Among Reflected Stars

    Mountain lakes—so gentle, yet so deceptive.
The sky above them can turn from bright blue to thunderous grey in minutes, and the calm, mirror-like water into a roaring, almost black sea. The slopes surrounding these lakes are often clothed in mixed forests, but even these forests, nestled on low mountains, can't always restrain the oncoming clouds.
And when the trees grow "tired" of the battle—
a sudden gust of wind can in an instant turn still water into a restless, churning creature.

It was the first day of the calendar autumn.
Wherever people were, they enjoyed true summer warmth and air infused with the scent of dry leaves.
For fishermen, the golden hour of the evening bite was near—
that short window that begins about an hour before sunset and rarely lasts longer than twenty minutes after.

Leva pushed off the dock with his foot, and his heavy fishing boat glided gracefully across the mirrored surface of the lake.
The electric motor, two batteries, three rods, and a fish bucket were all on board.
The boat was heading along a familiar route—past spots where he’d often caught pike, perch, even bass.
He cast out a spoon lure and turned on the motor.
The boat leapt forward at full speed toward the farthest point.

The weather was pleasant.
Now and then the wind nudged the boat off course,
and Leva corrected it, turning the motor.
No more than twenty minutes had passed—he was precisely on track.
Occasionally he had to maneuver to avoid underwater rocks,
then lay the course straight again.
He kept glancing west—storm clouds usually came from there.

He noticed a small dark cloud.
Its size and silence said it was harmless.
But something stirred unease in him.
A warning?
He hesitated, then decided to play it safe.
Stopped the boat. Pulled out his phone.
A few seconds later, a clear forecast appeared. No threat.
He calmed down, restarted the motor, and resumed the journey.

Two, maybe three minutes passed.
Just as calm returned to his thoughts,
a sudden gust of wind struck him from behind.
Leva again thought: warning.
But his thoughts were cut short as the boat rushed toward the shore.
He jerked the motor to the right—the boat slewed like a heavy car on a snowy curve.
The maneuver worked—collision avoided.
He steered along the shoreline. Twenty meters left to the chosen spot.
Time to prepare the rods.
He reached for one—and in that exact moment, a heavy blow slammed the hull.

The entire boat shuddered.

At first, Leva couldn’t understand what had happened.
The grinding under the boat and the motor’s guttural moan snapped him to attention.
He checked the propeller: the blades spun sluggishly,
and the motor made a wheezing, tortured sound—like a wounded animal.
He shut off the engine.
But it was too late: the propeller stopped cold.
Lifeless.

Leva realized the impact had snapped the shear pin—
the tiny piece that transmits rotation from motor to prop.
Which meant—this wouldn’t be fixed out here.

A few seconds passed before the full reality hit.
He remembered his morning thought:
Bring the emergency motor.
Why hadn’t he?
He always brought a backup battery.
But this time—forgotten.

Right after the impact, he felt the sun vanish behind the trees.
Worried, he looked up—and what he saw confirmed his fears.

Wind and current had merged,
and together they were dragging the boat straight toward a massive rock protruding from the water.
He knew that rock.
He’d called it the “starting point.”
Now it loomed like a cliff.

He reached for the oars.
Needed to brace—stop the collision.
The paddle scraped against the stone, plunged into the water—
but the right side of the boat still slammed into the rock.
Then, as if magnetically pulled, it froze for a second and began slowly sliding around it.

On the second attempt, he managed to push the boat away,
and the current began to carry it aside.
He tried to catch his breath, take in the situation—
but just fifteen meters ahead, the lake fell into a waterfall.

He knew the spot well: it was where a nameless mountain stream began.
He rowed furiously, fighting to keep the boat from drifting closer.

Then a thought snapped to life: the anchor!
Within seconds it was in his hand, and with all his strength,
he flung it overboard.
The lake was shallow here; the anchor quickly hit bottom.

The boat stopped.

“Now I can think... calmly. No panic,”
Leva murmured to himself, trying to steady his breathing.

He looked up—the sky was already clear.
Its purity, and the first emerging stars,
reminded him of nature’s utter indifference to human struggle.

It deepened his sense of solitude,
his sudden entry into a private battle for survival.

The shoreline blurred into vague shadows,
trees blending into a single dark mass.
The wind had vanished as suddenly as it had arrived.
Only the current remained,
but it no longer stirred the lake’s surface.

Leva felt like the world itself had paused.
He stood in the boat, motionless,
scanning through his mind for a way out.

He looked toward the waterfall.
It no longer seemed mortally dangerous.
Leva began to scan his surroundings.

Just ten meters away, he spotted a boat.
Three figures sat in it: two men and a boy, about eight years old.
The adults faced him, their eyes fixed calmly on their bobbers.
The serene stillness of the fishermen, and the prevailing quiet, calmed Leva slightly.
His spirit began to recover; faith, to return.

He stood still for a moment, glancing at the fishermen, then at their lines.
He didn’t want to ruin their peaceful moment.
He hesitated, unsure whether to speak first.
He hoped they’d notice him, understand the situation, and offer help.

At last, one of the men—the older of the two—looked up, smiled, and said:
— "Hello!"

Leva paused.
He felt a moment of inner control, then returned the smile:
— "Good evening!"

The man’s smile silently slid off his face—
as if it had fallen to the bottom of the boat.
He clearly hadn’t expected a reply in Russian.

— "Excuse me, I need help,"
Leva said calmly, quietly—feeling awkward.
He waited for the inevitable questions, for an offer to assist.
But none came.

— "My motor broke. Would you... tow me?"
he added, trying to draw them into conversation.

The second man, the younger one—
perhaps he'd understood all along, or just now put it together—
slowly, deliberately turned 180 degrees
and, without a word, cast his rod again.

A soft splash.
The bobber hit the water.

Leva was stunned.
He remained frozen in place, blinking in time with his heartbeat.
He looked at the boy, who—oblivious to what was happening—
was quietly poking at something in the bottom of the boat.

— "Don’t you have a paddle?"
the older man finally asked, hesitantly.
It was clear he was choosing his words carefully—
as if afraid to annoy the other.

— "Yes. One. But the boat is heavy, and the shore is far,"
Leva replied, somewhat apologetically.
He still hoped they might change their minds.

The older man looked at the younger.
But the younger didn’t even flinch.
His eyes remained locked on his bobber.
In the twilight, his broad back looked like a concrete wall—
from which Leva’s words, and the older man’s glance, simply bounced off.

— "I can’t. I have to take them to New York in thirty minutes,"
the older one said, with growing firmness.
Then he too turned, casting his line to the other side.

Now two concrete slabs loomed above the lake.

Leva needed time to process the response.
He stared at the fishermen in disbelief,
as if refusing to accept it was real.

— "Thank you,"
he said automatically.

In the thickening dusk, the two men slowly turned into stone megaliths.
It became clear:
no force—neither in a year, nor in a thousand—
could turn them toward those who ask for help.

For a moment, the boy looked up.
His eyes—childlike, but already indifferent—
did not meet Leva’s.
They just glanced across his face,
then returned to their silent "work."

Several long seconds passed.
Leva understood:
he was alone.
There would be no help.
Darkness was closing in quickly,
and soon it would swallow everything—including him.
Only the stars would remain, dimly lighting the lake’s surface.

He raised the anchor, took up the paddle,
and began to row—first on one side, then the other.
It felt like the boat wasn’t moving at all.
Then he tried the “Indian way”—
paddling on one side only, holding the oar longer to avoid turning the boat.
Still, it drifted—first right, then left.

After a few minutes, he admitted:
there was no trace of Native blood in his veins.
And yet—his stubborn struggle bore fruit.
The boat had moved several dozen meters away from the “megaliths.”

Leva took no comfort in this.
He rowed a few more strokes,
but whether from fatigue or despair, he felt weakness rising.
He decided to rest.

The anchor dropped into the water with a soft splash.
He sat down.
His muscles relaxed.
His head turned on its own toward the fishermen’s boat.
But it was no longer there.

The darkness had safely sealed him off
from those who had proudly refused to help.

Leva still couldn’t believe it had happened.
He remembered how he once agreed with Karl Marx:
"Being determines consciousness."
But after this encounter, he knew—his views and Marx’s no longer aligned.

— "What shapes our thoughts and actions?"
he asked himself aloud.
— "Not where we are born,
but what beats within our chest—
love, or indifference,"
he answered.

The silhouettes of the two men appeared in his mind.
— "I’ve witnessed the birth of human megaliths,"
Leva said bitterly, almost joking.
— "And I’ve discovered their secret:
it’s indifference to one’s spiritual present
and the future of one’s children."

He felt pity for the boy.
Then realized—he felt the same for the men.

Leva shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts,
and said aloud:
— "I have to row!
But slowly. The key is—consistency."

The sound of his own voice unsettled him.
He had always believed that talking to oneself
was a sign of decline.
But now—he no longer felt that way.
Quite the opposite:
his calm, confident tone gave him strength,
focused his thoughts,
even gave the sense that someone was with him.

Now he didn’t just speak—
he truly heard himself.

And he began to row,
to the rhythm of his voice:

— "One and… two and… one and… two and…"
Part III

The sense of loneliness, the physical weakness, and the darkness—
they all began to retreat.
The rhythm of movement, though slow,
but directed forward, began to calm him.
His body tensed with more purpose with every stroke of the paddle.

Time passed.
After a brief pause his mind had taken,
the thoughts returned.
But not new ones—
the same: about “the two in the boat, not counting the boy.”

— “If I had begged them—really begged—would they have helped me?
Or would it still have been no?”
Leva asked the surrounding darkness.

— “I did the right thing, not begging.
Karmically right. For everyone,”
he said aloud, more and more convinced
that he had acted properly, there and then.

— “But how could they…
Refuse help to someone stranded on the water?
Leave a man alone in the dark?”

He paused.
Then added, with weariness:
— “Well... God be with them.”

Still, the thought wouldn’t let go:
— “What stopped me from asking again?
Pride? Or the unyielding refusal that seemed to glow in the gathering darkness?”

Leva had no answer.
He fell silent.

The bitter feeling that had arisen—
a reaction to the cruelty thrown in his face—
suddenly shifted.
He felt the opposite.

Pity.

Pity for the boy who had been with them.
Because he had been a witness.
A witness to what?

To something terrifying—
the cold indifference toward someone asking for help.

Leva knew from life experience:
children see everything—without watching,
hear everything—without listening,
understand everything—without showing it,
and… remember.

And later?
They don’t always manage to forgive.

His heart was suddenly filled with a boundless compassion for that little boy.
And then—he caught himself:
he felt the same for the two men.

He shook his head, as if to dispel the thought, and said aloud:
— “I need to keep rowing. I must.”

But the thought returned:
— “I don’t envy those two…
They’ll spend the rest of their lives justifying themselves—
to themselves, to their children, to someone out there…”

— “I even pity them.
Maybe… just maybe,
there’s something in their souls
that won’t let them leave this life without regret?”

He kept rowing evenly, and the heavy boat moved forward—
toward its beacon.
Not yet visible,
but certainly already glowing somewhere
on the far-off dock.

Water reflects sound slowly, for a long time.
A quiet splash broke through Leva’s thoughts—
and voices.

He turned around.
In the distance—another boat.
Not the same.

It was following a parallel course.
From its outline, he recognized fishermen.
From experience, he knew—
only “our guys” fished this late.

He lifted the paddle again, keeping his rhythm.

After a few minutes, he looked back.
Unclear—were they moving, or just drifting?

— “Should I stop rowing?
Wait for them to catch up?
Ask for help?”
he wondered.

His body ached from exhaustion.
He looked back again.
The boat wasn’t approaching.

— “No rush…
Maybe trying to extend their ‘evening bite.’
But it’s already dark.
You can’t fool fish with bait in this,”
he muttered.

By his estimate, less than half the way remained.
— “I’ll make it on my own,”
he said firmly, and continued rowing.

The boat rocked gently from side to side—
like a toddler taking its first steps.

It reminded him of his granddaughter.
A smile touched his lips.
Warmth spread through his chest.
With that tenderness—came strength.

The boat moved a little faster,
slowly rounding the bend in the shore.

And suddenly—he saw the lights of the dock.
There was no mistaking them.

Bright.
Warm.
They seemed to touch his heart,
reinforcing his faith in himself.

He remembered:
he had installed a little beacon there once—
almost a toy, but real.
It pointed the way home.

Something cold and heavy hit his chest.
The wind struck sharply, turned the boat,
and pushed it toward the shore.

He started rowing harder.
But his body refused to obey.
Strained muscles.
Exhaustion.
Fatigue pressing in.

He dropped the anchor.
The boat stopped.
Waves slammed against its side.
A chill ran down his back.
A roaring in his ears.
Pain in his chest.
Breath—irregular, shallow.

All of it—he knew.
He’d been through it a year ago.

That time, he was in a hospital.
Doctors nearby.
Electrodes on his chest—monitoring his heart.
Three doctors.
Watching silently.

Their nods told him—this was serious.

Emergency tests.
For the first time, they drew blood from his wrist—it was faster that way.
Everything was urgent. Everything mattered.

The test showed: enzymes off the charts.
His heart was breaking down.

But that was under supervision.

Now—he was alone.
Here.

He tried to silence the roar in his ears.
Took a deep breath.
Then a slow exhale.
Again.
And again.

It helped.
The panic began to retreat.
His mind came back online.
Thoughts returned.

And again—went back to those two.

He remembered their faces:
The first man—eager, almost fawning.
The second—eyes lowered.

He’d seen this before,
among “our former people,”
when they unexpectedly heard their native language.

— “Strange people, we are—
emigrants from the Former...
We smile at Americans.
But to our own—disdain.
Sometimes even contempt.

Why is that?”

— “Is that what’s left from the ‘old’ life?” Leva wondered.
“But they never taught us that.
No one hammered into our heads that we should be polite to foreigners
and scorn our own.
No. I’m not like that…
And not all of ‘us’ are.”

He fell silent.
But his mind wouldn’t let go:
— “Then why are some like that?
And others not?
It’s not about where you’re born, or live, or what surrounds you.
It depends on who we choose to be,”
he said aloud.

A moment later, his voice calmer now, he added:
— “To be honest… I wasn’t even angry at the men in the boat.
I was just confused.”

And the realization brought him a strange relief—
his soul, without needing words,
had long since—perhaps immediately—
forgiven them.
Even pitied them.

Minutes passed.
He felt ready to continue.
The certainty in himself, and in his ability
to reach the warm light waiting for him at the dock,
helped him rise, lift the anchor,
and begin to row again.

Over the water once more came his quiet but confident voice:
— “One and… two and… pause… one and… two and…”

The boat crept forward,
slow but stubborn,
against the alliance of wind and current.

— “Two against one.
Not exactly fair.
But right now, I am stronger than you,”
he said, addressing the wave, the wind, and himself.

All thoughts of the two men were swept away—
as if carried off by a gust of wind.

In their place came the image of the boy—
the silent witness.
Not by accident.

— “His father and grandfather made him
a witness to someone being denied help.
Someday he’ll remember.
And he’ll understand.
Maybe he’ll be in such a moment himself—
in any role.
Even if not, he’ll still remember.
Memory works that way…

How will he look them in the eyes?”

— “I pity them…
All three of them,”
Leva thought, continuing to pull the paddle.

Exhaustion tightened its grip again.
Everything hurt—arms, back, even his insides.

— “I need to rest,”
he ordered himself.

His hand reached for the anchor.
But just then, the wind dropped—
just as suddenly as it had come.

He put the anchor back and stood,
holding the paddle,
waiting until his body was ready again.

Behind him—soft voices.
A boat was approaching.
He turned.
In the distance—two figures.

Seconds passed, stretching into minutes.
He turned again toward the dock.
It wasn’t getting closer.
But it wasn’t receding either.

— “Is there any point in rowing now?
If they come closer, I’ll ask…
But what if they refuse too?

No.
Let them pass.
I’ll do this myself.
I have the strength.”

The boat stood still.
Its reflection merged with the mirror of the night sky on the water.
Splashes and voices didn’t disturb the silence—
on the contrary, they deepened it.

— “I won’t turn around.
I won’t ask.
I’ll get there on my own,”
he whispered.

And then—from across the lake—
a voice:

— “Are you OK?”

Softly.
Almost a whisper.
And in the tone and accent,
Leva immediately understood—
he had been wrong.

He turned.
Two elderly Americans in a small boat,
moving slowly,
parallel to his.

There was hardly any motor noise—
likely low power or a weak battery.

— “I… really… need help. My motor is dead,”
Leva said evenly, without pleading.
Then instinctively waved his paddle.

— “Why didn’t you ask us for help?
Oh boy…”
the first one said, with sincere bewilderment,
glancing at the second.

Leva wanted to answer—
something like, “I didn’t want to bother you,”
but stayed silent.

He hadn’t expected this.
He no longer believed this was possible.

And suddenly, he felt ashamed—
for how quickly he’d lost faith.

— “Do you have rope?”
the second asked, also in a half-whisper,
with respect for the night.

— “Yes,”
Leva replied, standing at the stern.
Then quickly moved to the bow,
handing over the rope.

He noticed:
his boat was twice as big and three times heavier than theirs.

— “Where do you need?”
the first asked.

— “Do you see the lights there?
That’s my dock… please.”

He was struck by how natural they were.
These Americans saw him—
in the darkness.
Stopped.
And were surprised he hadn’t asked for help.

— “Why?”
That unspoken question lingered in their tone—
and it cut him deep.

He felt like a guilty schoolboy—
ashamed of his own thoughts,
his skepticism.

— “Do you see the lights there? That’s my dock…”
he repeated.

And no one said anything more.

Only the little boat—
quiet, modest—
glided over the lake among the reflected stars,
pulling behind it a heavy one,
carrying a lonely,
but now happy,
emigrant from “the former.”

More than once,
Leva wanted to tell them about “the two in the other boat.”
But he changed his mind.

He would’ve had to say they were “Russians.”
And he didn’t want that.
Something inside held him back.

The shape of the dock was becoming clear—
warmer, brighter, more real.

And Leva, gripping the rope,
said softly but with deep gratitude:
— “Thank you… very much…
Thank you… very… much…”

The “Americans” exchanged a look—
genuinely puzzled.

— “No problems,”
the first said calmly, looking at the second.

The last few meters,
their little “caravan” traveled in total silence.

Leva longed to thank them again—
out loud, from the heart.

He was about to say something—
but then noticed:
the soft hum of their motor… had stopped.

At first, he thought they’d turned it off
to avoid underwater rocks—
but then saw the first man lifting the motor out of the water.

— “I see…
Bolivar couldn’t carry two,”
Leva chuckled to himself.

That phrase from his childhood—
from Gaidai’s 1962 film Strictly Business,
based on O. Henry’s stories—
suddenly surfaced.

And with it came thoughts
of childhood memories—
and adult responsibility for them.

He looked at the first man again,
and a little louder than usual asked:

— “What happened? Your battery is dead?”

And without waiting for a reply, added:

— “Take mine!”

— “No.
We have paddles.
We are here next,”
the first replied,
glancing at Leva’s own oar—
as if making sure this man was truly okay now.

And only then
the second untied the rope.

It soared briefly toward the stars,
then dropped softly onto Leva’s bow.

The first man took up the oars
and began to row.

Once again,
Leva wanted to say something—
something important.

He opened his mouth
to thank them for their help,
their kindness,
for not passing him by…

But what came out instead,
almost without him realizing:

— “God bless America…”

— “God bless America!”
echoed back
from the boat fading into the night.

— “And God bless you both…”
Leva added.