Every person is the creator of his own fairy tale, but not everyone is its keeper.
So thought Almost-Prince Alexei, sitting by the open window and looking at the half-kingdom that had fallen to him at birth in a certain realm. His horse, so thin that it resembled rather half a horse, stood in the corner of the pantry of the family Khrushchev-era apartment, next to buckets and mops.
And the view from the window, I must say plainly, was not fairy-tale-like. Alexei’s thoughts were dark and heavy.
Once his half-kingdom had been a blossoming and blessed land — in a word, a whole kingdom. Birds sang their victorious songs, the streets drowned in greenery, and the scent of flowers made one’s head spin. And what an apple orchard grew at the foot of the magic mountain! Many travelers hurried to that mountain, about which legends were told, and all of them would sit in the shade of the spreading apple trees to catch their breath and gather their thoughts. One needed only stretch out a hand, and there on the palm lay an apple: firm, full, glowing with amber juice. Eat the juicy flesh if you like, or drink its honeyed juice.
A traveler would sit and rest, doze for a minute or two in the shade of the leaves, eat an apple, put a couple into one pocket for the way back and a couple into the other — a treat for wife and children — and set off for the top of the mountain, from which a beautiful view of the apple orchard opened, and the meaning of everything happening in life became clear and understandable.
Thus, in goodness and calm, passed the days of the grandfathers of the almost-tsarevich-almost-prince, and of his parents, and of Alexei himself until he came of age. By logic, Alexei should of course have been considered more of an almost-tsarevich, but he considered himself an almost-prince, for the thin little horse resembling half a horse was naturally white.
And then events began to occur in the kingdom, each sadder than the last. First there came an unprecedented thunderstorm; rain poured for three days, washing away and carrying into the rivers half the kingdom.
Then fiery balls whirled and spun in the sky, scorching the tops of fruitful orchards and shady groves.
The inhabitants survived all misfortunes, mourned the half-kingdom, and restored the gardens. They planted an apple orchard more beautiful than before. What apples it had! Green apples that made one young again, beautiful red apples that bestowed beauty, golden apples that multiplied wealth, and utterly marvelous ones of which people said that if you bit a piece from the right side, knowledge and wisdom would descend upon the one who had tasted it.
There were also special apples for strengthening women’s charms, known since biblical times. And if a miracle suddenly happened and an apple fell from above onto the head of a person walking or resting under the tree, that person became a genius and made an unprecedented discovery.
Guests began to come to Alexei’s half-kingdom: some for youth, some for beauty, some for wisdom and proper thoughts.
The land blossomed even more because of the many visitors. Everyone wanted to sit in the shady orchard, climb the magic mountain, and taste the wondrous apples.
But in a distant kingdom there lived a nobleman, rich and evil, who decided to seize the magic orchard and send the apples in caravans to other countries.
Having gathered a small army and a caravan of camels, the evil nobleman set out. He himself was frightening, and so were his warriors, but their garments were splendid, embroidered with silks, woven with gold and silver, and strewn with precious stones. That nobleman possessed great wealth; one would think, live and rejoice. But the fame of the wondrous apples would not let him rejoice in life or enjoy luxury.
The caravan traveled by night so as not to attract attention. It moved in silence, and only the snorting of the camels sometimes broke the stillness, while starlight was reflected in the shimmer of precious stones.
By the end of the seventieth day they approached our half-kingdom. But they could not seize the orchard in silence. Moonlight flashed in the rubies and emeralds of the nobleman’s clothes and in the garments of his warriors, lit the surroundings, and awakened the birds. The awakened birds cried and lamented, rose into the air, flapped their wings, and woke the people.
People leapt out of their houses, all in white nightclothes, half asleep, so that angels seemed to rush about around the apple orchard. Girls’ braids streamed like banners in the wind, children’s voices mingled with the birds’ clamor. The caravan men did not fight the people; they decided to retreat to a safe distance.
The people calmed down when they saw the invaders had gone and returned to sleep. But the nobleman did not intend to abandon his plans; he decided to gain time and change them. The commander and his warriors settled in the steppe in brocade tents and grew quiet, deciding to rest. But the nobleman in his tent of gold brocade did not sleep: he racked his brains, thinking how to deceive people who loved their orchard and their half-kingdoms so simple-heartedly.
By morning a cunning plan was born in his head. He took off his rich garments and remained in a white shirt, silk trousers, and boots of red leather resembling apple peel, and he set off, like a simple foreign traveler, to the foot of the mountain. Into his pockets he put as many precious stones as he could carry.
The nobleman settled in the orchard under a tree, picked an apple — which turned out to be a rejuvenating one — and ate it. Then another and another. He dozed off. And woke to the question: “Who are you, beautiful young man?” He was surprised, but did not show it. “I,” he said, “have come from a neighboring kingdom to find myself a bride, kind and hardworking.”
The inhabitants of the half-kingdom suspected nothing and led the nobleman to their homes to show him the girls. But the villain looked less at the girls than around him, seeking a hiding place for his warriors. At last he saw a large house, around which many sheds had been built and many trees planted.
From the rejuvenating apples the nobleman had become young and handsome. The girl’s parents, who lived in that house, gladly agreed to give their daughter in marriage to the stately fellow. The newly appeared bridegroom gave them a large emerald; the parents rejoiced all the more and allowed the deceiver to settle in a small house in their yard. At night, when the hosts fell asleep, the nobleman went beyond the town, brought his warriors, and hid them in the owners’ sheds. And at night the warriors began to come out, make their way into the apple orchard, and pick golden and rejuvenating apples. They would fill their bags, load them onto a camel, and send them home.
In the end, only the nobleman himself and one camel remained in our half-kingdom. By then the effect of the rejuvenating apples had ended, and one morning the nobleman saw his former face in the mirror. He rushed to the apple orchard, but there were no rejuvenating apples left there. His warriors had carried them all away on camels to their kingdom beyond thrice-nine lands.
At that moment an apple of reason fell onto the nobleman’s head. “Eureka!” cried the nobleman, who understood at that instant that he should get back to his own parts safe and sound and cultivate his own orchards there, instead of stealing other people’s apples, as only foolish teenagers usually do.
With the fallen apple in his hand, he made his way through the steppe to the remaining camel. The camel accepted the treat, immediately remembered the road, and carried its rider home.
In the morning the bride saw that the bridegroom was not in the little house and began to weep bitterly. Neighbors gathered, began to comfort the girl and her parents, led them by the hands into the magic orchard to regain joy and strength of spirit — and suddenly saw that there were no golden or rejuvenating apples left at all. The inhabitants grieved. They grew sorrowful. But what could be done? Sorrowful as they were, they dispersed to their homes.
And so only half a kingdom and half an orchard remained.
People no longer lived as freely and joyfully as before.
Meanwhile, from the nobleman and his warriors, overseas woodcutters who lived far, far away and even farther learned about the miraculous orchard. And they decided to come to our half-kingdom. The woodcutters were sturdy and strong; every day they honed their skill. In their woodcutter state there was not a single tree or bush left. And life without their beloved work made them sad and melancholy. They gathered a detachment of the tallest and healthiest woodcutters, loaded axes and saws onto carts, said goodbye to their families, kissed their children, and set off to the distant land to cut down the apple orchard.
The detachment traveled for a long time, cutting down everything in its path. It was good if beavers happened to be on the way and dragged the felled trees into their rivers; otherwise the forests and orchards cut down without need simply perished. But the woodcutters did finally reach our half-kingdom.
And again sleepy townspeople ran out in their white nightshirts, and again girls’ braids streamed and children cried and shouted and birds clamored, but the stern woodcutters were not afraid of women’s and children’s tears.
They walked through the half-kingdom, paving their road with felled trees, and at last reached the apple orchard.
The orchard was still beautiful, although it had already lost its rejuvenating and golden apples. The townspeople rushed to defend it, but the woodcutters handed everyone axes and ordered them to cut down the apple trees, so that the foot of the mountain would become empty and level. The people wept, but could not contradict them; they cut down the apple trees. Only almost-prince Alexei, who was in truth an almost-tsarevich, watched from the far corner of the orchard and did not take an axe. But even the apple bitten on the right side could not tell Alexei how to cope with this sudden and unexpected disaster. So he stood by the last little apple tree until the last apple fell onto his fair crown, and a thought came into his enlightened head: go home, Alyoshenka, sit by the window, and weep and grieve over the lost orchard and half-kingdom.
Or, if you wish, write about joys and troubles in thick volumes with gilded edges. For the wise men say: what is written with a pen cannot be cut down with an axe. It is not an apple orchard, after all.
And the cover of the written volume may be pasted with the precious stones that still remained from the nobleman.
And so all that was left for Alexei to do was to sit by the window, look at his remaining half-kingdoms, hide his half-horse in the pantry, and remember the time when the magic orchard was in his possessions, and he himself was a real prince on a white horse.
