In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, in a dark forest, in a dense wood lived an old fox. Her whole life she had caught ducks and geese, which lived in abundance on the forest lake, but in her old age her legs grew weak, and the little fox could no longer provide for herself. And so one day, she came upon a hare with a broken paw. Patrikeyevna rejoiced, seized the grey one and was about to bite him, when the hare said to her:
Don't eat me, dear cousin, I'll be useful to you. If you eat me — you'll be satisfied once, but if you spare my life — you'll forget about hunger forever.
The fox was surprised:
But what will you do, grey one? Do you have a magic tablecloth hidden away?
I don't have a magic tablecloth, but I'll make it so that the geese living on the lake will come straight into your mouth.
Answered the hare.
But how will you do that? Will you poison them with some potion?
I don't need poison. I'll make them dance to my tune using more modern means.
How?
Like this. We'll give them a television and broadcast whatever we want.
What, so they'll come into our mouth?
Not so openly. We'll set a goal. What prevents you from catching geese? The fact that they fly, their strong wings. We'll take away their wings.
But how?!
We'll make the geese themselves give up the ability to fly. To do this, we'll create an image of a new goose — advanced and free — but in reality — exactly as we need.
And a new, enormous world opened up to them. The geese understood that they had fallen behind in life, knew nothing, and now it was time to start living in a new way.
The ganders watch the screen, and there's a show: a pretty goose sings, jumps — completely naked — plucked! Only here and there short, artfully trimmed feathers are visible. And the hare-commentator cheerfully shouts: "The latest fashion! This is how birds dress all over the world!".
And then they show a talk show where two dozen plucked birds happily discuss as an accomplished fact that now, in the era of freedom and sexual revolution, walking around in long feathers is silly and boring.
A few days later almost all the geese were hopping along the lake shore without feathers, and the ganders' wings were neatly trimmed into an intricate shape.
And then sweet life began for the little fox! She attacks a goose — but he can't fly away. She grabs him and eats him. And the geese don't think that because of the new fashion they've become easy prey for the fox — they're too busy listening to what Chatty Hare says on the screen.
And he's happy to oblige, broadcasting about the arrangement of stars and planets: saying that if a goose was eaten — it must mean the combination of Libra and Capricorn decided it, and he'll casually mention that a plucked goose has better karma, so there's less chance of it being eaten.
The fox walks through the forest content and well-fed. And coming towards her is the hare, a forest celebrity. He bounds up to Patrikeyevna and says:
Did I arrange a good life for you, cousin?
Yes, thank you, little grey one.
She answers.
You won't be satisfied with just "thank you."
But what do you need?! Food? So take the geese, eat them. They'll come to you themselves!
The fox was surprised.
I can't. First, it would ruin my image, and second — I don't eat goose meat. I'm not used to it. I need cabbage!
Answered the hare.
The geese's life acquired a frantic pace. They watched television, plucked feathers, painted their bare skin with cosmetics advertised by the hare. He didn't even advertise, but created the impression that these paints were an integral part of a modern goose's lifestyle, without which he couldn't get by.
The cosmetics were expensive, and the hare made them (or rather, the geese working for him made them) from grass, clay, and other available materials.
But how he "promoted" his innovation! "Super paint! With it you'll be irresistible!", "Hare-Goose Cosmetics! You deserve it!", "Don't fall behind fashion! Be better than everyone!".
The geese had no time left to raise goslings, and the ganders had no time to obtain not only food, but also constantly changing fashion novelties. And then the hare began a new campaign that promised to bring him unprecedented profit.
On television, they began to speak more and more often about how poor geese were tormented by the care of goslings, how difficult it was in our time to feed and raise a young generation. More and more often appeared the image of a free, energetic, plucked and painted according to the latest fashion goose, not burdened by offspring.
Ganders followed her in crowds, success accompanied her at every step. She said: "Why so many goslings? You need to get rid of eggs before anyone hatches from them." Around the same time, a new firm opened on the lake shore, run by none other than the fox.
It was called the "Goose Family Health Association," but in fact it was just a collection point where geese brought their freshly laid eggs, which the fox happily took to the nearest human village and sold to the grocery store.
At first the geese were wary of the new enterprise, after all, they were being asked to give up their own children. But they were repeatedly and subtly convinced that "Only a planned gosling can be happy and complete!", "By getting rid of extra eggs, a goose takes care of her future goslings!" and that, in the end, one must respect the rights of the goose, not turn her into a machine for raising goslings.
Now the fox and hare always had not only fresh goose meat, but also eggs, and all sorts of cabbage in large quantities.
So the days went by, weeks went by… The geese watched television, plucked themselves — lived as they pleased. And they didn't notice, poor things, that there were fewer and fewer of them, that the cheerful honking of goslings was rarely heard on the lake — there were few of them now, and those that did hatch — were sad and sorrowful, because they had neither sisters nor brothers, and the adults were busy with their own affairs.
However, they soon stop being sad — they sit down with the adults in front of the blue screen and forget about their loneliness.
Among these goslings was a little one named Gulya. Just like all the others: plucked according to children's fashion (and Chatty Hare invented this too), brightly painted. Only, perhaps, she was sadder than the others — because she couldn't watch television for long. It gave her a headache.
What's your name, gosling?
Asked a stranger who had descended from the sky to the startled bird.
G-Gulya. And who are you?
She answered shyly.
I'm a goose. My name is Migration.
A strange name… But you don't look like a goose. You're so big and shaggy… And what were you doing there… so high up?!
Flying.
How is that? Can geese fly?!
They can. They were made for it.
But I can't. And none of my relatives can. I've never seen geese fly!
It's not that difficult. But for that a goose must have feathers.
Feathers… But that's so unfashionable, outdated! If I grow feathers, I'll look like an old goose who's fallen behind the times and stopped taking care of herself. Everyone will laugh at me!
So what… They're silly, if they just once rose into the sky, they wouldn't pluck themselves anymore, wouldn't give up the happiness of flight.
I want to learn to fly too!
Said Gulya and was startled by her own boldness. But Migration smiled kindly and answered:
That's wonderful. Work at it and you'll learn. First, you must stop plucking your feathers.
But then I won't be able to paint my skin!
You won't. But without feathers you can't fly.
Then I'll be completely different from everyone! A stranger to all…
You won't be. You don't notice it, but some of the geese around you have already stopped plucking their feathers and want to learn to fly.
But you're the only one flying!
I'm not alone…
Yes, I saw two more in the sky! Who are they?
My father and my wife.
You never plucked yourselves?
Never.
Just the three of you?!
It seems so.
But, despite this, now one, now another goose would suddenly stop plucking — and at the same time stop watching the notorious television, in which everything became alien and hostile to him. And, although these eccentrics were still negligibly few compared to the huge motley flock of plucked birds, the Hare began to worry in earnest.
And he devised a scheme unparalleled in its cunning. After consulting with the fox, the hare disappeared from the forest for a long time, and when he returned, he brought with him a huge pile of luxurious feathers painted in all the colours of the rainbow: goose feathers, swan feathers, and even rooster feathers. Soon unprecedented advertisements began to flash on the screen.
"Feathers? Why not!" — boldly said a goose dressed up like a peacock, proudly waving a motley tail — "but with them I'll still be exactly as I want!" — and the feathered mantle flew to the feet of the fashionable one, exposing the bare, as before, goose skin.
"And really, why not dress up in the old style" — gossiped the geese — "we must remember our traditions. The main thing is just not to get obsessed with this, not to try to turn back time, painfully growing feathers on your own body!".
The inexperienced followers of Migration sighed with relief and began to cover up the young down that had separated them from the flock. And the Hare gave them yet another, completely unexpected in its grandeur "gift." One day he offered everyone who wanted to… fly!
The new attraction was simple and required no sacrifices (of course, if you don't count the cost of buying feathers). The geese put on feathered clothing, climbed onto a bush or low tree — and jumped off, gliding for a while on artificial wings. This possibility shocked the geese, among whom not a single one had yet managed to acquire plumage sufficient for the first flight.
"Really," they reasoned, "why suffer, grow something, give up normal life, and then still learn to fly, bind yourself for life to endless flights, so as not to forget again…You can do it much simpler!".
And they happily ran to pluck themselves, paint themselves, and buy themselves false wings. Migration reproached them bitterly. But the geese didn't want to listen, and even accused their teacher of being too strict, demanding something impossible and unnecessary, wanting senseless submission to him.
However, not all were like that, many remained true to their dream, stubbornly growing feathers; every day they did exercises for their wings, stretching and strengthening them… Patiently waiting for the time of their first flight.
Gulya stood on the shore and looked at her reflection in the water. When would her feathers grow?! And would they grow? Or maybe it's all a lie, could everyone be wrong, and they — Migration and a few other geese, smarter than everyone… No, Migration is certainly right — he flies. But she… She's not like that… And how much she wants to fly right now! Even from a bush! …But she can't get to the attraction – false feathers won't fit over real ones. And Migration won't let her go to the Hare's games…
Gulya climbed onto a huge boulder lying by the water, jumped off it, frantically waving her tiny wings. For a split second it seemed to her that the air was holding her, that she was flying… But at that very moment she found herself helplessly sitting on the ground. "What is this!" — cried Gulya indignantly — "at the attraction, geese fly much higher and longer! And there they spread straw — landing doesn't hurt! Maybe they fly better?..."
You will understand this on the day of fire, when the forest comes to an end.
Suddenly she heard a voice behind her.
Migration! You! But what are you saying?!
Gulya was delighted.
And time went on. A great drought and heat came. Disaster hung over the forest, but for most of the geese it was hidden for a while. They watched television as always, amused themselves with false feathers, and laughed at a handful of eccentrics who stubbornly lived differently from everyone else. And those of the latter remained true to their dream with their last strength.
Some felt that soon, very soon it would come true, if it came true at all, if it came true for them. …If they were finally ready for their flight.
Something ominous hung in the air, and now everyone could feel that a terrible disaster was coming to the forest. The trees rustled plaintively, the lake became shallower…
The day is coming when everyone will see what they're worth, but it will be too late. Then everyone will cry, there will be disaster — but at the same time, then we will straighten up, for the time of our flight will come, flight to the sky.
Migration spoke to his followers.
The geese listened to their teacher and cried, then went to their plucked relatives and friends, tried to warn them of the coming disaster, tried to persuade them, while there was still time, to come to their senses and start growing feathers… Some listened to them, others, as before, laughed and called them crazy.
And then the day came. From the morning the sky was covered with some strange grey clouds, for the first time in recent times covering the scorching sun, but the heat did not decrease. The heat and stuffiness became more and more unbearable. Then there was a smell of smoke and, finally, fire roared, bright flashes flashed among the trees. The geese scattered, ran to the lake shore — and with them the fox and the hare.
The geese rushed to the Hare, began to beg him to save them — "after all, you know everything!" — but the hare only snarled angrily: "I know nothing! And if I did — I wouldn't tell you! Leave me alone!" — and crawled into the lake. But that didn't save him either.
Ancient firs blazed like huge torches, tall pines crackled and broke like thin matches; it seemed that the lake itself was boiling and becoming fiery from the reflection of the flames… In vain did the hare and his geese try to hide in it. The fire caught up with them, the smoke choked them…
When the fire first began to flicker among the trees, Gulya and her friends hurried to the place where Migration usually talked to them. And today he was there, with his father — a huge grey goose and his wife — the feathered goose Flyer.
You will fly. A goose was made for flight. You have wings. Don't be afraid. Fly!
He said quietly.
And Gulya flapped her wings. Once, twice… There she lifted off the ground, a stream of air caught her and carried her higher, higher… Far below remained the horror of the burning forest and with it — past fears and grievances.
She felt very sorry for those who remained below, without feathers, but she could not help them, and they themselves refused the opportunity to fly… And she forgot about them, forgot about herself, forgot about everything — and rushed towards fresh air, towards her great dream come true, towards life, which is all flight.
