that we would forget about the instructions. Jeremy told us that the bony disheveled old women wearing clothes with rust stains lived on a large junkyard out of town. They were not robots, but they were not quite human. They were the Witches. At night, when a full moon appeared, they crawled out of their tin huts and danced on empty iron barrels. As for what else they were doing, Jeremy did not know, although he spent a long time in the junkyard. He only knew that there were some old women who were not bad, but among them were also really mean witches — they kicked Jeremy out of their junkyard. All these witches were very smart. They knew science and witchcraft, especially when it came to metals.

“But what does Shishkin have to do with it?” I reminded him.

Jeremy slammed the doors in his stomach under his jacket and said that Shishkin met the witches when he was looking for some metal parts at the junkyard. He was a polite, educated guy and the witches liked him.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Yurka said that Jeremy’s fuse box was completely blown – how cracked have you got to be to make such a story like that up? He had imagined some old women on barrels in the moonlight....

“If you don't believe it, go to the junkyard and see for yourself,” Jeremy snapped back. “The best time for that is at night. Tonight is the full moon.”

“Let us all go there together,” Gleb said cunningly. “Right guys? We’ll meet the grandmothers, ask them for the instructions. We are polite and educated too, no worse than your Shishkin. ”

Yanka and I yelled, “Hooray, of course, we’d love to.”

Yurka grunted. Gleb said thoughtfully, “But guys might get all scratched up among the old rusty stuff. They could get an infection. Keep in mind, Jeremy, all because of you.”

Jeremy folded his arms and said stubbornly, “So what! There would be less harm from that than from making the Sparky.”

“But who told you that we are going to do it?” Gleb exclaimed while winking at me. “We just want to know what the instructions are. We are just curious. Right, guys?”

We nodded; even Yurka joined us.

“You know, I have got one peculiarity,” Gleb explained. “Chalk it up to morbid curiosity. If they start telling me something, but don’t explain it to the end, then I get these - these headaches, you know.”

Yanka and I spoke at the same time, saying that we suffered in the same way from frustrated curiosity.

“You see, Jeremy, how many people will suffer because of you!” Gleb finished. “You're lying,” Jeremy said sadly.

We yelled that we were not lying and that Jeremy was shamelessly tormenting us. “Damn you,” Jeremy said and stood up. “I’ll tell you ... No, I won’t say a word. I’d better type it and then, if something goes wrong, I won’t be responsible for that.”

We swore to him that we would take all responsibility. Jeremy hobbled angrily to the typewriter, rolled a sheet of paper into it and started tapping on the typewriter keys. We tried to look over his shoulder, but he threatened us, “No peeking, or I won’t type.”

He had only been typing for about five minutes, but we were getting restless. Finally, he left the typewriter and we rushed to the sheet.

There was some nonsense on the paper:

“Threedr opsofbl oodmust betak enor Fouror Five….”

And so on. Just a few lines.

“Poor Jeremy,” said Yurka.

But Gleb pulled the sheet out of the typewriter and held it close to his glasses. “Wait, wait ... Let me…This has got to be edited.”

He inserted the paper with the text into the typewriter and quickly began to type below Jeremy’s mysterious lines. A minute later we read it:

“Three drops of blood must be taken, or four or five.

Then mix them with “Movement”,

then mix them with “Flight”.

Stability you add firmly - And the blood will disappear

And then in your vial

A sparkling Powder will appear,

This Powder you should light

With a festive fulgent flame,

At sunset the sparks will fade,

But only One remains until the end days,

Forever.”

“Hmm,” said Gleb. “Not very clear and in terms of poetry, frankly, it is not that good.”

“Whatever,” Yurka was cutting in. “The Witches composed it, not Pushkin. If it is, how do you read it? What kind of flight do you need to mix them with?”

“What I knew, I wrote,” muttered Jeremy. “I don’t know the technology of making. Shishkin knew it, not me.”

“Just seems like you don’t want your Vaska to have a Sparky,” Yanka said in annoyance.

Jeremy stamped his felt boot so hard that the typewriter jumped.

“I just didn't have the right to say any of those things! It will bring nothing but harm to all of you! The powder must be mixed with your blood!”

“Big deal,” Yurka grunted. “Only one drop should be taken, as for a blood test, from a finger.”

“This is not for a blood test, but for witchcraft,” Jeremy said quietly. “These blood droplets shorten human lives. It’s been proven.”

We were silent for a moment, then looked at each other and Yanka asked quietly, “Does life get much shorter from this witchcraft?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremy answered. “Probably not much. For a drop of blood - a

drop of life. But still….”

We looked at each other again. Apparently, each of us thought like myself, “It's just one drop of blood, who cares? We have our whole lives in front of us."

Yanka stroked Jeremy’s shoulder and said, “But if you will have your Vaska, we will have joy from this too. Our joy is stronger than harm. A little harm, but great joy.” “Joy prolongs human life,” I added.

“It's been proven,” Gleb confirmed.

Yurka said, “So come on, Jeremy, tell us everything to the end for Vaska’s sake.” Something crackled inside Jeremy, like TV static. We were waiting.

“Well then,” he said. “But it’s you who’s responsible for anything I say. It should be metal powder, metal filings. “Movement” means that you need to take metal filings from a wheel.”

“Is it possible to take it from the wheel of a train carriage?” I asked.

“Quite possible,” Jeremy agreed.

“So "Flight" means that we need metal filings from an airplane?” Yanka exclaimed.

“Well, I guess that’s true,” Jeremy agreed again.

“But where can we get a plane?” Gleb asked wonderingly.

“In the park,” Yurka answered.

Indeed! In the city park, a four-engine airplane of the last century stood on a special platform. Inside the plane was a small children's cinema. Climbing under its wing and grinding some powder from its duralumin rivet was not so difficult.

“But what about “Stability”, Jeremy?” Yurka asked with displeasure.

“I swear by all my transistors, I don't know. Shishkin explained to me, but I did not understand.”

Gleb scratched behind his ear with his glasses, “Actually, if you think logically, wheels and wings are symbols of movement in two elements. On earth and in the sky. So, we need a third element - Water.”

“Do we need a ship to grind or something?” Yurka asked.

“Not a ship, but probably its anchor. An anchor has always been a symbol of stability. The safety of a ship depends on its anchor,” Gleb said.

“It was not I who told you, it was you who guessed it,” Jeremy said warily.

“We guessed it, don’t worry,” Gleb laughed. “But where do we get an anchor, lads?” But I already knew where. I remembered!

“There is an anchor!” I exclaimed.

“Where?” Yanka said joyfully.

“In the warehouse of Christmas decorations!”

Everyone, even Jeremy, looked at me as if I were crazy.

Yurka spat and said, “We are talking about serious things, and you, Penny, with your silly humor ... Yanka, let's go on the bullet train to your Primorsk city. It'll take no more than a day to go there and back. There are as many anchors as you want at various monuments. Will your parents let you go? "

"Now you say this, Yurka! 'Yanka, let’s go!' And you called me Penny again," I thought. I almost cried with what I was feeling but managed to contain myself.

It was easier for Jeremy with his eyes, which were always dry, and his nerves, which were made of nickel. But, I was only human after all!

Without saying a word, I jumped out of the carriage and walked through the grass. They shouted after me, “Helka, what are you doing? Don't take it badly! Helka, come back! "

But I kept on walking...

A Moon Song

A new misfortune awaited me at home. My grandmother called me icily from upstairs, “I need to see you, Helium.”

I went upstairs to her room with a bad feeling.

“Helium, where's grandfather's typewriter?”

I immediately hung my head. I have some strange kind of personality. If I did anything wrong, I would not explain or defend myself.

I just stood and was silent.

“Helium, I want an answer.”

“Well?” said Aunt Vika. She was sitting in grandmother’s room too.

I swallowed and whispered, “I lent it just for a little while.”

In fact, two weeks passed since I had given the typewriter to Gleb, but I hesitated to tell him that it was time to return it.

“Oh…” my grandmother groaned and sat down.

“To whom did you give it?” Aunt Vika asked matter-of-factly.

“To a journalist I know. He’s my friend. He asked me…”

“What are you talking about?” Aunt Vika exclaimed. “Who is he? Does this journalist not have his own typewriter? Did he need such an old one?”

"This typewriter is a family relic," my grandma added.

“It just happened that way.He just really needed it for work,” I muttered.

Aunt Vika shook her head, “And couldn’t you ask for a permission? Why?”

“You would not allow me to…” I said.

“Exactly!” my grandmother said. “And you used deception. You secretly took something that does not belong to you and with a cowardly cunning left its case behind to conceal the fact! Oh, if you could understand your own guilt…”

“He will still have time for this,” Aunt Vika promised me. “First, the typewriter. Where is it? I hope it's fine.”

“Sure, it is all fine!” I said.

I rushed to my grandfather’s room, grabbed the empty typewriter case and shouted from the hallway, “I will bring the typewriter back right now!”

I hoped that if I brought it back immediately, they would not punish me much.

I was running to the station, and the case was bumping my leg and scratching me with its bronze corner-piece. I did not pay attention to it, but in front of the carriage, I stopped to catch my breath. I tucked my shirt in and put on a calm look.

Everything was as usual in the Henhouse. Jeremy continued to draw on paper. Yanka and Yurka were talking about something. They looked at me guiltily.

Gleb was setting up his pocket TV. I casually said to Gleb, “They’re grumbling at me at home about why I haven’t returned the typewriter? I have to take it back.”

“Of course, take it! Jeremy found another typewriter for me in the junkyard; he will repair it soon.”

“I'll fix it tomorrow,” Jeremy said.

Gleb asked me looking worried, “I hope they didn’t scold you at home. Maybe I should go with you and explain to them how it was?”

“Don't worry. I'm used to it.”

I went down the steps of the carriage with the heavy typewriter. Yurka and Yanka were standing in the open door of the carriage. Jeremy pushed his head between Gleb and Yurka. I said bye to Gleb and Jeremy and went home.

After I had walked a little, I heard footsteps just behind me. Yurka and Yanka had caught up with me.

“Helka, are you all right? Look, don’t take offense,” Yanka said. “You have nothing to do with it,” I answered.

“First, you talk such rubbish, and then you sulk,” Yurka snorted, but I sensed guilt in his voice.

“ What did I say?” I said.

“But what about the warehouse with Christmas decorations?”

“I'm not kidding, do you hear me? There actually is an anchor! A real anchor!” I said.

“But stop now. Can you tell me in simple words?” Yurka said.

“Yeah, now you want me to tell you,” I said.

We walked in silence for a minute. They looked guilty, and I was frowning.

Yurka said finally, “Let me help you. I can hold the case handle, so it'd be easier to carry.”

I was silent for a little while, but then I told them about the anchor.

In winter, before the holidays, they threw me out of dance class and I hung out in the hallway of our school. So, our school principal Klara Egorovna bumped into me there.

She did not scold me, but said, “Helium. So many things, but there are not enough people. Please help our housekeeping manager in the warehouse for Christmas tree toys.”

The manager Alexander Vadimovich loved us boys. He was old and we called him San Dymich for short and always helped him. San Dymich called a van from the bus station, and we drove off.

The warehouse was in the old church.

Dim lamps burned inside the church and it was cold, so mist came out of our mouths. While San Dymich and the warehouse manager were choosing boxes, I looked around. I saw an inclined pole with a ring and a heavy chain behind a stack of boxes. I climbed in there and it turned out that the pole and ring were the top of a heavy three-meter anchor.

The anchor was leaning against a brick wall in a niche. A cast-iron plate with convex letters could be seen in the dark under the anchor.

I squatted down and read with difficulty:

“Fleet Captain and Cavalier

Fedor Osipovich Ratmanov

July 1, 1753 - August 2, 1832

May you rest in peace, Captain”

When I finished my story, Yurka said, “Okay, meet me tomorrow at ten in the park, at the plane. I'll bring a steel file with me.”

“Aha! I’ll be there!” I nodded.

But I was wrong. Something completely different was waiting for me.

As soon as I went home with the typewriter, a new misfortune was coming at me.

Aunt Vika and my grandmother decided to punish me and forbade me from leaving the house for three days. I was under house arrest.

In the morning, I was sitting on the window sill. I felt sad, but I hoped that Yurka and Yanka would see that I had not come and would come to me. Maybe they would sympathize with me.

They came, but only after lunch. They appeared under my window. Yurka acted like nothing ever happened and said, “What, so you just decided to sleep in?”

“You dunderhead! My aunt won’t let me go. This is my punishment for the typewriter.”

“You should just escape!”

No, I could not decide to escape. The consequences afterwards would be even worse but that wasn't the reason. It was just .... Well, I couldn’t. Aunt Vika raised me from infancy and I was used to obey her. I often did not listen to her and argued with her, but I could not break her rules.

I shook my head.

“Have you given your word of honor not to flee?” Yanka asked with understanding.

“I didn’t, but…” I shrugged.

“We already have the powder from the wheel and from the wing,” Yanka said. “Here, take a look.”

He took a little paper bag from his pocket and unfolded it. I saw a pile of a silver dust.

“Of course,” I thought. “They could handle that one without me. Yurka is even glad that I stayed out of his way.”

“Well done,” I said grimly.

Yurka yawned carelessly, “It's not our fault that you are under house arrest. Will you come with us this evening? We’re going to file the anchor.”

“My aunt won't let me go.”

“Think of something, otherwise we’ll get lost in the church without you.”

“Can't you wait three days?” I asked.

Yurka explained, “We've scouted out the church. We were looking for possible entrances. The door, of course, is locked, but there is a window without glass and with a bent up grille. But tomorrow they may notice and fix it. We must seize the moment. Anyway, if you can – meet us at eleven at the church.”

They ran away. I was restless.

Well, I could not live like that; I could not live without Yurka’s company!

"Okay!” I thought. “That’s fine!”

At quarter to eleven, I carefully and quietly raised the frame of the window and jumped into the yard. I ran out to the fence. Duplex pounded his tail lazily. I quickly hugged him, “Duplex, forgive me.”

Then I jumped over the fence.

I was running and thinking, “The guys are already at the church and they are not waiting for me at all. Okay, I will surprise them and the whatever happens happens.”

Suddenly, I heard someone stamping in front of me. A figure with a blue T-shirt and blond hair flickered in the light of the windows.

“Yanka! Wait a minute!” I said.

“Helka!”

We ran alongside each other. Yanka laughed, “I was playing the violin, but when I looked – it was time to go to the church! I was in such a hurry that I jumped out of my house with the bow.”

He waved his long violin bow like a sword as he ran.

The church stood on a flat bank by a small pond. Water came close to one of its walls. The walls, the bell tower and the domes were shabby. There was a fence of brick pillars with a grating slanting away and huge weeds grew at its foundation. However, in the bright moonlight, the church was mysterious and beautiful. A breeze was blowing, a small ripple running to the shore along the water, the church seemingly floating above the water.

We hid in the lilac bushes. There was not a soul around. Only the night cicadas were chirping loudly.

I didn’t really want to go inside the dark church where the captain’s grave was.

Of course, it was not the time of Tom Sawyer and no one believed in ghosts and the walking dead, but still .... Jeremy had told us about the witches ....

But I was much more frightened at the thought that Yurka would notice my fear. Therefore, when he whispered to me “come on,” I rushed to the shadowy side of the church — to the window we needed.

Yurka, of course, chose a window under which there were the prickliest bushes and the most stinging nettles. I climbed up, grabbed the high window sill and scratched up the plastered wall with my sandals and knees. Yurka pushed me up from below. I grabbed at the grille then waited on the window sill. Yurka picked him up and literally threw Yanka to me. Then he handed me his steel file.

“My bow…” Yanka said.

“Let it lie in the grass. What are you afraid will happen?”

“No, I need it,” Yanka said.

Yurka silently handed him the bow and easily climbed the wall to join us on the window sill.

“Helka, you are first. You know everything inside.”

But, what did I know? I was inside the church for only a few minutes and did not really remember anything ....

I began to squeeze between the square bars of the grille. I tore several buttons off my shirt and lightly grazed my stomach. Finally, I managed to climb inside. I shone a flashlight on the stone floor and jumped into the cold of an empty brick room. I landed hard on the stone slabs of the floor. Immediately, Yanka lightly landed next to me. But Yurka, apparently, got stuck: he sniffled and shuffled into the window opening.

Yellow circles from my and Yanka’s flashlights swept through the church. But even without our flashlights, it was still light inside. Two moons shone through the lattice windows at once - the moon in the sky and its reflection in the pond. The silvery light flooded the floor and walls.

The reflection of the moon in the pond emitted from the bottom up diffused shimmering light that rose to the very dome of the church. Narrow windows also shone under the dome....

Yurka finally landed next to us making an echo under the dome. We even sat down and paused for half a minute. We turned off the flashlights. Then Yurka whispered with displeasure, “Well, where is it?”

I remembered that the grave seemed to be to the left of the entrance.

We walked along a wall that was blocked by two-meter stacks of wooden and cardboard boxes. We shivered from cold and made our way along the passage between the wall and the boxes. Finally, a ray of light from our flashlights highlighted the inclined pole, heavy ring and large chain.

“Here….”

“It's cramped in here because of the boxes,” Yurka muttered.

Soon the niche was revealed and the tomb plate and three-meter anchor came into sight. The light of the flashlight seemed to mold convex letters on the plate.

Yanka squatted down and ran his hand over the letters. He looked back at us. His eyes sparkled in the light. He said seriously, “What if the captain doesn't like it?”

I thought Yurka would say that this was his stupid superstition, but he answered him just as seriously, “We’ll take a little for a good cause.”

Of course, it was not I who asked him, but Yanka! If I asked him, he would had ridiculed me for sure. Yanka got up. Yurka said to me, “Give me the file.”

Yurka spread sheet of paper under the triangular part of the anchor and began to file the metal. It was so loud! The echo in the church sounded like the flapping of huge wings. Yanka and I shrank into ourselves with horror, but Yurka was filing the

anchor as if nothing were wrong. First, the rust started to pour down. Yurka cleared the rust off the sheet and after that a dark heavy powder began to fall on the paper. Yanka gave Yurka some light, and I straightened up and looked around.

The walls of the church were covered with half-erased dark murals. Vague figures with tilted heads formed within them. Around the heads, gilding faintly glowed. I looked up and around then stared.

Big eyes were glaring at me from beneath the dome. The eyes were as if they had come alive. I almost screamed! But these were not scary eyes, but simply sad ones. I saw a face on the mural. Its features were dark, but in the flickering light of the moon's reflection, I could see that it was thin and sad. The fresco depicted a woman in a kerchief, which tightly covered her head. The woman was hugging a child. I did not see the child’s head, because the plaster was coming off in some places, but his featured small hands were clearly visible.

The small boy also was hugging the woman; he had laid his small palms on her shoulders by her neck. He hugged her affectionately, and she looked anxious, as if she were afraid that her baby would be taken from her.

I couldn't take my eyes off his hands. I felt sad for some reason, but it was a tender sadness. I imagined my mom ....

She had gone to the far north Yarkson settlement about three months ago. I celebrated my tenth birthday without her. My vacation was half over, but she still hadn’t returned, because my dad had “extremely hard work” there and he shouldn’t be left alone.

I had not really seen my dad for more than a year, only on the screen of the videophone. However, soon he should have had a vacation, and my parents should have come to me in Starogorsk, but I’d got tired of waiting.

Yurka stopped working with the file, then rustling with paper, rolled it into a bag. “It's done,” he said. “Let's get going.”

Yanka and I began to put the boxes back into the niche. I came across a heavy box. When I grabbed it by its edge, the cardboard tore and some kind of wire sticks fell out.

“Bengal fire!” Yurka exclaimed.

“So what?” I said. “You better help us.”

“The recipe says that the Spark must be lit with a festive fire. A festive one, understand?”

“Leave it! Are you crazy? We are not thieves.”

Yurka sniffed and snapped, “Big deal. I just wanted to take three of them. They cost a penny. I can put my money in the box. Here…”

"Don't," Yanka said. "We have some leftover from the New Year at home.”

We silently put the last boxes on the stack and went to the window. We crossed the beams of moonlight with our chests and shoulders. The silver rays were thin and straight, like thousands of palpable glass threads. It even seemed to me that they were gently bursting in front of us.

I whispered to Yanka, “Like strings ”

He immediately understood me and stopped. Yanka raised his bow and carefully plunged it into the beam of moonlight. The bow sparkled.

“I’ll make a wish,” Yanka said.

Yurka turned around and silently looked at him. Yurka's face had become thin, and pale in the moonlight.

Yanka moved his bow softly over the moon strings which made a soft but distinct sound. I was not surprised. It was as if I knew that it would be so.

Yanka moved his bow, and his elongated black shadow moved on the floor. The bow threw sparks and a faint melody sounded - tender, like a lullaby. I imagined my mom again.

Something dark had swung outside the window, the rays were torn for a moment and the music died down. We were startled and listened again. But everything was calm.

Apparently, a night bird had just flown past the windows.

When we said goodbye to each other outside, I asked Yanka, “What wish did you make in the church?”

"I thought: if the music sounds, then everything will be fine. The spark will light up,” Yanka answered.

I nodded. I was expecting this. Yurka reminded me, “Now get home to your aunt and granny. I guess they are sounding the alarm.”

He and Yanka left together again and I made my way home alone.

In my house, light was burning in all the rooms and shadows were rushing past the windows. Of course, they were looking for me.

I went to the porch. Let them do what they want with me. Let them say any words to me, call me anything and lock me in with seven electronic locks, because Yanka and my best friend Yurka didn’t even take me home to say: “Do not scold Helka! He was with us! He did nothing wrong! ”

With my head lowered, I stepped into the hallway and squinted. The light blinded me. I blinked. I saw my grandmother, my aunt Vika and .... mom!"

image [https://www.rusf.ru/vk/pict/sterligo/golubjatnja_na_jeltoi_poljane_12b.gif]

A Fiery Recipe (continued)

Of course, my mom immediately forgave me for everything and not just because I cried.

I cried twice. First, the moment I saw my mother, and the second time, when I found out that my father would not arrive for a while.

“But why?! He promised!”

“He has no time for vacation now, Helik. There are strange things happening at the ultra-deep well. The results were not exactly what they were hoping for.”

I didn’t care about the results, but still I asked angrily, “Yes, what are the results?”

“The well project is going completely wrong. They haven't even talked about the details yet.. Oh, Helka, I don’t understand these matters. It is something connected with the theory of parallel universes. All outsiders were asked to leave for a month. No one knows what effects there might be. ”

“This effect is already visible,” I thought. “My dad didn't come…. But my mom is here and now everything will be different.”

“Will you let me go to my friends tomorrow?”

“Alright, little tramp,” my mother smiled. “We will ask Aunt Vika not to be angry anymore.”

“There is absolutely no need to ask me,” my aunt answered. “Now you get to parent him by yourself.”

In the morning I rushed to our train carriage. We started our witchcraft.

Yanka brought a test tube from the Miracles of Chemistry children's set. Yurka brought a few needles. They reflected unpleasantly. Gleb took out a bottle of cologne

and dipped a needle into it. He pricked his finger with the needle, and his blood fell into the tube. “Ouch!” Gleb said.

“I can’t look at it,” Jeremy rasped as he went into his corner. I wanted to join him.

Gleb said to Jeremy, “Come on, old fella. We will be blood brothers of your Vaska.”

Yurka, whistling, took another needle and did everything like Gleb.

Yanka asked him, “Well, you pierce me, I can’t.”

“Come on, do not be afraid,” Yurka said and pricked his finger.

I didn’t notice that I was the last in line.

I dipped the needle into the cologne to kill all the germs.

“Don't, if you don't want to, Helka. After all, three drops are enough,” Gleb said suddenly.

“I'm in if you're in,” I put the needle in my finger out of fright so that the blood splashed.

We poured the metal filings into the tube. The mixture immediately became dark brown and unpleasant in appearance.

Yurka said unbelieving, “We’re doing nonsense. You’ll see.”

I was thinking the same thing, but I replied to spite him, “Don't be a worrywart! When it dries, let’s take a look.”

We took the test tube out of the carriage and left it on the heated wheel - in the sun.

I climbed onto a stack of rotten sleepers. I sucked my pierced finger. Gleb sat next to me.

After a while, Yanka shouted, “Look!”

He showed us the tube. A silver powder glittered behind the thin glass.

We put some glue on the Bengal fire stick, except for its top end, which we left for the fuse. Then we sprinkled the Bengal fire with our magic powder. The glue hardened quickly and the powder had dried on. The sparkler stick looked the same as before, only a little lighter.

“Let’s light it!” Yanka said.

Gleb took up matches. It was like everything stopped, time froze. Everyone was silent. Would it work? Were there miracles in the world?

Yurka held the Bengal fire. Gleb lit the match and brought it close to the silver stick. There were sparks and crackling, but then it began to smoke and the fire died out. Not a single spark left.

Gleb frowned and lit a second match, but to no avail. He tried again and again, until no matches were left. The fuse of the Bengal fire burned out, and that was the end.

We stood sadly and had no hope at all. “Hmmm,” Gleb said sadly.

“It is illogical,” Jeremy said.

“What is illogical in your think-tank?” Yurka snapped. “This fire is not festive.”

“What do you mean? This is the firework for the New Year!” Gleb objected.

Jeremy said, “It is not the New Year now. This is not a holiday. Your fire is not festive.”

“Indeed!” Yanka said joyfully. “We must wait for the holiday!”

“Do we have to wait till the New Year?” Yurka asked in frustration. “When else are there things like fireworks and lights?”

But I already knew the answer.

I said, “And how about The Summer Carnival?!”

To be continued...

image [https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fdzen.ru%2Fa%2FZepTi0Y5EjOV3xZr&psig=AOvVaw1b1tT7DWsVn8CA3FoYHY7W&ust=1724161482256000&source=images&cd=vfe&opi=89978449&ved=0CBIQjRxqFwoTCLC58pmYgYgDFQAAAAAdAAAAABAE]