Leshy

Chase Johnson

 

Leshy

 

“It’s cold,” said Ilya, pulling small mittens over his hands. His father and older brother ignored him. In fact, they had been unusually quiet tonight. His brother Kostya held a lantern and walked first, his breath coming with the cadence of his step, illuminated in the dim light. Even the lantern was losing to the cold. Their father walked in stride with his eldest son, the dark barrel of a shotgun resting in the bend of an elbow.

Ilya shuffled along behind, rubbing his little hands together. Even for autumn, it was chilly, and the night air stung his lungs and windpipe if he breathed too hard. A thick layer of dead leaves crunched underfoot, and he enjoyed sweeping his feet through the deeper piles of them. This drew a glare from his older brother, and Ilya stopped kicking leaves, wincing. Kostya was always yelling at Ilya, sometimes kicking him or smacking him over the head. Ilya thought he was just mad for no reason and had come to expect random beatings. This time, however, Kostya didn’t kick Ilya, only held the lantern lower and spoke to their father. “I don’t understand, Papa. Why are they making us go? Can no one take our place?”

“No.” Their father grunted, shifting the gun to the other arm.

“Because this isn’t the regular offering.”

“No.”

“What is it, then?”

“It is a penance.” 

Kostya tried to recall what penance meant, but did not try for long. He picked up a stick and threw it in frustration. “You should have let me bring my bow.” 

“I told you, no.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.” His father grunted. He looked at his father’s right hand, missing the fore and middle fingers. The fingers used to draw a bowstring back.

“It is always no.”

Kostya’s head dropped, the expression on his face the same as when Mama taught him books. Mama always said Kostya had extra mud in his head. She said Papa should let him sleep outside with the goats, since they used their heads for the same purpose. Ilya kicked at another pile of leaves. This time Kostya wheeled on him and shoved his little brother to the ground.

He held the lantern to Ilya's face. “Keep the noise down.” Squatting, holding the lantern between them, Kostya pointed into the pitch black of the forest. “Leshy is out there. Do you want him to hear us?”

Ilya shook his head.

A branch cracked in the forest ahead, and all three of them snapped their heads in that direction. “Get up.” Their father said. He brought the stock of his shotgun up to his shoulder, and waited.

It was difficult to judge the distance, but out in the darkness, a ball of fire weaved through the trees. It passed between the maples, elms, and walnuts, their leafless branches stretching toward the flame like emaciated arms. It had not rained for a month, and if given the chance, a fire would consume the entire forest, but the light persisted without incident.  Underneath the flame was a head, the skull of a deer crowned with a great rack of antlers. Then the form of a man materialized, stepping over fallen logs and under low hanging branches, carrying a torch. He wore deer pelts, and his wobbly steps rattled with the animal bones tied to his clothes. Kostya counted all the points on the rack before the old man stood in front of them. It wasn’t a deer skull, but an elk. Ilya saw that his feet were bare and black, like the earth he walked over, his toenails the curved yellow of goat horns. The skull obscured all but his mouth, and his teeth were stained the color of piss. Those that were left.

“You have brought the boy.” He nodded. His voice was hoarse, like it wasn’t used much, but held concealed glee.

“Yes.” Their father answered. 

Ilya hid behind his father, holding tightly to the man’s pants. He looked up and asked, “Who is that, Papa?” 

Their father said nothing, and Kostya looked away. The man bowed before Ilya; a necklace made of raven skulls hung low past his neck. “I am a servant of the forest, boy. A servant of the earth.”  Behind the eye sockets of the elk skull a man peered out, and he fixed those eyes on their father, then straightened. “Come. The council is waiting.”

They followed the strange man in silence, until more lights could be seen through a thick grove. At its center was a clearing, lit with four torches set around a circle of gray, hulking upright stones, like the iron teeth of a giant’s skull. Here, even deep into autumn, the trees of held onto their leaves. Some were yellow, some orange, and one particular giant oak at the center was covered in a deep red. Along the trail leading into the grove were pairs of shoes. Ilya, shorter than most and accustomed to watching the lower half of adults, recognized many of them. There were the gray slip-on sneakers of his teacher, Miss Rodin, the well-used leather boots of Petyr the carpenter, frayed along the edges, and the shiny Oxford’s of the mayor, Vadim, set together at right angles on a level stone. But hanging from the great oak were the most pairs. Dozens of children’s shoes held aloft by their shoestrings.  

“You must remove your footwear,” The Servant said. “This is a sacred place.”

Kostya had already tossed his shoes aside, curling his toes in the dirt. Ilya did not remove anything. His nostrils were red from the cold, and the back of his mittens wet from snot.  His father bent down and began untying the boy’s shoelaces. “It is required,” he said quietly, not looking his son in the eye. When he finished removing the small sneakers, held on mostly by velcro, the Servant held out his hand to receive them. Men and women, dressed in warm down jackets and knitted mittens or leather gloves, stood barefoot in two long rows leading up to the oak tree. All of them wore masks like the Servant, though none the skull of an animal. Some of these masks were made of tree bark, some were jackdaw and raven feathers stitched over a hood, and others animal skins sewn together with dark thread. All were unique and unmoving. The only hint these people were alive, and not statues, was their breath, coming in puffs beyond their masks.

Ilya held his father’s hand as they walked between the rows, taking awkward and sometimes painful steps. Kostya did not follow them. He stared at the people as father and son walked toward the great oak. The Servant snuffed his torch in the dirt and leaned on his staff. A man with the head of a boar stood at the end of the two rows, in front of a stained flat stone. At its center was a wooden bowl, filled with a hazel liquid, and next to the bowl a coil of rope. 

The boar addressed the crowd of masked figures, and Ilya immediately recognized him as Vadim. “He is here. Here with us. The Old God. He of the forest. He who has protected us, watched over our people, covered this community when others were swallowed by the Great Vengeance of the gods. He who stands in the way of Death.” A raven landed on the Servant’s shoulder, cawed. Vadim continued. “The hour draws near, and indeed has come, when the price for his covering would be paid again. This.” He held out the bowl with one hand. “We pay with much thanksgiving.”

The Servant took the bowl from Vadim and knelt to Ilya’s level. “Drink, boy.”

The little boy raised his chin to look up at his father, who only stared blankly at the great oak. When Ilya wouldn’t drink, his father said, without looking down, “Drink, son.”

So he pulled the bowl to his lips and drained the liquid. To his surprise, it was almost sweet, and tasted like cinnamon. The raven cawed, turned on the old man’s shoulder, then flew away into the night. Moments later, Ilya licked his lips a few times, swayed in place, then dropped the bowl onto the cold earth and fell forward. His father let go of his hand, his last memory as he fell.

When Ilya lay motionless, his father lifted the boy onto the stone, and Vadim pulled his boar skin off so the head hung at his shoulders. He bound the child’s hands, then pulled a silver knife from a sheath on his belt, and had he not been stopped by the Servant, would have slit the boy’s throat. 

“Leshy does not require the boy’s blood this time. Bring him to the tree…and continue.” 

Vadim carried the boy to the oak and set his body between the roots. Here he knelt and lifted his arms to the branches of the tree. “This boy we offer to you, oh lord. Lord of forest, of the beasts and the earth. The one who listened to us as the fires and wars raged around the world. As sons of men destroyed themselves when the world turned on them. You heard us, you heard your people crying out, and you saved us. So, this offering of a child we present to you. Leshy.” With his prayer ended, he held a hand to the chest of the boy, the shallow breaths coming and going. It had been so long since the last sacrifice. Leshy would be hungry. He tied the boy’s wrists together, then tossed the rope over a sturdy branch and hoisted the boy until his arms were over his head and his feet above the ground. Then using his thumb, he drew runes with a blood paste on the semicircle of stones. When he had finished, stepping back to ensure he had not missed a step, he bumped into the boy’s brother, Kostya. Vadim would never admit it, but it frightened him. Ilya’s brother was barely thirteen but solid.

“Do not cross the ritual circle.” Vadim told him, holding a hand in front of the boy’s chest and preventing him from stepping past the stones. “Or you will be the one marked, and Leshy will come for you.”

Kostya’s father grabbed his son by the arm and pulled him away, and the entire crowd of people stepped, silent as deer, into the woods barefoot. Kostya turned to look one last time at his brother, his scrawny arms holding him in the air, before stepping over a fallen tree and crossing into the darkness beyond.

***   

The clearing was quiet. After the last person vanished, a wind blew through the clearing, a noise like whispering voices. It only rustled leaves at first but built in power and violence until the great trees creaked, and all the torches became smoking poles. Then everything was still again, and the moon traveled through the sky until it came to rest over the clearing, the stone circle creating lunar shadows on the dead grass. Wolves howled in the distance. There was a flapping of a hundred pairs of wings as black birds took roost in the oak. A raven perched on the branch where Ilya’s hands were tied. He cawed twice.

Ilya’s eyes cracked open, lethargic. It was so dark, and cold, and his wrists hurt. He wondered why his wrists hurt and why he couldn’t touch the ground. The raven called again, and it startled him. He stretched his neck to look above him. Only one raven made the noise, but hundreds of eyes reflected the silver of the moon. Just beyond the clearing, he heard the heavy breathing of large animals, the pads of their feet making soft thuds in the earth.

“Papa?” Ilya asked quietly. It was difficult to breathe. The response was a low growl, like a handsaw pulled across woodgrain, and when he peered through the trees, he saw dark shapes trotting back and forth. He recognized them. Wolves. His father killed three of them after a pack tore into Nikolai’s pigpen and stole three sows. He remembered the argument with the mayor, while the Servant stood far off in the forest. The first time his father came home with a wolf pelt was the day the Servant took two of his fingers. They made Nikolai participate in holding his friend down while the Servant sawed them off. It was the only other time Ilya had seen the wild man.

The wolves drew closer, so close Ilya could hear them sniffing. “Papa!” He yelled, loud as he could, but it wouldn’t matter out in the grove. He would never be able to yell loud enough to reach anyone in their village. His voice disappeared into the frigid air. Ilya pulled and pulled at the rope, swinging back and forth. He thought that if he could swing far enough, he might be able to grip the branch above him with his legs, and be at least out of range of their teeth, but it was too far.

Suddenly, the birds and wolves were still, their beaks and ears pointing across the clearing. Something was there in the night, and Ilya stopped swinging, the creaking of the rope coming to a halt. Thffft! Ilya felt the vibrations in the air from an object flying past his ear. It thudded into the body of the largest gray wolf, causing it to yelp in pain, turn and flee headlong into the forest. The birds in the tree cawed in terror, exploding from the oak in a black raucous cloud. Thffft! Another. This one missed the wolves, now snapping at each other in confusion, but careened instead off the rope. Ilya could feel the threads weaken, but it held fast. Then sparks flashed on the other side of the clearing, and a torch burned to life, causing the dark to retreat into the shadows of trees. It was not an adult, but rather a teenage boy, a bow as long as his body held fast in his left hand, and a shotgun slung over his shoulder.

“Get away from him you bastards!”

Ilya squinted in confusion. It was Kostya. At home, his brother often pushed Ilya into the mud if he forgot to feed the chickens and sometimes rubbed his face in their crap. He would kick Ilya when he wandered off into the forest by himself, and sneer and laugh if he complained about being hungry. Ilya was sure Kostya hated him.

Knowing the pack’s confusion would only be temporary, Kostya rushed across the clearing. He could hit a hummingbird wing at fifty paces, but he only had eight arrows, and tracking and hitting so many targets while they rushed him through the trees was impossible. He didn’t even know if the shotgun worked, so he had to hurry. Sliding up next to his brother, Kostya wedged his torch between two rocks, then sawed furiously at the rope knot binding Ilya to the tree.

Kostya hated the Servant. He hated Vadim. And sometimes, he hated his father.

Seven years earlier, before his brother was born, Kostya attended a celebration people called “The Offering”. There was a table with more food than Kostya had seen in his entire life, a party where the grownups wore masks and danced to music, and a mock battle where Leshy defeated Chernobog and offered a sanctuary to the people. He went with a friend of his named Uliana. She had red hair and was a year older than Kostya. When he finished his chores at home, he would race to meet Uliana in the woods, where they would play games, hunt frogs, and sit by the river until evening. At the end of the celebration, the entire town attended the final night of The Offering at the Great Oak. Three girls died that day, their throats cut and their bodies strung up to hang from the tree. Kostya remembered how Uliana’s blood was darker than her hair.

When it happened, Kostya thought the grownups did it because Uliana had done something wrong, something so terrible she deserved to die, but when his brother was taken, he knew this wasn’t true. The grownups were wrong. For five years, he made sure of it. Ilya never forgot his chores, because if he did Kostya would remind him, beat him if necessary. When Ilya destroyed something in the house, Kostya would take the blame and endure his mother’s beatings. And when Ilya sinned, Kostya punished him. He made sure the gods knew Ilya had already suffered.

When the mayor came to their house while Ilya was asleep, and told his parents what had to be done, Kostya knew the Servant’s god was wrong. He wouldn’t let his brother die, so he took his father’s gun, his bow, and several arrows and snuck out that night to steal him back from Leshy.

“Kostya?” Ilya’s voice was weak. “Where is Papa?” Vadim had taken his brother’s coat, and the little boy wasn’t shivering. He had been exposed to the cold for too long. When the rope finally snapped, Ilya crashed to the ground and curled up against the great oak’s roots. Kostya shook him.

“Get up! The wolves are coming back, and I can’t carry you.” He held out a canteen to Ilya’s lips and urged him to drink, then massaged his brother’s freezing feet. He gave Ilya his coat and helped him stand up.

When the two boys crossed the stone circle, a howl erupted from the ground beyond the Great Oak. It was like the bugle of a bull elk, sung by the ground itself. The moon dimmed. Overhead, hundreds of crows cawed in a mad discord, flying through the clearing and blacking out the stars. They lined themselves in the trees along the edge of the grove, and watched the two boys, coming to rest in the branches over their heads, cawing from all directions as if Kostya and Ilya were at the center of a stadium. Further out, Kostya heard the wolves howling to each other, and knew that his torch and the threat of his bow would keep them at bay for only so long. Thankfully, Ilya was on his own two feet, and at five years old could still keep pace. They raced through the woods, along the path Kostya had memorized after years hunting with his father. As they ran, his arrows clicked inside the leather quiver at his side, and he had to hold the shotgun strap tight to his chest to prevent the butt from smacking his thighs.

They paused to rest because Kostya was concerned the wolves no longer howled. He assumed it was because they were so close, pulled his bow from his back, and notched an arrow. He shoved the quiver into Ilya’s hands, and said, “Hold these, but don’t drop’em or we’re dead.” The two boys were breathing hard, and Kostya’s throat felt like he swallowed ice. The night was quiet again, though he could see his torch reflected in eyes in the trees. 

Behind them a crash reverberated through the ground. Too big for a wolf, though maybe a bear. Kostya spun and pointed his bow into the night. Underneath the canopy of branches, even devoid of leaves, it was difficult to see anything. There were shadows upon shadows, and the torch blinded him, but Kostya thought he saw movement. Then his eyes widened, and Ilya clutched the quiver of arrows closer.

“Go.” Kostya whispered, and the two boys raced away again, Ilya’s bare feet almost silent. No sooner had they moved then another crash, the sound of dead trees snapping and splintering. Then another call like before, the sharp bugle of an elk, but this one was so close Kostya could also hear a clicking at the end. He wasn’t sure what he saw in the darkness, but he knew they would never make it to the village, so he made the only choice he had left, and set the woods on fire.

Kostya arrived in the clearing with a plan. He didn’t know if Leshy was real, but the wolves and bears were, and he knew they would be hungry. His arrows would not be effective against an entire pack of wolves, or a couple of raging bears, but all animals were afraid of fire. So Kostya piled mounds of sticks at intervals along his path at the trunks of dead trees and doused them in kerosene. He saw the animal in the forest destroy one of them, and then the other, heard the creature smash it apart, but there was one left, and he somehow knew he was racing this animal to his final bonfire. The creature ran, whether by two legs or four, Kostya couldn’t tell, but he saw it tear ahead of him to cut them off. He couldn’t outrace the animal, so he heaved his torch with everything he had. The fire twirled end over end, skipping through dead leaves and coming to rest at the feet of the bonfire skeleton, where it licked up bark and dead branches like a starving serpent. Within seconds, the fire was screaming.  

Kostya and Ilya stood before the intense heat as it spread, feeding on the desiccated forest floor, then the trees. They stared at the growing inferno. Branches cracked and hissed and vomited rivers of sparks into the dark sky, until the heat from the fire was enough to dry the tears forming in Kostya’s eyes. He took a step back and jumped in surprise when he felt someone behind him.

The Servant stood tall, his shoulders relaxed, staff at his side, watching the two boys. “You have stolen from Leshy.” He said, his mask focused on Ilya, every word clear but spoken with an uneven rhythm. He made no move to grab them. “You have set his forest ablaze, threatened his creatures, and killed his sacred Gray One.” The Servant squatted before them now, bringing himself to Ilya’s level, passing his gaze between the two boys and finishing on Kostya. “So, how will you atone? How will you correct your evil?”

Kostya shoved Ilya behind him, stood as tall as he could. “I have stolen nothing. My brother does not belong to Leshy.” A burning tree fell between the boys and the Servant, and Kostya lunged through a break in the fire, pulling Ilya with him. Even the momentary exposure singed his clothes and burned his eyebrows. They ran. Ran as fast as they could in the direction of the village.

Behind them, the Servant did not give chase, but was laughing. His laugh was heard over the fire. Kostya turned to look at the man, and the Servant called out to him. “Then you will be cursed, boy! You and your brother, until the worms return you to the earth!”

Kostya and Ilya jogged home, unharassed by more nocturnal creatures. The fire chased them for a time, but turned along a different path before it reached the village. 

Before they even arrived, Kostya heard the ringing of warning bells. There was panicked shouting, people scattered across the common lawn in threes and fours, all watching the glow of a forest fire on the horizon approach. All their houses faced the field, where a single tree grew, another oak, though its branches were bare and its height half that of the one in the grove. He wondered if the fire would consume it all. As Kostya crossed the field to their home, the villagers pointed and wailed in anguish. He thought it was because of the fire, but they all pointed at his brother, Ilya. Looking around, Kostya noticed he and Ilya were the only children. Not even the older children were out. Their mayor, Vadim, didn’t blink while he watched the two boys hurry home.

Across the field, Kostya could see his father waiting at the steps of their single-story house, holding onto the railing of their porch, letting it bear his weight. His mother’s eyes were wide with a strange mix of fear and joy, and he thought she had been crying. His clothes were blackened from smoke, his face like he’d rolled in coal. Ilya was no different, only barefoot. Kostya thought he would be beaten for ruining his clothes, stealing his father’s shotgun, and sneaking out at night, but his parents said nothing. Instead, their father rose and took careful steps towards Ilya, fell to his knees, pulled his son to his chest, and wept. Kostya had never seen his father cry, not even after he lost his fingers.

He cried until Ilya said “Papa, why are you sad?”

Ash was falling from the sky, like new snow it hushed other sounds of the village. It settled on their porch, the ground, and their clothes. Their father plucked some from Ilya’s hair, but before he could speak, Kostya spoke for him, “Because he is a coward.”

Their mother had been watching the other members of the village as they shuffled closer and chewed her thumb, but her concentration was broken. “Kostya! You do not speak to your father that way!”

The big man placed a hand on his knee and stood to his full height, Ilya’s head barely above the man’s hips. His hands were wide and rough, dirt always under the fingernails, and Kostya stepped away from them, though he never dropped his chin. He prepared for a beating, but instead his father said, “No... The boy speaks the truth.”

There were murmurs behind Kostya. The entire village had gathered around their house, glaring at the two children. Their mother pulled Ilya against her dress as the crowd pressed closer. Kostya didn’t even hear them coming. Their father made no move to wipe the tears from his face, but he pushed his shoulders back and stepped in front of his wife and sons.

Vadim walked to the front, using his weight to move the others. He wore a coat over a nightgown and slippers. “Your son has cursed us, Fedor.” Vadim paused, locking eyes with Kostya so he understood that although he was addressing the father, he blamed the son. “Our children are gone, Fedor. Leshy has taken them for the boy’s trespasses. And now, not only has your son broken the sacred pact with Leshy, but he has set fire to the trees, to the forest.” He spread an arm out to indicate the horizon, the dark silhouette of the trees outlined set against an orange flare. “You know what this means.”

Kostya’s father covered his son with an arm.

Vadim took a step forward, the entire crowd hungry. Many of the women looked at their mother with envious spite. “You know, Fedor, that we must burn the boy and offer him to Leshy, or his curse will be ours as well. As mayor I cannot allow that to happen.”

Kostya’s father didn’t move. “Nobody burns,” was all he said.

Vadim’s jaw locked, and he cocked his head to the side, as if the man had spit on him. Kostya thought the old mayor would order the men to take them, but instead Vadim sighed deep. “We cannot steal from Leshy, Fedor. You know this better than most.” Then he turned and walked across the field. The people made room for him but kept their eyes on the four family members. One by one, however, they turned and walked away as well. 

When the last person had left, the crowd returning to their empty homes, Kostya’s mother finally released Ilya’s shirt, and gripped her husband’s wrist. “You know Vadim. He will not let this go. What should we do?”

Kostya’s father rested his hands on the boys’ shoulders, and then pushed them inside, taking a long look over the field. He saw no one in the dark. All the villagers had returned to their homes, leaving two men in a tower to keep an eye on the fire.

Across the field, in the trees, he saw a man with antlers. Kostya saw him too.

“Will he come for us, Papa?”

His father shook his head. “Leshy’s curse is different for us.” He pulled his son’s gaze away from the image, pushing him through the door. “Come. We must pack.” They walked inside.

*** 

Before the sun could fully rise, footsteps were heard by the walls of their small home. From the outside, Kostya’s shutters were closed, and wood clattered against them. Something heavy thudded against the front door. The chickens fluttered back and forth in their coop, and the sounds of sloshing liquid splattered against the outer walls. There was more drumming against the shutters and exits, then nothing. 

From outside, the deep voice of Vadim called out to the occupants of the house. “Fedor! I will give you an opportunity to save yourself and your wife right now. You do not have to burn with your children. Your hunting skill is useful to this community, and over time, you can make up for the evil that your sons have brought upon us, but you must heed me now.” There was no answer from the house, not even a defiant reply, and Vadim yelled louder. “Swallow your pride, Fedor! Swallow your pride and accept my gift of mercy. If not for you, then at least for your wife!”

Still, no answer. Vadim set his jaw and gripped his torch tighter until he felt the gaze of the other men as they waited, impatient. His next words lost their previous grace. “Fine Fedor. You proud fool. Burn, then.” With no more ceremony, he nodded to his men. From all directions, they approached the house and tossed their torches on the pyre. Within moments, flames tore up the walls of the home and the roof erupted in smoke. Vadim heard screams from inside while the heat peeled boards outward, and the wood cracked and snapped. By the end, a crowd had gathered to watch the house smolder.

As the roof collapsed, a raindrop hit the mayor’s face, and then another. The sky opened and rain poured down on the assembled crowd. Some of the people cried, some even danced, but Vadim just smiled.

Leshy accepted their sacrifice.

*** 

In the forest, eyes watched men approach the walls of the house. Watched them barricade the doors and windows, pull out the chickens from their coop and snap their heads off, and finally set fire to their home. They watched as their neighbors cried in joy after it began to rain. And Kostya watched Vadim and hated him. He stood on a hill behind their home, hiding behind a rock the size a building. It was one he played on thousands of times, but now it hid him and his family from the people who wished to murder them. Without leaves in the trees, Kostya had a clear shot, and could hit a hummingbird wing at fifty paces. He grabbed his bow and pulled it across his body, looping the bowstring over the notch. Then he took an arrow and nocked it, drew the string to his cheek, and brought the arrow over Vadim’s throat. It would be so easy.

His father, watching him, whispered. “It would not matter, son. Look at them.” Kostya watched the crowd of people celebrating. They spun in the rain as the sun came up, some falling into puddles of mud and singing. They were not drunk.

“They believe Leshy has saved them.” Kostya said.

“Yes.”

“Even though he took their children?”

Fedor said no more. Kostya pulled the string tighter, held it firm against his ear, and took a deep breath. He imagined loosing the arrow, the wooden shaft whistling quietly through the air, the iron arrowhead piercing Vadim’s fatty throat and bursting through the other side. He imagined the gurgling noise the old mayor would make, like the animals did in their final throes. Instead, he lowered the bow and released the tension in the bowstring. He placed the arrow in its quiver, unstrung his weapon, and stared at his old neighbors a while longer, letting the freezing rain drip off his nose. His father, mother, and brother walked over the hill and down the other side, a few bags of possessions strapped to their backs. It was tricky going down a hill in the mud, but they managed. The rain chilled Kostya, even with all his furs. He wiped water out of his eyes and followed his parents down the hill, but paused at the top.

In the distance, on another hilltop, through the maples, elms, and walnuts, stood a man with a head of antlers. He held a staff and wore a necklace of raven skulls.

And he was laughing.