Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу автора  The Legend of number 7

Ikromjon Mamajanov

Contents

Part I: The Legend of Number 7

Chapter I: Ancestral Heritage and the Chieftain’s Unease

The African sun set upon the horizon, casting an amber and orange glow across the land. In these vast expanses, the domain of the Vax-Ru, the wind blew with a peculiar dignity. Kax, the aged and powerful chieftain, stood on the ridge, watching his people gather around the fires below. The deep wrinkles on his face marked a long life of experience, while the sharpness in his eyes showed that strength still coursed through him. At that moment, a suspicious rustle came from the tall grass behind him. The chieftain did not flinch. Following the rustling, the low, menacing growl of a lion — the true ruler of the savannah — echoed in the air. While such a sound would surely freeze the heart of any ordinary man, not a trace of fear appeared in Kax’s gaze. He fixed his eyes for a moment on the shadow moving swiftly through the grass, almost invisible, and a faint smile touched his lips. Then, in a calm voice, as if calling to a loved one at home, he spoke:

“Iru, that is enough… You are still too young to deceive your grandfather, my little leopard.”

From the tall grass emerged Iru, a nimble boy of about thirteen with bright, sparkling eyes. Although his lip curled slightly in a pout, his face betrayed a mix of wonder and a hint of defeat. He approached his grandfather, hands on his hips, and spoke with a touch of a complaint:

“Grandfather, how did you know? The whole tribe believes my lion’s roar — even the real lions answer back! But you… you always find me, as if you can see right through the grass.”

Kax turned slowly to look at his grandson. His gaze held both infinite affection and a quiet, hidden pride. Placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, the old chieftain replied in a steady voice:

“My child, if I could not sense the fire in our blood, how could I call myself your grandfather? You do not just live among the grass, Iru; you move within the wind itself. I do not feel your presence with my eyes, but with my spirit.”

They watched the valley and their home below in silence for a moment. Kax’s next words seemed to hint at a vast responsibility that Iru had yet to grasp:

“The breath of our ancestors is in your every step. Not everyone understands this, but the time will come when your strength will astonish the world.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Iru was puzzled to see his grandfather staring mournfully at the tribe below. He stepped closer to the elder.

“Grandfather, why did you come up here? Is something wrong?”

Kax exhaled a heavy sigh and turned to his grandson.

“Ah, my child, I fear for the future of our tribe,” he said, his voice trembling slightly.

To Iru, everything seemed fine.

“Why do you worry, Grandfather?” Iru asked. “The kind people in red clothes came only recently. They healed our sick and taught me English and how to read. Everything is improving, isn’t it?”

His grandfather looked into Iru’s innocent eyes and began to speak softly.

“Iru… the truth is, while those people can teach you their language and their books, they cannot understand our spirit. I fear that the glittering trinkets and new words they bring will distance you from us — from the land of your ancestors. Moreover, my child, five of the six wells in our village have run dry. Only one remains, and its water is receding; it may soon vanish altogether.”

Iru looked at his grandfather with hopeful eyes and asked quietly, “But Grandfather, did the city people not want to help us? Is that not so?”

Kax gripped his grandson’s shoulder and took a long, heavy breath.

“My son, in this world, no one helps for free. In exchange for water, electricity, and machinery, they demand our land. I can never agree to this. We are the last ancient tribe on this sacred soil. I cannot trade our freedom and ancestral heritage for glittering trinkets!”

“Then we need another way…” Iru whispered.

Chapter II: A Spark of Hope in an Old Magazine

Iru strode down from the ridge toward the village. Reaching his small hut, he collapsed onto his straw mat and lay staring at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted far away, led by the fears his grandfather had shared. Suddenly, a flash of an idea struck him, and he scrambled to his feet.

From beneath the straw of his bed, he pulled out an old, tattered magazine left behind by the doctors. Its pages were frayed and the colours faded, but to Iru, it was more than just paper — it was a window into a magical world. He had read every page so many times he knew them by heart. His fingers flicked through the pages until, at last, he found what he was looking for.

On that page was an article about a world football star, the legendary number 7 of the famous “Royal Club” — Crio Ron. Iru’s eyes remained fixed on the photographs. They told the story of how Crio had risen from an ordinary boy to a global icon. He, too, had known poverty and hunger in his youth, yet through relentless toil and an iron will, he had overcome every obstacle.

As Iru reread the article, he realised that Crio Ron was not only a great athlete but also a man of immense heart. The text spoke of his aid to sick children and the millions of dollars he gave to charity. In that moment, a spark of hope ignited in Iru’s mind: “If Crio has helped so many people, perhaps he could save our tribe too?”

But how could he reach him? Iru searched beneath the straw again, pulling out other magazines. In one, he found a mention that the “Royal Club” was based in Madrid, Spain. Then, on a torn page, he discovered a world map. Fortuitously, the doctors had taught him how to use a map and the basics of global travel. Yet, the reality was harsh and unforgiving. Iru was still a minor, a mere boy of thirteen. Furthermore, he existed on no official register; he was a member of an “unnamed” tribe that lived solely by ancient traditions. He possessed neither a passport nor any document to prove his identity. As for finances, it went without saying — his entire world consisted of a few old magazines and the simple cloth upon his back.

Iru gazed at the vast distance between distant Spain and the African expanse where he stood. To his small steps, the journey felt like an endless desert. However, whenever he recalled the drying well in the village and the mournful look in his grandfather’s eyes, his hesitation faded, replaced by a firm resolve.

Even so, Kax had strictly forbidden his grandson from approaching the city. For the tribe, this was an unwritten yet sacred law. Kax viewed any contact with the outside world as a betrayal of their identity and holy values. For several days, Iru scavenged around the village, gathering every scrap of paper, fragment of newspaper, and torn book page left behind by the doctors like a hoard of treasure. With his small hands, he was sketching the grandest and most perilous plan of his life.

Chapter III: The Perilous Plan and the Chieftain’s Decree

The straw walls of the hut had taken on a strange, almost mystical appearance. Like a seasoned investigator, Iru had pinned his gathered information across the surface. On one side hung a hand-drawn map of Madrid; on the other, a photograph of Crio Ron and his legendary number “7”. Iru had connected them with lengths of red twine found from an unknown source. These threads were more than mere fabric; they were the strands of fate and the lifeline of his tribe’s hope. Gazing at this tangled yet meaningful display, Iru felt the crushing weight of defying his grandfather’s sacred prohibition. Yet, the daily receding water in the well left him no choice. His small room was no longer just a hut; it had become a gateway to the other side of the world.

A few days passed. At the edge of the village, several lorries pulled to a halt, kicking up clouds of dust. The Vax-Ru had always been a hospitable people; they did not mind the arrival of travellers, provided one condition was met: outsiders must not disturb their ancient way of life. Unable to curb his curiosity, Iru approached a massive lorry. He drew near the open windo