Alexey Vayamretyl is a samurai lying on clean water and his real Kamchat path.

Alexander Severodonetskyi.

Alexey Vayamretyl is a samurai lying on clean water and his real Kamchat path.

"And again, as before,

dedicating to my unforgettable,

to my inspirer,

my own mother,

who put me on my feet

and raised on this Earth,

to her – Euphrosyne Ivanovna

and also my beloved

wife Natalia Vasilievna,

her such special female patience

and her tremulous love…"

Alexey Vayamretyl is a samurai lying on clean water and his real Kamchat path.

0.0 The Discmeiler.

"This book is a work of fiction, does not promote or encourage the use of drugs, alcohol and cigarettes. This book contains pictorial descriptions of illegal actions, but such descriptions are artistic, imaginative, and creative, and are not a call to commit prohibited acts. The author condemns the use of drugs, alcohol and cigarettes. The author in his arguments talks a lot about good and evil, about hatred and about the truth, the author talks about modern war and all modern wars going on around us today, and he tells us about eternal peace and eternity, when thea is gone and the memory of you lives on. Your thoughts and your actions on earth worry someone and worry someone again and again. The author is a pacifist, the author believes in God and the immeasurable power of our savior. And he is our God. He appears to each of us especially in difficult and critical moments, when there is only one moment between our life and our death, and even between our eternal non-existence, which none of us can ever capture. In his arguments, the author does not justify evil, murder and other evil deeds, but only tries to comprehend them and take a philosophical look at all the events taking place around him and disturbing not only him but also the interested reader, who may not even share the author's opinion about certain events."

1.0. STRONGLY BRISTLING AND EVIL KAMCHATKA ROSSAMAKHA.

1.0. STRONGLY BRISTLING AND EVIL K

The brown Kamchatka wolverine is a predatory and wild animal, and he is also an eternal loner here. This animal has a difficult fate, often feeding on carrion or whatever remains from the table of the rightful owner of the local Kamchatka brown bear. But with the arrival of frosts, when the local wolves or all the local bears hide in their spacious and warm dens, which have been equipped since the summer, the wolverine has the saddest, most difficult times here in Kamchatka in the snow of her complete loneliness. Even her fellow tribesmen, the other wolverines, were no help to her then. Her paws are very short. It is difficult for her to catch up with a fast-moving game here. And the same hare, and a fox, and a small, but such a tundra fragrant and delicious partridge with a seagull heavy in autumn, and how it is here in the tundra on the blinding snow even now in winter, and she still has to find more. The fox is so cunning. The hare is so fast, and it somehow confuses its tracks uncomplicatedly, but skillfully, that it is not possible to understand where it has jumped right now, literally before your eyes, striking a short tail in front of your sniffing nose. Oh, the white partridge, with its tempting black beak and three black feathers on its paws and the same noticeable feathers at its tail, is the one if it is threatened and immediately gets up easily on its wing and flies beautifully, fluttering its short wings, which fluff and snow at such moments in all sides, and then how to catch such a hungry wolverine here.

Well, here is the local black divine raven, sung in local legends, so never touch him by nature, because he sees everything far away, and sits on a lonely poplar tree or a century-old local larch, and attentively observes how everything is here on the Kamchatka land, how all animals and how all people live. they live to tell us about it later and tell us with their rather loud croaking, which in the frosty air can be heard if not for thousands, then certainly for hundreds of meters around. And, here he is, this three-hundred-year-old black raven once told us, told us about the local life of the real kamchadal, the true nyman Alexei Vayamretyl, and we tried to record his long story literally verbatim on our tape recorder, which often jams, and then we listened for a long time in a warm office and rewrote all his stories, and at first it turned out to be a small forty-page the essay, then it turned by itself into a two-hundred-page story, and then into a full-fledged four-hundred-page story, and later, when we listened so intently to his unhurried story with a crow's voice and this almost seven-page real novel was born, suddenly out of nowhere, as if by itself, it matured, which we want to share with our attentive and inquisitive reader who follows the work of Alexander Severodonetsk.

The local Kamchatka black is a mysterious and at the same time magical raven, he is also so sharp-sighted, and he does not need to rush anywhere in the long winter. There were a lot of fish this summer, thank God he saved up the fat a long time ago and now sit on the twigs, and calmly sort out your black feathers, but do not croak loudly at all the tundra branches of the inhabitants, notifying them that it is she who is such an evil wolverine coming your way and everyone is on guard in the local Olyutorskaya tundra. Then there is no way for the wolverine to approach the game, completely unnoticed. And then, far away, the seeing raven, the local collector of lakhtach fat, is grateful to the same nimble bunny, and the cunning fox, and even the lone polar wolf, who has strayed from the pack, who can easily fight himself and alone with the evil local lone wolverine. But it is clear that it is better when their pack of these wolves, when they bravely bare their sharp teeth, stand faithfully for each other and when their sharp teeth tear everything and everything in an instant, turning previously breathing and trembling with fear into lifeless scum, turning all that energy and that physical entropy of ours, which passed easily from one species to another along the complicated local northern food chain. For one local species at this time, it means death and their real death, and an instant catastrophic decrease in their entropy to literally zero, since the surrounding oxygen from the air is not able to help preserve its most vibrant life here and now, and for another temporarily successful species at this moment, in their endless food chain, it means complete the triumph of his physical superiority and his current conquering power, and also means survival even in such harsh northern conditions here, and also, an increase in his physical, invisible to us energy entropy, which in fact is our very life, and is our struggle, and is that stubborn overcoming of the endless Pacific Time here and the incredibly vast expanse of Kamchatka Space stretching for a thousand kilometers…

Then, no amount of sharp teeth of a wolverine will help her to preserve her thin, spinous skin. Yes, and wolverine fur is still highly appreciated by the local Kamchatka peoples. Yes, and it suits them for hats, and it is naturally suitable for decorating winter kitchens, and it protects their faces from the north wind in the cold and in a fierce blizzard, and even from frost in the spring, because it has such a long, long awn, no snowflakes will blow in your face then, no blizzard then you are not afraid when your cook or your beautiful malachai is trimmed with the skillful hands of your mammy, your mother, or even her grandmother with brown wolverine fur. It's been a long time since our Kamchatka wolverine has eaten here, and today she somehow got lucky. Walking along the bank of the Vetveivaya River, right at the confluence with the Vyvenka River, she accidentally found a white-sided magpie that had fallen in the snow. And, on her wolverine heart, there is such an unspeakable and indescribable joy, such warmth of a delicious future dinner. … And now her physical entropy instantly surged, telling her that she was still alive, that for another week or even two she could fill her spine-toned tummy by eating even those not-so-delicious feathers of hers, which, Wolverine had long known, would not digest, but still fill her empty stomach. and, they will create the impression of full saturation for a long time, as if she had eaten a good fat piece of meat of the northern Kamchatka deer, as she did then, in early spring at the end of April, when she managed to recapture a newly born kayu here near the Khailinsky reindeer herders. Yes, they did not even notice how she quickly and instantly dragged him out from behind the bushes, skillfully pinching his throat, which he did not even have time to make a sound or notify his mother. Oh, that baby wasn't kicking properly yet, because his newly born body was pierced by such a sharp pain in her teeth that he didn't even have time to bleat properly, he didn't have time to call his wary mother, who was ready to give herself to the evil wolverine in her teeth, if only her kai was alive, and there would be other females, they would have fed him and put him on his feet together.…

2.0.

Encovav

Igor

with

his

smyng

Denis.

At the same time, Igor Encovav was driving up the Vyvenka River with his seven-year-old son Dima Vayamretyl. The two of them and his father's family were also lucky on the hunt today. On one of the river hills, they saw a lone wild deer-they hunted it down for a long time, quietly on skis for a long time, their wide fur-lined seals were tracking it, and when they finally managed to get within range of a confident shot, Alexander Encovav quickly took down a large choir with one shot. Dmitry didn't even need to shoot with his childhood bow, which was stretched taut by his father. The father quickly cut the subcutaneous vein in the neck of a deer wounded by a bullet in the head, and while the heart was still beating slightly in its last death throes, he poured his warm, thick red blood into aluminum mugs for his son and himself, in order to satisfy their hunting passion here at the place of successful hunting and, naturally, to appease his friends immediately numerous hunting local Kamchatka gods of their own, having shed a little of his floating blood on the snow, as if appeasing all those omnipotent gods of theirs, which helped him to knock out this meaty choir so quickly and literally with one shot. My father was just as pleased. Now they have fresh meat for a couple of weeks, or even for a month, and his family will not starve all November, otherwise grandma Praskovya did not get up from the deer and bear skins spread in the canopy for two weeks and kept telling him – to her son and the only one who has been going to the upper people for a long time, if only she could eat a piece of deer liver, and think about its fat bones once more in this world, and then she is ready for those all their British local upper people, who, as she believed, had been waiting for her up there for a long time, because She was already eighty-two years old, and by local standards, her long life path had long since reached that incredibly high cliff from which we all once fell at once, plunging into the abyss of a completely different temporary, no longer earthly movement., whom we earthly people never see, and it is clear that we do not know anything about him.

And even we don't understand why some of us ascend to heaven and immediately fall into the fabulous paradise sung by many poets, but others are the same as us earthly people and they fall deep into an unknown abyss, into that unknown deep and absolutely dark underground abyss, which is called hell in human society and is presented to us as such. None of the local residents knew or saw this, but sincerely since childhood, when he realized himself as a thinking being, he believed the words of the still cheerful old men, and the infirm old women who often gradually shamanized, and he believed from mouth to mouth, legends and folk tales passed down the local tundra, written by no one knows who and when, who were born centuries earlier and once lived in human consciousness, no matter what language or dialect the local person himself spoke. His ideas about good and evil, his ideas about the otherworldly and about that special fabulous afterlife, where it is unknown, and who will divide our paths, one into a real paradise, and the other into a black abyss called hell… And it is clear to me that no one will ever know these diverse categories and, naturally, during their earthly life they will not feel that hope itself, that our very faith makes it easier and easier for us to deal with those earthly difficulties that await us everywhere: hunting, fishing, and just in in everyday life, and in our daily communication with our fellow tribesmen, who often do not understand you, do not know about your innermost thoughts and those hidden desires of yours that not everyone can realize during their lifetime. One is because of her incredible fleeting life, and the other is because of her natural laziness and complete indifference, or even her inability to take from her all the beauties of today that she is so rich in and is always ready to share with you. But often this tribal deafness, this tribal isolation of ours, does not always and not everywhere allow us to fully reveal and realize all our potential, which the Lord God himself, Jesus Christ himself, puts into us from our birth, both into me and into you.

3.0

Nine

famous

Japanese

samurai

biographical

information,

which

was

always

in

the

folder

of

Alexei

Vayamretyl.

Minamoto

Yoshitsune.

(1159-1189

years).

"Yoshitsune's achievements are great. There's no arguing with that." This is how the diaries of Kujo Kanezane begin, which he kept since 1185, an associate of Yoshitsune's brother named Yoritomo and, oddly enough, his implacable enemy. "With his generosity, generosity and justice, he should gain a great name in the future. Only there will he be able to be admired and recognized for centuries," Kanezane wrote. Yoshitsune's ritual suicide guaranteed him a place of honor, while Yoritomo's assurances of loyalty to his brother's memory forever remained a shameful stain. Minamoto Yoshitsune's father, Minamoto Yoshimoto, tried to challenge the Taira clan in 1159, but lost. He was killed a year later. Taira Kijomori spared his wife and children: Yoshimoto was exiled to Izu Province, and his son Yoshitsune was sent to a temple north of Kyoto. Yoshimoto and Yoshitsune met twenty years later, when Prince Mochihito called on the Minamoto clan to rebel against the Taira. In 1183, Yoshinaka, a member of the Minamoto clan, defeated the Taira at Kurikara Pass and marched to Kyoto. But, contrary to Yoshimoto's wishes, Yoshinaka tried to subjugate the Minamoto clan. Yoritomo sent Yoshitsune to liberate Kyoto from Yoshinaka's rule. In 1184, Yoshitsune, who had become a prominent military commander by this time, led his army, joined by his brother Noriyori and Kajiwara Kagetoki, to Kyoto. In response, Yoshinaka positioned his troops on the Uji and Seta bridges spanning the Uji River, but Yoshitsune's army, wedged between them, won. Yoshinaka tried to escape, but was trapped in an Awaza and committed suicide. Enlisting the support of the emperor, Yoritomo sent Yoshitsune and Noriyori to wage war on the Taira. There was a fort on the approach to the village of Ichi-no-tani. In the night attack, Yoshitsune took it by storm. Then he sent 7,000 men under the command of Doi Sanehir to the west of Iti-to-Tai, and he and the remaining 3,000 climbed a steep cliff overlooking the fort. While the Taira's attention was diverted to the troops of Doi and Noriyori, Yoshitsune descended from the cliff and entered the rear of the front. The Taira panicked and retreated to their ships anchored off the coast.

Immediately after the victory at Ichi no Tani, Yoshitsune returned to Kyoto and served as Yerimoto's deputy until 1185. It was at this time that the feud between Yoshitsune and Yerimoto became apparent. Yoshitsune went to finish off the Taira clan in Yashima, sailing there by ship and making the Taira believe that he had many more troops than he actually had. When the Taira came out of the fort to fight openly, Yoshitsune's men were able to set it on fire. Yoshitsune pursued the Taira, who rushed to flee, culminating in a grand naval battle. From the book: Lewis T., Ito T. Samurai: the way of the warrior (Translated from English – M.: Publishing house "Niola Press" 2008. pp.186-187.)

4.0.

Successful

deer

hunting

The father dragged the deer he had slaughtered with his small and still weak, but trying to help son Dima together, first through the snow to the steep left bank of the local Vyvenka River, where they were only waiting, whimpering from the cold, a team of five sled dogs tied to a coastal alder tree and their light, made only this spring by their father, a glittering wooden sled. white, competing with the brilliance of the snow, playing on snow and incredibly clear bluish ice. That birch-wooden sled, on which they left in the morning, so that they could hunt to their heart's content here in their vast hunting grounds, which belong to them by right of their local branch and Kamchatka birth. And their need made them leave the village so far away, because there was not even a piece of fresh meat at home, and the fish caught in winter did not give them the necessary calories that would cheer you up like that, although there was a barrel of bear salted bacon in the annex and on the high local one, where Dimka Mamychke liked to climb. the pink salmon was still filled with that autumn, maybe just a little thinned in the fresh local river water, which was clearly more likely to feed these dogs than their considerable ones, like all Koryaks and the Nyman family. Where grandfather and grandmother intertwined, and their children, and now, after the birth of Dimka, the children's children, having already become their beloved grandchildren. He was the only one, while his own son Dimka hunted more than once with his proud father, and although he was small in age, he was also tall, but he was somehow muscular and stocky, like all the local people, the Nyman Koryaks, and even rickety, and with the abundance of redberries here, his legs made a wheel. He looks so funny and often so attractive. But long ago, from the very first steps here, he was accustomed to hard work, according to his young age and his strength, and also without being forced or, in a special way, by his father or grandfather, including and the mentee was accustomed to the hardships of the local tundra life, easily enduring all the hardships here, not considering them something special or unusual for him and their kind. Dimka perceived the surrounding world of Branveyama, to the best of his age, as he saw it, as it appeared to him every day and every morning. And, at the same time, in its morning beauty, illuminated by the Sun breaking through from behind a ridge of hills, and also in that special night fear that comes to you from somewhere inside, when a powerful wild beast easily hiding behind bushes can instantly turn your developing earthly life into nothing, and then not a single alder leaf Not a single dewdrop will fall from the morning grass in honor of your memory. Not a single lonely wanderer who came here, and the same geologist, will remember that maybe you were once on this poplar Land. And maybe you grew up, suffered and was sick here, even as you worried for your grandmother, and for your grandfather, and also for your mother, and for your beloved father. Yes, and because he was so young, he wasn't that religious yet, and he didn't understand why these commemorations, why remember everything that might have been here so long ago, when you weren't there yet. A long time ago! His little soul, hidden somewhere and hidden in his little body, was just maturing and growing stronger. And he was getting older, and today he was happy with his obedient dogs, their brisk running. And he was also happy this morning when he was walking a deer and rejoicing at its last visible convulsions, anticipating the taste of slightly salty and some kind of special viscous red blood, which charged you with something special and energetic, making you more confident and making you even bolder and significantly more resilient. Yes, and probably more mature at the same time, because at such moments you acquired this vital hunting experience, a truly hunting experience, which was important and necessary in these parts., which is gradually absorbed like this, even without special moral teachings or explanations of the very essence of earthly phenomena.

Yes, and Dimka's thinking was also special, one might say not verbal, but some kind of figurative, one might even say artistic, in the local way. If he wanted to remember something, he had to tie everything to these free Topolev places, tie it to this season of the year and even to the time of day, and a slow-motion picture of all the events that he witnessed then loomed before him. But, it was still difficult for him to tell others about what he saw, since he still did not know all the names of the local branch places, did not know many compound words, just like his father and mother were not verbose, just like him, only grandmother Praskovya was restless and all the songs she sings her own, whether she is busy making skins or sewing another, probably the hundredth such elegant festive malakhai, threading nylon thread into a thin needle for a long time. And then he listened to her long, maybe slightly mournful singing, propping his chin on his hand, sprawled out on the thick bear skins and the old choir in several rows, and he was interested in the shimmers of her angelic native voice, merging with the rustle of the south wind, and he looked at her deep wrinkles that furrowed her tired but beautiful face, it seemed to him that there were long, uncounted splits that dotted all the outskirts of Topolevka and the mighty Vyvenka River itself, which ran somewhere far away and he did not yet know that place., where did she rush her turbid brown waters in the spring, and in the summer such blue-clear nilgykyn washed them? Yes, and he and his father did not consider their existence here to be any special hardships, since fish were caught on the shore literally all summer, and the first berry ripened quite early, starting with yellow and incredibly fragrant cloudberries, red and slightly sour mountain ash, and also bluish-blue literally melting into the blueberries in his mouth, incredibly black, quenching his thirst for shiksha, and along the shores of the fabulous fragrance, divinely truly royal princess berries, and also, along the local numerous marshes of sour and so useful cranberries and this slightly glaucous honeysuckle in autumn – There is such an abundance of real northern lemon, and even red, such priceless lingonberries along all the hills and under the cedar forests on the hills, not for a year, but even for two years, it can be harvested with a little effort from the whole family. And in early autumn, when the fish seemed to have moved away, and the river had not yet become ice, so that my father and I could go to olennoye Khailino and Beregovaya Vyvenka to explore the whole Kamchatka world and explore the vast local area for him. Yes, and the shiksha berry and the cedar cone all autumn, take as much as your heart desires, as long as that cunning cedar, and the lord of the umka tundra himself, the brown bear, did not get ahead of you, climbing on your abundant lands, according to your birth here. And, everything is here on their poplar tree nearby, literally at hand. Yes, and there was his mother Tatiana Vayamretyl, his grandmother Praskovya Encovav, and his beloved father Alexander Encovav, who gradually, without much insistence, and in no way, and in nothing, as if not forcing, but only showed a little, the boy's son gradually to his Over the years, he quietly taught the craft of a hunter-trapper, making him a breadwinner for his future children and a breadwinner for the entire extended family, so that he would know the local area and learn the habits of all animals perfectly by the age of local maturity, which his father still has to wait and wait., since my father himself fell in love literally at twenty-six. For this purpose, he made a bow out of stone birch, which is not uncommon here, and pulled a tight string out of long deer veins, and helped to make arrows and equipped them with sharp steel tips and skillfully adjusted the plumage from a seagull's feather so that its flight was steady and especially accurate.