Late spring is a time of grace for seekers. The grass has not yet risen, has not gained strength. The weeds did not stand up like a dense forest. And the scourge of our places — the encephalitic tick — is not yet brutal.
Without grass on the earth’s face, you can see a lot. Uncrowned ruts, pits, and potholes lie with scars. We are happy that our poverty is hidden by snow in winter and grass in summer.
Without grass, abandoned villages that died a long time ago and those that recently ceased to exist become visible. Many still mark "undead" ("uninhabited") on the map. Some still have houses, but mostly two or three poles and wild cherry or apple trees.
Villages are dying slowly. Like a widow soldier who did not wait for her husband from the war. Like lonely old people abandoned by children.
Abandoned houses without an owner do not stand for a long time. People will pull them apart for firewood, or the spring fall will destroy them. Both of these factors, human and natural, act equally disastrously. If something remains after a person, then the fire eats everything. As a result, only broken bricks and rusty iron will survive on the site of the dead village. Sooner or later, the grass will hide all this. But while there is no grass, much is available to the eye. There are "artifacts" of human activity lying on the ground: broken cast iron, broken pots, glass, boot soles, cans. And the monuments of our civilization are likely to be plastic bottles and polyethylene.
If the field is not plowed for a year or two, it will become overgrown with grass, dense weeds will arise. Then the shrub will pull up, followed by aspen and birch. The pine tree will sprout last. In twenty years, the ship’s forest will rise. Wandering through the forest, you can find several furnaces standing like the pyramids of the Maya Indians. Then you begin to realize that there was a village here. There was a road over there, there were houses, there were vegetable gardens…
You feel a strange feeling in the spring in abandoned villages, standing on the edge of a housing pit from a failed underground. Life is boiling around, intoxicating joy runs in waves, love turns your head… Villages at such a time lie like cemeteries, with a mute reproach to people. You feel as if the village itself is calling to you from the ground:
"Traveler! Stop and think! I was alive too… And people like you lived here: they worked, rested, loved, gave birth to children, laughed and cried… Where are they now? Many crumbled to dust… You'll leave someday too…"
At sunset, a miracle happens for a short moment. The earth gives away what is hidden in itself. Seekers can confirm that coins are best found at sunset. At this moment, the village comes alive. You can hear voices from the past: the sounds of an accordion on a former street, the creaking of a gate, conversations, songs, the lowing of cows. Nature sometimes does strange things at sunset…
In the territory of the Tobolsk district at the beginning of the twentieth century there were 316 villages, now there are less than a hundred of them. The general progressive movement of the village towards extinction, when the elderly die, and the youth get drunk from idleness and hopelessness, is simply called by officials — a "trend".
Panishev Evgeny