Lucien the hedgehog in the town of strange people

Светлана Коломникова

Lucien the hedgehog in the town of strange people

Chapter 1. The betrayal

On a Friday morning in May, there was the usual bustle in the schoolyard in the small town called Simfulensk. Third graders fought with bags of generic shoes. Older boys teased some girls by playfully stepping on their feet. Other schoolchildren competed in climbing up trees and harassed each other by sticking out their tongues. Some impudent kids, there is no other word for them, threw pieces of plaster and lumps of dirt at first graders while portable speakers were blaring, causing the children's white trousers and shirts to turn grey. Fifth-grader Artem Babakin did not participate in this fooling around. He stood behind the rusty school gates and looked hopefully into the distance.

There was very little time left before the start of classes, and it became clear to Artem that his classmate and best friend Dmitry wouldn’t be coming to school today because he was never so late. Artem was discouraged by the fact that his friend had not come. Of course, Dmitry could just be spending time with his father, who often went out to catch fireflies and other insects. But he always warned Artem when he would miss classes. And now he doesn't even pick up his phone! Artem decided to go to his house after school and find out what was going on.

The school bell rang. Schoolchildren rushed through the doors of the small, dilapidated building, almost knocking each other down. The portable speakers fell silent one after another. Artem immersed himself in his thoughts, not noticing the bustle ahead. He ascended the crumbling threshold, along the edges of which there were heaps of last year’s leaves, emitting an unforgettable aroma of either rot or excrement. The school janitor was fired a couple of months ago, and responsibility for cleaning the school grounds fell on teachers. They did not like it. As a result, schoolchildren were forced to rake the leaves, and they did not find a better place for the piles. In addition, the school principal had a fight with the owner of the city's only waste collection company, and now there was no one to pick up the garbage. So, piles of leaves remained at the threshold and increased every day due to other waste.

Artem entered the small, semi-dark lobby. On the left, the teacher's office and the principal's office were next to the restrooms; on the right, there were several empty rooms for rent that no one had leased. Two underground floors were reserved for classrooms. Artem descended the scratched stairs into the narrow corridor on the first basement floor, stretching in both directions. The smell of mold, as usual, climbed into the boy's nose. Dim lamps hummed from the ceiling, and condensation trickled down the walls. The noise of schoolchildren was now and then drowned out by the imperious orders of teachers and the creaks of closing doors.

The first lesson was history; the classroom for it was at the very back of the corridor. Artem walked past two boys his own age, but in different classes, who were as if they were not going to lessons. One of them, who had recently dyed his hair blond, suggested to the other:

"Dye your hair too, girls will start to notice you."

At the same moment, a pretty girl who rushed past on the run gave him an unimpressed slap in the face. The newly blonde winked at his friend:

“Did you see that? She definitely adores me.”

Then Artem walked past the wall poster. On it, in bouncing letters, was written:

"A nickname lowers the barrier between students and teachers. Make a teacher your friend!"

The classroom was brighter than the corridor because it had more ceiling lights. The skinny guard, as always, napped against the gray concrete wall. Artem went to the empty desk in the middle row, sat down on the chair, and put his head on the desk so as not to look at the empty chair next to him. Someone coughed behind him. Two girls, constantly receiving unsatisfactory grades, talked loudly at the second to last desk:

"It exists!"

"Nah!"

"I tell you, it exists!"

"Prove it!"

"All right. I know one spell. It’s the ritual of Submission and Oblivion."

"What do we do?"

"Well, you want to? You want to be my slave?"

"What do I do next?"

"Put your thumb to your nose."

"What's next?" Seems she did what her deskmate said.

"No, you did something wrong. Try again, again!" her classmate said after a short pause.

There was a slow, heavy shuffling from the corridor, as if someone was dragging something very heavy.

"I ain't gonna! You fool; witchcraft doesn't exist!" the first girl condescendingly exclaimed in response. The second girl began to argue, and the first did not keep quiet either. Eventually, the classmates silenced them, shushing at them from all sides.

At this point Ira Stanislavna, who was the history teacher and their class teacher, dragged a large black plastic bag into the classroom, pulled it through the whole class, then leaned it against the wall under the chalkboard. After that, she straightened up and tucked her hair behind her ears. The students stared in complete shock when they saw the teacher's face: it was much darker than the skin on the rest of her body. One of two things: either the teacher smeared herself with a foundation the color of boiled condensed milk, or she shaded brown eyeshadow all over her face.

Unlike the schoolchildren, the class teacher did not find anything unusual in her own appearance.

"History is the scariest science in the school curriculum, as you know," she said, sitting down at the shaky table with a couple of old books. "Why? Who will answer?"

The straight-A student from the last desk jumped up from the spot and blurted out:

"Because it tells us about dead people!"

"OK, sit down. So…" The teacher preferred not to say "Good" or "Correct" to those who answered because, for any praise, she believed, students become lazy and stubborn. She flipped through the pages of the shabby textbook. "The topic of today's lesson… Vestment of plague doctors. What they looked like in general." She looked around the class. "Kapushina, answer."

Overweight Vera Kapushina stood up from the last desk in the outer row and with the grace of a bear walked to the board and stood next to the bag.

"The doctor's costume consisted of a hat indicating the doctor's status, a special mask with a beak, an ankle-length cloak, tight pants, gloves, and boots. Every plague doctor always carried a long cane." Ira Stanislavna read and looked up at Kapushina: "Everything is clear with the costume. Tell me, what was the purpose of the cane?"

Vera lowered her head and looked at the floor.

The classmates chuckled quietly:

"Oink, Oink! Vera! Fat pig!"

The teacher ignored these whispers. She never interfered with relations with schoolchildren, and even at school meetings she reminded their parents that her job was to teach children, not to raise them.

"Who will answer?" she turned to her pupils.

The flow of jokes immediately dried up. There were no takers. Ira Stanislavna rose sharply, slammed the book, threw it on her table, causing the table to shake.

"It's a shame not to know in fifth grade! First, with the help of a cane, the doctors checked whether patients had a pulse when they did not move. Secondly, they examined the damage on the skin. And what was the third? What, Vera?"

"They beat their patients with it!" shouted Yaroslav Boltukhin, who suddenly appeared on the doorstep of the classroom. He was often late, and each time he found an allegedly good reason for his tardiness.

Chuckles swept through the classroom.

"You're late," Ira Stanislavna delivered coldly, turning her head on him.

Yaroslav put his hand on the chest as if he saw a ghost, but a funny one.

"Yes… I know…" he agreed, holding back from laughing.

"The reason?" The teacher's voice turned icy.

"I buried a dog."

The class exploded with laughter.

"That's true! Someone poisoned my aunt's dog, and I had to help bury it!" Yaroslav exclaimed, holding on to his stomach. His words drowned in general laughter.

"Sit down!" the teacher ordered him and shouted menacingly at the others: "Silence!"

Yaroslav sat down at Artem's desk. Artem's head was still on the desk, and he, like Vera and the teacher, was not affected by the outbreak of fun.

"Wrong. They did not beat their patients. With a cane, they fought off other people who ran up to them and begged to be cured," Stanislavna explained, looking into the book when the students calmed down. After that she pointed her finger at the plastic bag and said to Kapushina: "Take one out and put it on."

Vera pulled out a mask with several ties on the back, which made it very difficult for the schoolgirl to put it on. The teacher was waiting, drilling Vera with dissatisfied eyes. Yaroslav, not being callous like Stanislavna, decided to help his classmate, in his own way, of course. He threw his eraser into the beak of the mask, which caused a new explosion of laughter.

Only on the third attempt did Vera eventually manage to tie the strings on the back of her head. The class teacher, holding her pointer stick in her hand, continued to read:

"Let's study the mask. At that time, the plague was thought to be transmitted through odors. To stave off the infection, the doctors chewed garlic, and the beak was filled with odorous herbs. And so that doctors did not get headaches from the fragrances, there were two small holes in the beak for ventilation in the form of nostrils. Their eyes were protected by inserts made of red glass." Without taking her eyes off the book, Stanislavna suddenly poked the pointer stick at one of the mask's glasses. Kapushina shuddered. The class burst into laughter, interspersed with snide jokes.

Vera, unable to endure the humiliation, rushed out of class, trying to pull off the mask on the run. The teacher silently looked after her.

"In this lesson you all will put on these masks," Stanislavna said, turning to the children. After a bit of silence, she added, "So, resting? It means that all of you have already written down everything important in your notebooks." She started walking around the classroom and looking into student notebooks.

The schoolchildren began to scratch with pens on paper at incredible speed. Artem slipped his copybook under his head because it didn't even contain today's date. He suddenly heard the whisper of his seatmate at his desk.

"Babakin, where is Kobylin?"

The question alerted Artem. Why would Boltuhin be interested in that? He is not a friend of Dmitry.

"It doesn't concern you," Artem grumbled.

"Well, you do not have to say anything. I know where he is."

Raising his head, Babakin stared at Yaroslav.

"Where?" he asked.

The teacher at that time stopped near the desk in front of Artem. She hung over the schoolboy, who was diligently drawing something on the peeling lid of his desk. That fifth grader, focused on his artwork, did not notice her.

Crimson spots of anger appeared on her brown face.

"This is the property of the school! Clean it off, or you will buy a new desk!" the teacher yelled with a wild look, knocking her pointer on the table. Taken by surprise, the schoolboy fell off to one side of the chair with fright. All the students, except Artem, with curiosity stretched out their heads, trying to see the doodle that infuriated the teacher.

"A unicorn mermaid!" Yaroslav plopped down in his chair and cheerfully whispered to Artem. But he wasn't interested in drawings on desks. He looked at Boltukhin, waiting for an answer. Yaroslav understood this, and something mocking flashed in his gaze. Bringing his mouth close to Artem's ear, he quietly said:

"Dmitry skips school cause he doesn't want to see you."

Artem turned away without making a sound, lowering his head onto his folded hands. Of course, he did not believe it. Who should he believe, Yaroslav? This windbag? But doubt arose in his soul, and Dmitry appeared before his mind's eye, looking with a caustic smile at his phone screen with a message about missed calls from him, Artem.

It took Babakin only a couple of minutes to convince himself of Dmitry's betrayal. It wasn't hard to believe that his classmates knew everything. How unhappy Artem felt! He had never felt so miserable, even when six months ago he tore his school trousers on the butt. He jumped off a windowsill in the lobby during recess and then hobbled the whole way home, covering his butt with his hands, while passersby grinning and pointing their fingers at him.

Now Artem had no point in even thinking about going to Dmitry. He doesn't have the guts to do it anyway. It was one thing to learn unpleasant news from someone, but it's quite another thing to verify this on your own.

Artem couldn't stay until the end of classes. He asked to go home, citing a headache. Ira Stanislavna dismissed him with a nod, without raising her head. She was looking through the messages on her phone, while a crammer was reading a paragraph near the board. Avoiding eye contact with his classmates, lest he run into a sidelong glance or a malicious grin, Artem stuffed his notebook and textbook into his backpack and headed for the exit. Yaroslav waved goodbye melodramatically. A couple of girls giggled.

Artem walked around the crying Vera, who was perched on the steps, and went up the stairs. He came out of the threshold. His eyes narrowed after he stepped outside of the dimly lit room. The first lesson had not yet ended, and it was already mercilessly hot outside. Artem went out through the gates and trudged along the pothole-riddled street. Some girl of about seven was playing hopscotch, jumping over conveniently placed holes.

Passing by the grocery store "ANCIENT GREEK SALAD", Artem glanced at the banner hanging on its facade. It depicted a broken piggy bank with small change spilling out, crossed out with a red sweeping cross. The inscription underneath warned: "WE DO NOT ACCEPT COINS!" Just below the banner was a noticeboard, which could easily have been renamed the "missing person's board" or "looking for you". The entire part of the wall it occupied was covered with sheets of paper with photos and descriptions of missing people. Artem had seen one of the wanted people at school before; it was the girl with thin red hair. She was three years older than him and was always fighting during breaks. She disappeared a week ago, went somewhere in the middle of the night, and didn't come back.

Artem was overcome by a feeling of some kind of pattern from the photographs of wanted people and thoughts about Dmitry, but the opening door of the store tore him from his thoughts. The store cleaner kicked out some old man, beating him on the back with her broom. She pushed the old man off the threshold, then gave Artem a contemptuous look and returned to the store.

Artem froze, trying to bring back the feeling that the cleaning woman had distracted him. He was thinking too deeply that he did not even notice how he ended up in the path of two shepherd dogs running away from a cat. He barely had time to jump back and smooth his hair automatically with his hand. It probably looked funny, since around the corner of the store he immediately heard the laughter of several voices. Artem took a step to the right and saw a bunch of vagabonds about his age. One teenager stood out from his buddies because his face was dotted with boils. Artem walked on, pretending not to notice their ridicule.

About five minutes later, Artem was called out by his younger sister Dasha, a fourth grader. The boy stopped, although he had no desire: the white school uniform did not save much from the heat. Dasha was in no hurry, looking around, combing her hair with her fingers. Her brother, dissatisfied with her sluggishness, was already determined to give up waiting, but a good idea that came into his head kept him in place.

His sister has a friend, Nastya. Her mother Tatyana Yulievna is a big gossip. She leaves no one and nothing without attention. She knows everything about everyone in Simfulensk: where they live, what they do, where they go and why, how many hours they sleep, and even what socks they wear. Artem did not like Tatyana Yulievna and her swaggering daughter Nastya, but now they could be useful. What if they knew something about Dmitry and told Dasha? And for the sake of questioning, he can wait. But when the sister finally approached Artem, his desire to find out was crushed by his indecision.

It would be better that way, Artem thought. Dasha was not distinguished by secrecy. If she knew anything, maybe she had told him already. And what if she starts making fun of him? He doesn't need that at all.

"Why are you out so early?" he grumbled.

"My teacher Nadya Petrovna had to leave early, and we all went home too," his sister answered.

Artem didn't say anything in response. So, they walked without a single word. Soon, Dasha was tired of being silent. She looked at her brother with an irritated glance.

"Why are you so grouchy? Did you break up with your friend, or what?"

"Be quiet!" he retorted.

Muttering this, Artem pretended to be intrigued by the roadside fences, and thought:

Ah, it's good that I did not ask about Dmitry. Then I'd feel like a loser.

Dasha snorted and turned away.

From a thick lilac behind the nearest turn came the sounds of shots from toy rifles voiced by boyish voices and shouts: "Stand! Ratatatata! Bang! Bang! Blam! Ah-ah! Bang! Bang!"

Apparently, the war was in full swing. After detonating a bomb ("BOOM!"), boys in dusty school uniforms shouted and jumped right out onto the road, beating each other with fists and plastic guns.

"There's some crazy violence going on here! Let's take another street," suggested an alarmed Dasha to her brother.

Artem agreed. They turned onto Cudgel Street. On one side stood the dilapidated buildings of the former factory to produce things and clothes made of broadcloth, which was once considered the largest factory in the entire region. They said that there were at least five underground floors in these buildings, and in each there were several workshops. There was a billboard sticking out of the side of these ruins. It had written on it in red on black:

Certain skills are needed to knock out the lock.

Not everyone possesses them. Do not risk your health,

contact qualified professionals for assistance.

Call us, we will be happy to help. Tel: 85677

Leaving behind the ruins, Artem and Dasha walked along the high blank fence, rounded the corner and froze in place like pillars of salt in fear – a line of armed men in camouflage uniforms, helmets and glasses moved vigorously towards them.

"But there is no violence here," Artem muttered.

The terrified children backed down, stumbling on potholes at every turn. The soldiers were approaching, moving much faster.

"Run!" shouted Artem to his sister, then turned around and rushed away. She ran after him. The soldiers did not shoot nor rush in pursuit to the surprise of seeing two children running from them. They laughed out loud, and this made the children even more scared.

Artem and Dasha hid behind a tree at the beginning of Cudgel Street. The cries of the truant boys who were fighting behind the turn did not fade. The laughter of the military and approaching steps were not heard, even though there is no other street here. Where did the soldiers go? The Babakins looked out fearfully and saw how they had entered the territory of the factory. The brother and sister became curious about why the soldiers went where there were nothing but ruins. But when the dispersed infantrymen began to shoot at each other, and the people who were shot did not fall, Artem and Dasha realized that this was not in fact the military and left their hiding place. They passed by the ruins wordlessly, looking at the players scurrying there. They walked along the fence and turned the corner. A few minutes later they got to Surprise Street, on which they lived.

As they approached the house, they stepped over a group of tree frogs and saw the neighbor named Aglaya, who lives on the right side of their house. This dirty old woman rarely leaves her house, and when she does, she wanders in circles around her yard, sometimes stopping in place and uttering non-existent words, making ridiculous movements with her hands. She dresses in old lace dresses, battered and darkened from time to time, and her head is always crowned with a ridiculously felt hat with a hole in the back side.

And now, this old woman in her usual outfit was standing near her courtyard gate with a ferocious grimace and was saying indistinct nonsense. It was not clear whether she was talking to her brother and sister, or to someone imaginary, but her tone was becoming more aggressive. The children rushed into their yard, away from the eerie spectacle. They took out the keys from a hiding place under the canopy over the entrance and quickly opened the front door.

"Again?!?" Dasha exhaled noisily, seeing a strip of wet cat food stretching from the kitchen to an empty bowl near the hallway mirror.

Next to the cat's bowl, lying belly up, was the culprit – Fox, a mouse-colored cat with a white stripe on his belly. Fox loves to eat in front of his own reflection, so he persists several times a day, pushing his bowl to the floor mirror in the hallway, of course, while none of his owners see. Although half the food is lost along the way from his pushing, the gray cat never gets upset: a good appetite is very important. And what amazing taste preferences the cat has! Putting a piece of meat in front of him, some vegetables, and bread – you never know what exactly he will rush to eat.

Fox's tabby brother Matvey looked out of the kitchen. He was chewing his food, apparently the arrival of the younger owners distracted him from eating.

Well, at least Matvey eats where he is supposed to, Dasha thought. She wiped the food from the floor, took Fox's bowl to the corner of the kitchen, in its place.

The children shared the last piece of sausage and made two sandwiches. Then they went up to the second floor and went to their rooms.

Artem threw his backpack against the wall and turned on the TV because he didn't want to be in silence. He wanted to surf the internet, but his parents refused to buy him a computer, always remembering the tablet they gave him for his birthday, which he broke that same evening. "You are too small for this. You don't know how to handle things carefully. Your TV is good, stuck on the wall. And if we put it somewhere else, you would have smashed it long ago," his mother said whenever Artem talked about his wishes. He didn't like using the internet through his phone. The phone's screen is small, his hands get tired if he holds it for a long time, and when he watches something on it while lying down because sitting is uncomfortable, he almost immediately starts to feel sleepy.

There was a Simfulensk meteorologist on TV, red-faced Ocean Jago de la Feikel, who had three chins lying one on top of the other like rings on a children's pyramid and bleached curls. He predicted rain for the evening.

"Bravo! Big surprise." Artem sarcastically announced while eating his sandwich. He moaned and lay down on the bed. "It rains here every night."

Artem was right. After each, without exception, pre-sunset twilight, precipitation falls.

Then the forecaster predicted the heat for tomorrow afternoon.

"Really? Surprised again."

After Jago de la Feikel began to praise wet weather, cloudbursts, and darkness. He also did this every day.

"Precipitation is the gift of nature. Rainwater restores health and rejuvenates, invigorates… Snow helps temper the body. It is worthless to refuse such gifts, to hide under hoods and umbrellas. The sun is our enemy. It leads to sunstroke and ages the skin. The fact that we should be awake during the day is a colossal misconception. We should have a nocturnal lifestyle like badgers and hermit crayfish. Night is the most beautiful time of the day. Wakefulness during the daytime is opposed to physiology."

After the weather forecast, there was a news broadcast. The television newscaster reported that the regional branch of government will close exits from Simfulensk next month due to the danger to the rest of the citizens of the country.