It's amazing how unexpected and deceptive our perceptions can be. And how receptive are our visual, auditory, and taste buds, which give us an idea of physical images. Certifying us of the reality of everything that surrounds us. A person can get into a state of shock if we smell a delicious cake, but visually we see a rotten apple with a bunch of worms crawling along the roundness of the fruit, dotted with holes. We believe what we see, but when we touch and feel deception, we begin to panic because fear takes over. We are afraid of what we don't understand and what defies explanation. In a moment of shock, fear, and misunderstanding, the hidden capabilities of our body come into play, creating protection and protecting us from the consequences.
Suraye's screeching, which creates ultrasonic frequencies, blocked Alish's ears so much that he covered them with his palms. The swing, slowly swinging, decreased its stroke. The kinetic energy of the rocking force was running out. In the evening light, two creatures the size of two well-fed and well-fed cats broke out of the swing with nimble throws and unrealistic jumps, quickly darting over the neighbor's fence. Not feeling tired and forgetting about the pain, Alish hobbled up to the headman, who was still screaming, with her eyes closed, and still holding the ropes tightly. He took her by the shoulders and began to shake her gently, saying:
— Wake up, you. Do you hear, Suraye? Open your eyes. Where is Yusuf? Who did you bring with you? Were these creatures on the roof?
From the abundance of questions, the girl suddenly came to her senses and forcefully pushed Alisha away.
— What roof? Which city? Where did you send me? Fool!
And suddenly Suraye started crying. Alish had never seen a tough elder in such tears and was amazed. He suddenly felt so sorry for her, and he stroked the girl's head, saying gently:
— I'm sorry, it's my fault. Don't cry.
Suraye, who was covering her crying face with both hands, took her hands away and Alish saw her flushed eyes. There was desperation and frustration in them:
— Alish, it wasn't a city. It was a jungle. And there were monkeys. Lots of nasty monkeys. I didn't even have time to look closely, as two of them grabbed my hair, and I swayed back in fear. Suraye had already come down from the board and sat on the edge of the old table. Only now, by the light of a lantern, Alish noticed fresh scratches from claws on the headman's neck. He tried to explain to himself the illogicality of the whole situation. Something was clearly eluding him, something simple. First, a fairytale world with palaces and dragons, and then foggy London. And suddenly the jungle. What is the connection between these places? Him, Yusuf, and Suraye. Where is the connection? Suddenly, a thought struck him, like a light bulb lit in pitch darkness, illuminating all the hidden corners. He slapped his forehead so hard that the headman stopped crying and looked into his crazy eyes, recoiled from him. Alish suddenly realized what he had to do.
Fazilat was cooking dinner in the kitchen. I was cutting carrots into strips for pilaf. A friend was busy with toy dishes nearby, and carefully repeating after her mother, she also cooked improvisedly. Recently, the pain oppressing the soul began to recede with the constant visits of Shara's friends. The house was noisy again and not so dreary. She believed that someday Shar, her little and brave Shar, would definitely return and bring Grandfather Nazir with him. You just have to be patient, wait, and everything will be fine. Suraye's sudden screech awakened the panic in Fazilat's soul. Dropping everything, she ran to the old plane tree. When she reached the swing in fright, she saw Alish swinging with all his strength, squatting with one leg. The other leg hung limply with a large abrasion on the knee.
— What's going on here? — Fazilat asked excitedly of Suraye, who was staring at the swing of Alisha. Hearing Aunt Fazilat's voice, the girl jerked in surprise and Fazilat saw Suraye's wide-open and crazy eyes. Suraye looked at the woman with red eyes and, without answering, continued to observe Alish. Fazilat realized that the girl was in shock and not herself. It was necessary to do something. She touched Suraye's shoulders softly and asked softly:
—Suraye, honey. What happened here? Why were you screaming? Did Alish offend you?
This time, Suraye, without looking at Fazilat, asked a question:
— Aunt Fazilat, have you ever been attacked by monkeys? — And without waiting for an answer, she added:
— But I was attacked. See what they did to my hair. — having said that, she showed her disheveled pigtail. Fazilat understood that something was wrong here. Suraye was acting strangely and talking in a mysterious way. Fazilat, who once worked as a pediatrician in a polyclinic and left her job after Shirin was born, noticed the symptoms of childhood shock. She decided to take the situation into her own hands and first of all it was necessary to lower the injured Alisha from the swing, who was frantically increasing his speed, reaching the upper branches.
— Alish! Stop the swing! Alish! Do you hear what I'm saying?! Fazilat began to scream, and her anxiety, which had already reached its maximum, began to turn into panic. But the boy, despite his injured leg, kept swinging the board higher and higher under his feet, holding on tightly to the ropes. At some point, the swing reached the height of the horizon, disappeared into the darkness of the branches and returned with two passengers. Besides Alish, Yusuf was also on the board. Fazilat stared open-mouthed and white-faced at the swing, which was already starting to slow down. The just-bleeding wound on Alish's knee, from which he was swinging the arc, was carefully bandaged by someone in a split second. And next to him, Yusuf was dressed instead of the usual shorts, in some kind of oversized gray velvet caftan and trousers of an incomprehensible cut and color. Something crashed noisily behind Fazilat. She looked around with fright and saw in the evening twilight the white face of her husband, who sat down in shock on the garden bed, and his folder with accounting documents was lying next to it. Apparently, having recently returned from work, he heard a commotion near the plane tree and headed straight into the center of chaotic events. He stammered, trying to give courage to his voice.:
— What's going on here anyway? What kind of tricks are these?
By this time, Alish and Yusuf had come down from the swing. Fazilat couldn't say anything more. And Yusuf, who came up to her, startled her so much, like a ghost, that she recoiled.
— Aunt Fazilat, I've missed you so much, don't be afraid, it's me Yusuf. — Yusuf looked at Fazilat with sincere eyes, but she still didn't believe it, touched Yusuf and made sure that it wasn't a phantom, hugged him.
— What happened just now, Yusufchik? Fazilat asked, trying to look into the chubby boy's eyes. But he avoided direct contact and surreptitiously looked at Alish. Apparently allowing him to take control of everything here. Alish, who had made his decision long ago, since it was already impossible and unnecessary to hide further, hobbled over to Uncle Anwar. Anwar, who was still sitting in the long-suffering strawberry patch, tried to get up and again managed to mutilate the half-red and half-green fruits, but Alish caught him in time, as far as he could. Uncle Anwar, who had seen miracles only in big-budget Hollywood blockbusters, and a couple of times in the circus of magicians, asked more calmly, but without confidence:
— How are you, Alish? Are you all right?" How did you manage that? What was that? A trick? Or what?
Alish, who was holding Uncle Anwar's elbow, looked straight into his face and said,
— Uncle Anwar, I think I know where Sher is. And we will return it.
The unplanned story of Yusuf, about his acquaintance with Mr. Barrington and his English tea party.
I always knew that our world is not as simple as it seems. There is a place for a miracle in our world. I always like to read books with a fantastic plot. Watching a movie or playing fantastic games on a tablet is great, but books are something else. Every word, every letter, is a place for fantasies. You build a picture there yourself, imagine it in your own way, and when you watch a movie, you don't fantasize anymore. They've already imagined everything for you, decided everything, and added their own picture. That's why books are more interesting to read. And everyone who reads has their own idea of the events. I especially love books by H. G. Wells, Conan Doyle, Robert Sheckley, Shaikhov and Bradbury. And there are many more, but I won't list them, because I don't have the strength or time. There are plenty of them in my book collection. When I read these authors, I always thought and imagined their stories as my own. I envied them for witnessing these incidents and stories. You can't deliberately invent such adventures and suck them out of your fingers. This means that they themselves were real participants in the phenomena and incidents that they later described as a fantasy novel, novella, or short story. Don't think that I'm too naive and stupid if I say that. I have always wanted, just like them, these writers, or rather chroniclers, to become a witness, or rather a participant in such a precedent. There is an old Japanese saying, "Be afraid of your desires, because they can come true." And suddenly my wish came true, thanks to my friends Share and Alish. And yet, dreaming is one thing, and harsh realities are another, and when Alish told me what happened to him, I was not ready to accept his story as the truth. I convinced myself that my friend wouldn't lie to me about opening a portal to another world. A fabulous world. And yet, it's more likely that Grandfather Nazir discovered this miracle. It's even more accurate to say that he built it when he started making this swing. I wanted to see for myself, and personally taste this miracle, to witness such a grand event. I tried to restrain my impulse, but delight overwhelmed me and I rushed forward to this miracle. It took me a lot of effort to persuade Alisha to re-enter the portal. And in my humble opinion, this was the real portal. My friend was in shock and I realized that it was fear of the unknown. But real researchers have never succumbed to difficulties and fear, like the same Jules Verne. These are his words: "The time will come when science will outstrip fantasy." Maybe it's time to test yourself and become one of the first. Imagine my surprise, and with the same force was my joy that we were not in some banal fairy tale with dragons and fairies, which is more suitable for the spirit and fantasies of my friend Alisha. We ended up in a place where, in fact, I dreamed of visiting, visiting and, if possible, exploring. Victorian London, the second half of the nineteenth century. The Golden Age of Britain. Of course, I condemn the colonial appetites of the British Crown, but at a time when technological progress was just beginning, England was the center of those most progressive events. I'm not even talking about creative growth. In short, my friend and I suddenly found ourselves exactly where I wanted to be. The accident that happened that evening made me really scared. Putting my foot on the tiled roof, I almost lost my balance and would have fallen if the hand of a skinny old man in a nightcap hadn't come at the right time. It turned out to be the honorable Mr. Barrington, whom I later met. He turned out to be a kind man and very educated. I felt a chill as I stood on the roof, waiting for Alish to come back for me. But after standing for about an hour, I realized that something must have happened, and that's when I got really scared. All this time, Mr. Barrington was with me on the roof, keeping me company. We talked as much as it was possible for me. Since I was far behind in terms of education. I knew three languages. I had my native Uzbek, Russian, and English, although with the latter, I was proficient at the level of a teapot. But still, Barrington and I managed to establish communication. Mr. John Barrington had once practiced law in a law firm, but at the moment he was content with a posthumous pension issued by the English Crown for the service of his son, who died in India. Mr. Barrington knew six languages, including Turkic, which is similar in pronunciation to Tajik and Turkish. Seeing that I was cold, he offered to wait for Alisha in the house. Once inside, Mr. Barrington took some things out of his closet for me. The velvet caftan was too big for me, but the trousers were of a strange cut, they turned out to be my time. I immediately decided to ask why he wasn't surprised to see us in the roof portal. To which I received a shocking reply from Mr. Barrington. It turns out that we are not the first travelers to appear here on the roof. Before our coming, there was another traveler here. I suddenly thought of Shara and Grandfather Nazir, but the old man described the traveler as a young Asian man in his thirties or forties who spoke excellent English and besides English, he knew seven other languages. I was depressed. There are only polyglot monsters around. That's what it means to be truly educated. From the description of this traveler, Mr. Barrington, I understood that he was our countryman. He arrived on the roof of the old Englishman a year ago in a very bad condition. He had a bullet wound. According to Mr. Barrington, he was dressed fashionably. That is, like back in the nineteenth century. Handsome, tall and strong-willed. I kept wondering to myself, who was this traveler? So, before us, a year ago, it turns out he got on the swing? What kind of nonsense is this? Grandfather Nazir built the swing about five months ago. Six months ago, there was no swing at all. Then where is he from? How did he appear on this portal? While I was thinking about this with my thirteen-year-old brain, Mr. Barrington invited me to dinner, which I was very happy about. I completely forgot that I was hungry. It made me laugh. It's no secret and everyone knows it, I love to eat. The old man had a big house consisting of seven rooms and a large hall. In addition, there was a kitchen, a dining room, and an upper floor with a mezzanine on one side and a dormer window on the other. Barrington lived in this huge house with a deaf old maid and a coachman who was also a watchman and a footman. Barrington's wife died a long time ago. The old man never remarried. And after a senseless, aggressive warrior, he lost his son. He considered himself the guardian of the portal, its guardian. That's what Alikhan Saidumarzade told him to do. That was the traveler's name. And according to Barrinnton, he was a learned man. After staying with the old man for a month, Alikhan recovered from his wounds and, before leaving, thanked Barrington by giving him a small bar of gold and telling him to keep the passage secret and guard it as much as possible. Alikhan said that people with guns might come looking for him. And then he would have to send word to him. But what was Barrington's surprise when he saw a couple of kids instead of an armed crowd.
The dinner was simply unforgettable. Beef jerky with artichokes, mushroom soup with pheasant meat and fried trout with white sauce. I refused dessert because I had eaten too much. But the tea was simply excellent. And you probably know how much the British appreciate tea. Think of Lewis Carroll. Tea drinking in the British way is a whole ritual. We had a lot of conversations with Mr. Barrington about science and the achievements of both time periods. They had one thousand eight hundred and seventy-nine. Barrington didn't know about Sherlock Holmes. Or rather, I didn't know yet. The world will discover the great detective in ten years. We also talked about Alikhan. I asked if it was possible to contact Saidumarzade. Barrington replied that he had tried to contact him once, but when he sent a message to the address Alikhan had left for him, he had already moved out and had not left a new address. Alikhan could answer a lot of our questions. One of the main questions was where to find Shar and grandfather Nazir. Towards nightfall, we heard a call from the roof. It was Alish. I was so glad to see him. When we went out onto the roof with Mr. Barrington, we saw that Alish, like Alikhan, was also injured. And fortunately, it was just a twisted leg. Mr. Barrington offered to bandage my friend's bleeding knee, to which I was horrified to say that the platform could leave again, leaving me in old London. But Alish suddenly boldly let go of the ropes and went out onto the roof. The swing was still in place. I was surprised. When I asked him how he did it, Alish replied that I needed to grow up to find out. Still, he can be terribly unbearable sometimes. Mr. Barrington carefully treated Alisha's wound and bandaged it with bandages. After a while, Alish said we had to go. I've become very attached to Mr. Barrington in such a short time. We said goodbye warmly, and I promised to visit him soon. My friend and I stood on the platform and, holding onto the ropes, swung. The swing went smoothly down. See you later, dear Mr. Barrington. See you soon…