The Green Awakening
Morning mist clings to the birch trees. In a grove of ancient oaks, a pile of leaves begins to stir.
It is not the wind. The leaves swirl and knit together, forming a shape. A body made of bark and moss rises from the forest floor. The hair acts as a beard of living grass and tangled roots. The eyes burn with a green, bioluminescent fire.
The Leshy yawns. The sound is the creaking of old wood in a gale.
He stretches. As he does, he grows. He starts the size of a sapling, but with every inhale, he expands. He matches the height of the surrounding trees, becoming a towering giant of the canopy. This is his rule: in the forest, he is as tall as the tallest pine. In the field, he is as small as the humblest blade of grass.
The Morning Rounds
He walks through his domain. He does not crush the undergrowth. The plants bend out of his way, recognizing their master.
He checks on a badger set disturbed by a storm. With a wave of his hand, the earth knits back together, sealing the entrance against the rain. He finds a wolf caught in a rusted iron trap left by a poacher.
The Leshy growls. The sound vibrates through the ground. He hates iron. It is the metal of men, cold and dead.
He touches the trap. The metal rusts instantly, crumbling into orange dust. The wolf whimpers, licking its wounded paw. The Leshy pats the animal's head, his touch gentle as a falling leaf. "Run, brother," he whispers in the language of the wild. "Run far."
The Intruder
By noon, the sun is high. A mushroom hunter enters the woods. He is a young man, loud and careless. He whistles a tune that clashes with the song of the birds. He kicks at a toadstool.
The Leshy narrows his eyes. Disrespect cannot be tolerated.
It is time for a game.
The Leshy shrinks. He becomes the size of a squirrel, darting behind a fern. He changes his voice.
"Over here!" he calls, mimicking the voice of the man’s friend.
The hunter turns. "Dmitri?"
"Huge Bolete mushrooms! Over here!"
The hunter runs toward the voice. He pushes through a thicket of brambles.
There is no one there. Only a muddy swamp.
"Over here!" the voice calls again, this time from the left.
The hunter spins around. He is getting confused. The path he just walked on seems to have disappeared. The trees look different. They seem to preserve a menacing posture, leaning in closer.
The Lost Path
The Leshy enjoys this. He shifts the landmarks. He turns a stream so it flows uphill. He makes a familiar oak tree appear in three different places.
The hunter is panic-stricken. He runs in circles. He is sweating, his basket of mushrooms forgotten. He has been "encircled" by the Leshy.
The spirit watches from the branch of a pine tree, dangling his legs. He laughs, clapping his wooden hands. It is a lesson. The forest is not a supermarket. It is a living thing, and it demands respect.
The Offering
The hunter collapses on a mossy log. He puts his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he sobs. "I just wanted some supper."
He takes a piece of bread from his pocket. He leaves it on the log. "Take it," he whispers. "Just let me go home."
The Leshy pauses. He sniffs the bread. It is a peace offering. It is genuine.
The spirit descends. He does not show himself—that would break the man's mind. He simply waves his hand.
The brambles part. A clear path appears, bathed in golden sunlight, leading straight back to the village.
The hunter looks up. He sees the path. He gasps, scrambling to his feet. He runs, leaving the bread behind.
The Evening Song
The Leshy picks up the bread. He crumbles it, feeding it to the ravens that gather on his shoulders.
The sun sets, painting the sky in fiery reds. The Leshy shrinks again, becoming one with the shadows.
He leans against his favorite oak. He takes out a flute made of hollow reeds. He begins to play. The music is the sound of the wind, the rain, and the growing roots.
The forest settles down to sleep. The Guardian is awake. As long as he breathes, the woods will never be tamed.
