The story in its original language can be found here
I wrote this story based on my friend's dream. It is a short sketch from the land of nightmares.
THE OLD MAN AND THE BLUEBERRIES
Darkness descended upon the village. I blew out the evening candle and gazed at the fading sunset. When the last ray of sun disappeared behind the hill, I firmly closed the shutters. Only a thin strip of moonlight and starlight fell on the floor of my room, and I moved from wall to wall, trying not to accidentally touch that thread. It seemed to me that the moonlit strip was a fuse, a spywire that, if disturbed, would trigger an explosion of the hidden mine of the night.
Someone was panting right under my window, and I froze in place, waiting for the sounds to stop so I could sneak to my bed, let the springs creak, and fall asleep until morning.
The old man lived beyond the stream. He had been living beyond the stream for many decades and would occasionally appear to the villagers. Some claimed that he had gone mad after a terrible clash with someone in the woods, while others insisted that an evil spirit, the Devourer of Souls, had possessed him. Whatever the case, the old man was somewhat of a local attraction, a calamity that one had to come to terms with.
I came to the village to kill the old man. I had slain many monstrous beings in my time, both belonging to the human race and resembling no creatures ever encountered by humans. My task now was to determine to which category the mad old man belonged and eliminate the threat.
Every day, the villagers went to the stream with caution to collect blueberries in their baskets. These were no ordinary berries. Blueberry juice worked wonders: it healed illnesses, strengthened the mind, gave strength, and lifted spirits. Without blueberry juice, the villagers felt an excruciating, twisting pain throughout their bodies, cried out like wild animals, and their joints contorted into unimaginable angles, demanding a fresh supply of berries.
Ah, here comes the dawn outside the window, and the strip of light on the floor has turned yellowish, and the moon's cold silver no longer blinds my eyes.
In the corner of my room, I took a sharpened pike with ends honed since the evening, painted my face with blueberry juice, and smeared my shoulders and hands with beet juice. The markings on my body were meant to catch the old man's attention if he ventured out of his hut and came to the stream's shore. Then, if I proved to be interesting enough, I would lure him across the narrow water line and make him chase after me. The villagers were ready to meet the old man with iron and fire, encircle him, and leave him no chance of escape. I was a necessary part of the plan, a monster hunter, a swift and agile decoy prepared to give a worthy resistance if attacked.
The soil near the stream was trampled by the daily visits of a dozen pairs of feet, and only among the blueberry bushes, burning with black opalescent berries, grew a dense, bright, poisonous-salad green grass. The juicy stems strove vertically upward, looking almost artificial. The cunning branches of the shrub cleverly entwined the berries, making it difficult for collectors to reach them. I saw the thin skin of the fruit through the amber light, and in the sun-soaked berry flesh, the pit turned black. I stood there and watched, lowering the pike. I was mesmerized as if under a spell when the whistle of the axe in the air shattered my immobility, and my body crouched, avoiding the strike.
"Ha-ha-ha, a human flea
Jumps and bounces, believes in glee,
Snap! - and the flea's no more to see,
Ho-ho-ho!"
I had no time to discover the source of the sound, but I knew for sure that the old man's vocal cords couldn't produce it. It was too tender and melodious, a soft, rustling voice. Deceptive as a girl's song coming from multiple directions at once.
The old man remained silent. His face was a fierce mask of rage. The face of a killer.
"Total split, mu-ur-der!" – the shrub sang tenderly.
"Hey, old man!" – I shouted. – "Come here!"
The old man, grinning, rushed at me. Clumps of orange foaming bubbles dripped from his mouth. I crossed the stream, and the old man leaped after me, and then I ran full speed toward the village, expecting the villagers' help.
The first yard was empty. Not a soul on the street. Gardens and orchards were deserted, shutters closed, and the enraged monster was behind me. Panic seized me as I realized that the pike wouldn't help, and there was no weapon on Earth that could kill him. A distorted creature of flesh and blood, long disconnected from the creator's original design; a grotesque joke of nature's hostile forces, silent, rustling killers with welcoming silky leaves.
I pounded on the first door I found: in vain, several sturdy bolts securely held the door shut. The next door also did not open. The fire in the windows of the houses on both sides of the street extinguished one by one.
"I am a victim of ancient forces in the name of short-lived peace," I realized. My heart was pounding in my ears. My chest was about to burst from lack of air. My legs were filled with untimely cotton-like weakness.
"I am an unwilling lamb on their altar."
The axe whistled very close.
I thrust the pike forward and closed my eyes.
Not a single window opened to witness my senseless, all-consuming despair.