Колобок перевод романа на английский

Prologue
He remembered the warmth of the oven. Not a hot, scorching flame, but a steady, deep warmth that penetrated the very essence of matter, changing it. Flour, water, sour cream, salt - all of it was dead matter until her hands touched them. Hands that knew not only the power of kneading, but also the quiet sadness of lonely old age. Into this sadness she kneaded him. A tear from the smoke, a sigh for lost youth, and an unconscious desire for something that had not been there all her life fell into the dough. Perhaps a miracle.
And a miracle happened. When the golden-brown, perfectly round loaf of bread came out of the oven, it was no longer just food. It was alive. The first thing he saw were her eyes - faded, tired, but wide open with amazement. And the first thing he felt was not gratitude, but an all-consuming, sickle-sharp fear.

Chapter 1. Escape
They called him Kolobok. He lay on a carved oak shelf, between a clay pot and a bundle of dried herbs, and listened to their quiet, intermittent whisper.
“It needs to be… eaten,” the old man said, and his voice sounded not so much like desire as duty. Duty to the hungry winter, to common sense.
- Don't you dare! - whispered the old woman. - He's... alive. It's a sign. Maybe there is such a sin.
But Kolobok heard not words, but intent. Intent to consume, to destroy, to return to the state of lifeless matter. Fear squeezed him even more roundly. One single desire blazed within him - to be. Just to be.
And when the old men were asleep, he rolled. Not by the strength of his legs, which he had no legs for, but by the force of his will. He rolled off the shelf, landed softly on the hardened earthen floor, rolled out through the crack under the door and found himself in the world.
The world was vast, cold, and full of moonlight. He lay on the grass, looking up at the endless black-violet sky, strewn with stars, and felt both delight and horror. He was free. But what should a round piece of dough do with freedom?

Chapter 2. Meeting with the Hare
The first person he met on his way was the Hare. Not a fairy-tale toothy villain, but a skinny, trembling creature with eyes bulging from eternal fear and a torn ear.
- Stop! - squeaked the Hare, jumping out onto the path. - Who are you? A shooting star?
- I am Kolobok. I am free.
- Free? - The hare sat on his hind legs and scratched behind his ear in bewilderment. - Is this something edible?
“No,” answered Kolobok, and for the first time not only the will to live but also cunning awoke in him. “I am the spirit of the past summer. I keep the warmth of the sun in my crust. If you touch me, you’ll get burned. And if you eat me, your soul will be lost in the snowstorms forever.”
The hare shuddered. He looked at the perfectly round, rosy form of Kolobok, at the moonlight that played on his side, and believed. He believed in everything mysterious and frightening.
And Kolobok rolled on, discovering the power of words, the power of the myth that one can create about oneself.

Chapter 3. Conversation with the Wolf
The wolf was old. His fur was in tatters, his ribs showed through his skin, and his eyes held not malice but the tired, bitter wisdom of hunger. He lay stretched out on the stone, looking at Kolobok with a heavy, unblinking gaze.
"Come closer, marble," he said hoarsely. "It's almost dawn. I'm too old to chase ghosts."
“I am not a ghost,” said Kolobok, stopping at a respectful distance. “I am Kolobok.”
- Kolobok, - the Wolf licked his lips. - It smells like... home comfort. A stove. Warm bread. This smell makes your cheekbones ache.
"This smell is deceptive," said Kolobok, and his voice trembled. He saw that this beast did not believe in fairy tales. "I am baked from the last flour, mixed with tears and baked with despair. Eat me - and this longing will become yours. Your hunger will not be satisfied, but only increased a hundredfold.
The wolf raised his head, something like interest flashing in his yellow eyes.
- You speak like an old hag, not like a bread-head. How would you know about melancholy?
- She entered me with the mixture. I was born from her.
The wolf thought. He looked at the dawn breaking in the east, then at this strange, talking lump of dough.
"Go away," he finally muttered, lowering his head onto his paws. "Life is bitter without you. I don't need to chew on your melancholy."

Chapter 4. Temptation of the Bear
The bear was powerful and simple. He was nature itself, rough and implacable. He did not speak, but roared. He did not ask, but demanded.
He blocked Kolobok's path, a huge shadow eclipsing the morning sun.
"FOOD!" he roared, and the sound caused needles to fall from the trees.
Kolobok realized that neither cunning nor philosophy would help here. Before him was the blind element of carnivory. And then he took the risk.
- I am food! - he shouted, rolling almost to the very paws of the beast. - But I am a challenge! Are you strong? Prove it! Can you crush me? Can you hold me? I elude everyone!
The Bear's pride, his thirst to prove his superiority, was stronger than his hunger. He growled and covered Kolobok with a giant suit of armor with claws capable of tearing the bark off a pine tree.
But how to hold the perfectly round, elastic body? Kolobok managed to slip out from under the paw, jumping to the side.
"Not strong enough!" he shouted. "Try again!"
Mad with rage, the Bear beat the ground with his paws, tore up bushes, but Kolobok, like mercury, eluded him. Tired, the Bear fell to the ground with a crash.
"Go to hell, you nasty lump!" he growled, turning away.
Kolobok rolled, feeling dizzy with his own audacity. He was winning. He wasn't just food, he was a player.

Chapter 5. The Fox, or the Art of Deception
The Fox was different. She was not hungry like the Hare, not old like the Wolf, and not simple like the Bear. She was curious. The art of deception was not a means of survival for her, but a high art, the only entertainment in the endless game of life.
She saw Kolobok rolling along the edge of the forest and did not block his path. She lay down on a sunny stone, bending in a graceful, careless pose, and watched him through half-closed eyes.
"What a graceful path you have chosen," she said in a quiet, melodious voice as Kolobok drew level with her. "A perfectly straight line. A sign of a high goal."
Kolobok stopped. His previous victories made him self-confident. This Fox was the first who spoke to him not about food, but about his path.
- I have no goal. I'm just rolling.
“Oh, no,” the Fox said softly. “Everything in this world is going somewhere. The question is, where? And why? You are not like anyone I have ever met. You are… perfect. A perfect form. You must have been created by a great master.”
Her words were sweeter than sour cream, sweeter than honey. They flattered his very essence. She didn't want to eat him - she admired him.
"Sit closer to me," she asked gently. "I can't hear you well. Your voice is so quiet, and I'm sure your stories are so interesting..."
Caution drowned in a sea of flattery. Kolobok rolled closer.
- Even closer, my beautiful round philosopher. I don't bite.
He rolled closer, so close that he could see his distorted, blurry reflection in her pitch-black eyes.
"You know," she whispered, her breath smelling of wild berries, "you have one flaw. Just one.
“What?” Kolobok exhaled, captivated by her attention.
- You're too perfect to be true. And I have to check...
She moved like lightning. Not a bite, not a blow, but a quick, precise push with her paw. He was so close to the edge of the stone that he didn't have time to react. He tumbled down to the ground, and the impact caused a crack in his perfect, ruddy crust.
And then he saw her true face. Not curiosity, not admiration, but the cold, calculating passion of a hunter. But it was too late. He lay on his side, trying to regain his form, to find a foothold.
"Perfection is so fragile," the Fox said sadly, jumping off the rock. "One push and there's a crack. What's inside? Let's see."
She didn't eat it right away. She played with it. She nudged it with her paw, making it roll aimlessly on the ground, dropping it again and again, not letting it roll away. He tried to remember his stories, his cunning, but before this pure, unalloyed deception all his words were powerless. They crumbled like crumbs.
"Sing your song, Kolobok," she whispered mockingly. "Sing about how you left everyone."
But he couldn't. There was no air for song in his cracked chest. There was only silence, in which the crunching grew.

Epilogue
The world narrowed to the smell of fox fur, to black eyes that held no soul, to sharp pain. And in the last moment, before the darkness swallowed him, Kolobok understood. He was not the spirit of summer or the embodiment of melancholy. He was simply bread. His victories were an illusion, his freedom an accident, and his path an escape from the inevitable end of all life: to be eaten, consumed, to become part of another, to give him the strength to continue his own, equally meaningless run.
And there was a cruel truth to it. He was eaten. But for a moment, he was free. He rolled. He saw the stars. And that, perhaps, was enough.
And the Fox, having eaten the last crumb, licked her lips and looked at the empty space on the ground.
"Too much philosophy," she said indifferently. "And not enough salt."
And she disappeared into the shadows of the forest, going off to look for an exciting game.