He took one last look back. The darkness was already beginning to dissipate, and the sign "Neglect" on the gates became distinctly visible; this time, all the letters seemed to be in their proper places. With feelings he couldn't quite understand himself, he turned away, and now the foreground was dominated by a path flooded with melted snow, leading out of the swamp and somewhere into the distance, into the future, glistening in some unknown rays of light.
Out of his old, slightly foolish habit, Ptyś was about to wonder whether it was the water glistening or his bright future, but he was distracted by a new thought. It told him that this was no time to be thinking about puddles, and that to begin a journey, one needs a brilliant opening line...
"Like what?" Nothing came to mind, except perhaps "Beware of those whose heads are in the clouds—they might fall on yours..." He cast one last apprehensive glance at the gates and set off without looking back again, splashing mud. "I'll think of one later," he waved off the already departing thought, suspecting he'd forget all about it until spring, and bawled at the top of his lungs, whether out of fear or joy:
Nieutulony w piersi żal,
Bo za jedną siną dalą — druga dal...
"Ah, a pity no one can hear me, such talent going to waste. A pity there's no fence..."
"And why is that?"
"Who's there?! Oh, Drama Queen... you're with me too?"
"Taking a stroll... so why do you regret the lack of a fence?"
"Because then the phrase 'Over the fence, onto the horse, and off to Budyonny!' would be perfectly fitting..."
"You really are a blockhead! What are the plans?"
"I don't know... these winding roads—damn them—are forcing me, a die-hard homebody, to become either a traveler or a great writer..."
First, there came an intermittent grating screech, like a nail dragging across glass... no, no, a piece of Styrofoam!—then followed a minute of silence, after which Drama Queen finally managed to clear her throat and burst into Homeric, decidedly unladylike laughter; or rather, she let out a braying guffaw so intense that ripples literally spread across the water:
"What a spectacular idiot!"
"So be it... But even Aristotle said that no great writer is free from a touch of madness! Or is Aristotle not an authority to you? Well then, onward with a song? Join in!" Ptyś began to sing in a rather beautiful voice:
Niepocieszony mija czas,
Bo za jednym czarnym asem — drugi as.
Nie spoczniemy, nim dojdziemy,
Nim zajdziemy w siódmy las.
Więc po drodze, więc po drodze
Zaśpiewajmy chociaż raz…
"You sing pretty well..."
"You bet! Classically trained in a folk choir!"
It had grown completely light, but it still felt somehow unsettling. Neglect had vanished behind them, turning into a boundless, endless valley, and the future dissolved in the bushes and fogs ahead... oh, wait, is that a sail over there?.. Nothing left to do but keep moving forward, toward at least some kind of goal.
