Raven's Blade.

So, one day...

I got out of the snowdrift for a long time and boringly, spitting out the snow that had accumulated in my mouth and shaking my head in a dazed way.

The range of sensations is simply indescribable. Quietly, peacefully wander through the August Forest, where the first yellow leaves are already visible among the moss, look out for a mushroom cap cunningly hidden, whistle something encouraging under your breath and suddenly find yourself up to your ears in snow.

Awesome!

Although I'm lying. "Suddenly" was not.

No wonder they say that every action has its consequences. No, I do not mean that if it occurs to me today to wear a black sweater, then tomorrow there will be an earthquake in Cameroon. Still, my impact on the outside world is minimal and not so destructive.

I limit myself to minor influences on the available subjects: to fill the keyhole of the math classroom with a mixture of matches, gum and glue, so that the art teacher chugs over it for a good half of the lesson, just giving me time to study for an unscheduled test. Throw your neighbor a "night of heavy music" in gratitude for the last "night of drunken yelling." It's time to organize a rescue expedition to a tree in order to rescue a skinned yard cat from there. At the same time: to break one's arm, to get clawed in the nose by an angry representative of the cat family, to realize with surprise that the harmful animal did not need my help and was yelling all over the street solely because of the insidious nature and good mood.

For these and other exploits, I received a carriage and a small cart of consequences: a scolding from the director, an obscene word in black paint on the doors, and two weeks in the hospital.

So, I don't believe in coincidence. If you have already managed to end up in a snowdrift in the middle of August, it means that before that you either got into a time machine, or angered the telekinetics, or ... grabbed a matte, velvet-looking knife handle with your hand.

In my case, it was just the third option.

I have been lucky with knives since childhood.

I found the first copy of my future collection when I was six years old, playing in the yard of my house. As it became known much later, it turned out to be a small Finn. Graceful, with a short blade and a lead typesetting handle, into which, out of a sense of beauty, an unknown craftsman inserted rings of orange translucent plastic. Finka lay in my secretary for a long time, first between dolls and coloring books, and then among copybooks and notebooks, until four years later one of the high school students bought it. I remember the exact price - five rubles.

Then it just rolled on. I found knives in the most unexpected places: between the slats of a garden bench, at a bus stop, in a theater toilet, in the subway, in my own entrance. Perhaps the only places not covered by my specific talent were Antarctica and the Moon. Although, I can bet that if I was brought there by some crazy wind, I would definitely find a knife in the thickness of the eternal ice or at the bottom of the crater.

The forest remained the most "bread" place.

All normal people returned from there with full baskets of all sorts of pleasant things - mushrooms and similar berries - only I alone, like an orphan, walked light, waving an empty basket, at the bottom of which three blueberries and a miserable russula rolled, but another trophy flaunted behind my belt. Friends were mortally envious and shrugged, they say, some are lucky. I also envied them - I really wanted to proudly bring home a full basket of mushrooms, always with a slide, and casually put it on the table in front of my astonished parents. But so far, the dreams were not destined to come true: with the stubbornness of a locomotive, I dragged pieces of iron into the house, which there was absolutely nowhere to put.

The collection of edged weapons in our apartment has grown steadily. If the police came to visit us, they would not have enough paper to write down the names. Penknife, canteen, ordinary, hunting, home-made, folding butterflies, "miscarriages", new and almost rotten from rust, large and small, sharp, bent, blunt - knives filled our house. They could be seen in any corner of the apartment, even where they could not be by definition, for example, in a drawer with linens.

In the kitchen, in a stand especially sawn from a birch burl, there was a whole collection: for fish, butter, meat, inspiring respect for billhooks, which are so deftly used by sellers in the market, and miniature specimens, without practical use, but cute. They filled the drawers of the desk, crowded on the bedside table, huddled between books on the shelves and maliciously gleamed blades from under the sofa. In general, knives were my cross, which I stubbornly dragged through life.

No, there were positive aspects in such a strange "skill" too. The question never arose of what to give for a birthday to one of my friends. The family budget only benefited from this.

If at the last moment I remembered that Vasya, Petya, Dasha did not have a round, but a pleasant anniversary, about which I was warned a month ago, but out of absent-mindedness I missed this message by ears confused by other problems, then the matter was solved simply. The collection was surveyed with a keen eye, the most suitable copy was chosen, and it's all in the bag! Friends were always pleased with the gift, and they wanted to sneeze at bad omens, like giving knives - to a quarrel. The steel sheen and patterns on the handle outweighed any superstition.

At the age of ten, I rejoiced at every new discovery, boasted to my parents, who nodded condescendingly in response. At thirteen she just shrugged her shoulders indifferently, at fifteen she diligently turned away from the rapaciously winking blade of grass, pretending not to see anything. It did not help.

Knives avenged this lack of attention to their sharp personas: the next time I tried to cut bread for sandwiches or simply reach into a drawer for a pencil, my hands were immediately adorned with cuts. Shallow, but unpleasant. These monsters seemed to warn: "Better not joke, we can do without you, but you are unlikely to be without us." When I covered my long-suffering fingers with strips of adhesive tape for the thirty-fifth time, I sighed and resigned myself. What else was there to do?

Two years ago, just before my birthday, I asked my parents for money allegedly for "that lilac blouse over there, remember, it still has a cutout in the back." Mom shook her head doubtfully, as if sensing a catch, but she couldn't refuse - it's not every day for an only child to turn sixteen. Moreover, I rarely asked for anything. If my mother knew what stupidity this amount would be spent on, she would have added a couple of good slaps and a week of house arrest to me.