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SYMBOL OF ETERNITY
V. Speys
This book is the story of a strong and faithful love between two lovers, which appeared suddenly and lasts for centuries in the endless cycle of births. Where in each new life, the two seek each other related immortal oath large and passionate love. But life dictates its own rules and its own laws, does not always coincide with the desire to be and to live together. This was told in my last novel, “A SYMBOL OF ETERNITY,” from “the PORTAL” series. The book describes the significant events in…
SYMBOL OF ETERNITY
V. Speys
© V. Speys, 2021
ISBN 978-5-0053-4181-5
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
PART – 1. LIFE OF A ALONE BOY
«– Tell me who hurt you? I will give reward ruble!»
Chapter First
Shpitki. The name of the village, located on the twenty- eighth kilometer of the Brest- Litovsk highway from Kiev to the West.
At the twenty- eighth kilometer of the highway, the road turns to the left and, on the stone- paved roadway, rushing towards the village. Until the seventeenth year in Shpitki manor was famous Tereshchenko sugar manufacturer.
A rich landowner laid out a beautiful manor park, dug a cascade of ponds. He built a church, a replica of the Kiev Vladimir Cathedral.
Inside, the church was painted with images of saints. Above the painting of the students worked Vasnetsov. After the revolution, before the events described in the book, the church has been preserved, and even service was conducted.
In the fifties, the only brick house was my mother’s house Zimoglyad Olga Andreevna that it is built on a bank loan. In fact, the post- war time, not everyone was given a bank loan. Since Olga Andreevna was elected deputy of the Supreme Rada of Ukraine of the 4th convocation, she was given a bank loan in the amount of 10 000 rubles for construction. The building materials were no problems, as the deputy of the Supreme Council was supposed to ensure first of all with the guarantee of payment. And the house was built.
Inside the house it was lovely in the summer. Cool refreshing when the heat was on the outside. And it was cold and damp in winter. Stoves ever smoked, and was a pungent smell of briquette (a mixture of coal dust with a resin).
At home, my grandmother, a wrinkled old woman with a trembling chin in a long skirt and apron, stood by the stove and heat prevented. Her name was Eugenia Lavrentevna, Zimoglyad married name and her maiden name was Sribnaya. My grandmother was from Pereyaslav- Khmelnytskyi, and long winter evenings are often thought of his home and siblings, unfortunately I can not remember his name, I only know that he lived his whole life in Pereyaslav- Khmelnytskyi. That he was a fanatical supporter of the pigeons. In a private house in his attic he was equipped with a dovecote, where reigned strict order and cleanliness.
The house smelled of Olga Andreevna soup and a delicious aroma of stew. The village lived in abundance, as do all grown – and vegetables, and meat.
I always hovering near the grandmother inadvertently interfering with a pitchfork to cast furnace. To which my grandmother was angry and grumbled:
– You would be better drowned in the toilet, and would not have suffered! – She said, looking at me. I never took offense at my grandmother’s, and now just do not pay attention to her words.
I just asked:
– Grandma, and what is for dinner tonight?
– What is it, you see! – Said the grandmother with displeasure – You just have to eat!
– I’ll eat only meat, – I answered, – Eat fat itself.
– You is a pest, a nasty little soul, a crust of bread will be pleased.
I felt the pain. I puffed out his cheeks and did not ask any questions grandmother. In my hands was a penknife, which I carried in his pocket corduroy dark brown shorts to the knees. He began tinkering screw. I like it when the wind turned my product, and it seemed that I was in the airplane flying over the vast fields of the village, above the trees, and snow- covered park.
Evening. Twilight of the window. Grandma lit the lamp by pressing the switch. In the hallway, he heard footsteps, and the door opened.
On the threshold in a green scarf and a sweater were bright and very thin, my mother’s features. Her bright eyes ran across the room, found a chair. She was tired, sat down, and began to take off boots.
– It’s cold outside. Frost. – She said, without looking at me. – Valik eating, or not?! – She asked his grandmother.
– Let him speak. – Disaffectedly grandmother said, taking the pot from the stove.
I started telling that gave lunch grandmother, and mother commented:
– And the milk, why do not you drink it?
– I do not drum, to burst?
At the same time, on the table next to the window were a steaming bowl of soup and two slices of pork with a delicious aroma.
Mother interrupted clove of garlic and dipping it in salt, he began to eat.
I watched the food the mother, wincing in dissatisfaction. Represented as stuffy and disgusting to be saturated with the smell bedroom. And how hard it will be a headache and chest from the stench of garlic in an unventilated room, where he slept in the same room with her mother. It so happened that my mother ate once a day, and it was night.
In the morning she was in a hurry to work before dawn and returned when it was already quite dark.
The farm, where she worked, she was known, loved and respected for its hard work, selflessness and simplicity. Workmates with her was difficult and easy at the same time. Her nervous temperament and character forced to reckon with it. But truth and justice with which she spoke out loud and all in all, evoked the sympathy of all the workers and the latent hatred of the leadership. She feared. We try not to admit to the top of the managerial staff and endured, mindful of the links which has kept since the days of work in government with himself Nikita Khrushchev.
Khrushchev in his time served as secretary of the Communist Party of Ukraine, and now he is the head of the Soviet Union. Many villagers remembered as drinking cups of brew at home housewarming Zimoglyad Olga Andreevna KGB colonel, now Attorney General of the USSR Roman Rudenko. And what only frontline fearlessly telling jokes about Stalin, Zhukov, Lenin and Krupskaya. Even Khrushchev thaw, tell one of them a mere mortal, not pat on the head.
Once there, my mother Olga Andreevna. lonely she has. Been married four sisters. And my cousins and sisters of different ages. None of them did not like me. Everyone thought I bastard, since I was born, though in a legal marriage, but from the dissolute drunkard Alberta.
Friendship with peers did not work. The village together envious of my mother, and silently despised for without fathers. Good food is well- fed, extreme living conditions in an isolated «cocoon» quenched. I like the wolf, has learned to snap, hit back…
Chapter Two
The air was filled with the spicy scent of the flowers. Gentle breeze in July, almost touching, stirred the tops of tall and lush grass, turning over the leaves and stems from this, it seems that grass whispering among themselves about the fabulous, intimate secrets hidden in their impenetrable thickets.
That would get there in the foliage of the jungle to become at least for a moment such as a hard worker ant, help him drag a huge three ant mote growth. Then climb up the slippery, shiny, and lacquered like a pole, to the luxurious flower stalk of clover and drink, like a bee, nectar.
– Zhu- Ju- ju- ju- at- Well! – Deep voice buzzing bumble bee.
Black ball spinning for a while over the flower, as if taking aim, and finally sits down heavily on a pink velvet bud. Effectively, with ease, moving awkwardly hairy body from flower to flower, with obvious pleasure, he relishes the sweet nectar, completely ignoring the curious glance, given breakfast in a hornet. Do you think there is time to look around, when there are so many colors, let’s quickly collect juicy fragrant nectar. Yes, if you notice on the background of the sea of fragrant multicolored buds head, but noticed that the eyes of the boys to watch the sky itself. They are blue, blue. Or maybe, he thought, that two bumblebee cornflower turned heads in a light summer breathing.
My blond head stuck in the overgrown grasses. Fascinated by what he saw the mystery of nature, I looked wide- eyed at the pristine beauty of the grass, on the scurrying with concern fussiness, insects buzzing, rustling, pulsating in the grass. In the old orchard trees and my eyes finally met the sky. I look into his bottomless blue, lying on his back. How do you want to fly in the vast expanse of alluring, float in it, and look, and look down upon the native village? In the garden, where I am lying. On an apiary. In the old park. At his home, which is near here, is to climb over the fence and cross the road.
The sun rises higher and higher. Paints gradually lose their transparency, turning in faded colors. Day flares. In the sun gets hot, this sun. A hot breeze brings the smell of pine resin. With difficulty, she broke away from the inviting cool grass, I went on the fleecy green carpet of grass pulp aside little white houses, beehives lined up in neat rows of mesh fence apiary…
Through the glass, a single large, the windows on the wooden floor of the room falls sheaf of sunlight outlining a neat square with shadows of leaves stirring in him. Close to the windowsill lined with straight lines (sundial), the charge of the table, at the same time it is a workbench for carpentry work. It smells pungent resinous aroma. Fresh chips and spicy smell of wax coming from the framework, completely hung on the walls of the little room, creating this amazing flavor of the honey wax and pine shavings.
The situation storeroom beekeeper adds oven lined almost to the ceiling. In the corner of the room, facing the window on the left is a metal barrel with a centrifuge inside. From large handle through gear meshing rotation is transferred to the centrifuge.
For table- bench elderly man is sitting. He is holding a thick book and read carefully. Through lowered to nose round glasses in the book look brown eyes focused from under bushy gray eyebrows. The old man suddenly looked up from reading, listening. Behind the door, the sound of footsteps. He turned his head and looked at the door. On the threshold appeared the boy:
– Hello Grandfather!
– Ah, it’s you, Valik. Come in, – Said the old man, gentle and kind voice.
– Grandpa, and honey it is time to look at?
– It’s time. It has long been conducted. Oh- ho- ho. Where were you yesterday?
– So I came and so early. Just have been the cases. – Contrite I replied…
– Well, – he smiles slyly, – beekeeper.
He got up heavily and went to the centrifuge:
– Here’s your honey. – And, groaning, he pulled out of the barrel with a heavy frame,
full of amber honey, honeycomb.
– Take a mug and pick up the faster water.
Honey mixed with wax honeycombs, melted in the mouth, and was much more delicious honey that eating just a spoon. I took out of his mouth neat Chewed lumps and throwing them into a bucket where the beekeeper dropped pieces of wax, then to fuse the wax ingot. These bars he swapped the wax screen within a tagged them neat Allen, a future bee masonry. Full of honey, I sipped two to three sips of water from heavy copper mugs and taken again juicy chew honeycomb. And so, savoring ate and ate until the beekeeper did not stop me:
– Show the stomach?
I pulled up his shirt, revealing a swollen like a drum and round belly.
– Wow! – Consciously, carefully, and the feeling of rough skin on the abdomen. – There have already appeared on the skin drops of honey!
– «Maybe I ate too much, and volvulus?» – Thought whit apprehension. And ask cunning beekeeper was hesitant, he asked instead:
– Grandpa, what have you got for this mug?
– What, this?
– Well, this here, though, and small and heavy. – I, twisting in the hands of a copper mug, – The houses and a larges and light.
– So there you have it, and that we have.
The conversation usually ends. But I wanted to talk more. I peered searchingly at the old man’s gray shaggy eyebrows, and continued:
– What are you reading?
– What are you reading? Uh, it’s still too early to know you.
He closed a massive hardcover and pushed aside the thick volume. Then he got up from his chair, carefully considering any line inscribed in pencil on the windowsill. Shadow of a window frame coincided with one of them. As a satisfied grunt, the old man said:
– Well, it’s time, and return home.
It’s a shame; it was in the heart of the old man. And the fact that he is silent, afraid of honey, speaking on his stomach. Yes, apparently, does not like guest’s beekeeper. On the way home I stopped in front of the garden fence. Furtively looked around, and then hastily pulled coats the stomach and examined carefully. Belly glittering beads of sweat, said on its entire surface, and these drops are so similar to a drop of honey that the finger itself involuntarily reached for the sticky balls and collect some beam on the finger. Flavor drops are the most common were salty bitter. Now, if in the act of the boy he noticed his friends. Forever rest run away from him. But their next and the boy continued to study the bulging belly. He even turned to the sun, but all in vain, but small sparkles of sweat drops of honey anywhere debts. So beekeeper deceived him? Again irritation coming right up to the throat treacherous lumpy. I frowned, shirt tucked in his pants. Put on the right shoulder suspenders, pants will not fall. And jumped over the fence…
Summer is hot time for rural laborers working in the field. Summer day passes fast as one minute. For children, running around in kindergartens and schoolchildren, tourists on vacation, summer day suddenly rushes, replacing morning to noon, noon to evening. And it roaring herd, returning from the pastures, in the copper sunset. We hear vociferous appeals to mothers of calling home playing children.
In the evening, at dinner, I asked my mother:
– Mom, who is a beekeeper?
The mother did not quite answer:
– You better ask grandmother?
I frowned again:
– «Well, what, why do not they talk to me in a kind way? Eh, that’s
Vali father all the time with a smile, all the time, all about everything.»
But curiosity got the better. And I went to my grandmother, who was busy at this time, as always, by the stove. Grandma turned to my face, all pitted with deep fine wrinkles, with the ever- trembling chin:
– You jumped off the table? Sit back,. – I sat down again at the table – I’ll get potatoes with meat.
Grandmother, deftly wielding pitchforks furnace, pulled out of the pot with a hot stove.
– Ba- A, a, Grandma?
Ta hear, hear. What do you want?
– And who is a beekeeper? – I did not give up.
– This Is Fedos Kuzmovich, Diaconal!
– Ba- A, a, a grandmother, and that such Diaconal?
– This is the one who in the church hymns. Here come with me there and hallow see.
Chapter Three
My grandmother was my best friend. Always protected always – another word. The mother, busy working the farm, practically engaged me – once. And I grew up without proper maternal affection by itself. Father, I have debts. Who is the father? His appointment in his family knows. But the unconscious feeling drew me to foreign fathers. And visiting his friends, sometimes do not want to leave home, such confidence exuded by his father’s friend. This filial atmosphere surrounded by his father’s children, that I always regret returning home. What can I say, I secretly envied neighbor girl Vale and her brother Volodya Senilovym.
One day, I’ll remember for a lifetime, the father took the children to the store. And I, like a stray dog, had come with the neighbors. There are something just debts. And the gun, firing plugs and balls, and even a scooter. His father bought the children toys to choose from. Volodya got a gun and scooter. Valya, ball and a doll. I, of course, nothing…
It’s the Easter holiday. Grandma wore festive clothes clean; I issued a new white shirt and breeches, just below the knee. On the bridge were his pants buttoned at the knees. And my grandmother went to church. From the basket, which was carrying grandmother proceeded spicy aroma of Easter cakes, cakes with cottage cheese and baked in the bread cakes crosses and colored eggs.
At the iconostasis pop in a long robe to toe standing with his back to the congregation, and bass intoned a prayer book read:
– Father Our, Who art Thou, in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy will be done…
The church choir of pious old ladies, sonorous voices echoed him. In a black suit and highly polished boots, leaning on the narrow platform, he stood facing the chorus Fedos Kuzmovich. His long nose sitting round glasses. Through them he considered the text of the Bible and tenor sang along with the chorus. The church hall crowded mob of parishioners quickly baptized in the pauses of the choir. And the sign of the cross, and the choir and the solemn silence of parishioners filled the church hall space and the feeling of my imagination of a sacrament. And yielding to the universal impulse of piety, I put three big finger of the right hand in a «bundle» as my grandmother taught me, and with a sinking heart – baptized. Offense gesture aroused a feeling of anxious expectation of a miracle. I suddenly thought that this is what is going to happen. The choir sang at that time:
