The Woodcutter and the Leshy (A Russian folklore)

Fyodor was a woodcutter known for his skill with an axe, but also for a certain arrogance and a tendency to take more from the forest than he truly needed. One crisp autumn morning, he ventured deep into the woods near his village, a place where the trees grew tall and ancient, and where whispers of the Leshy were often carried on the wind.

Ignoring the quiet reverence the villagers held for this part of the forest, Fyodor began his work with gusto, felling tree after tree with a greedy efficiency. He paid no heed to the rustling leaves that seemed to watch him, nor the strange echoes that occasionally mimicked the sound of his axe. He was intent only on filling his cart to overflowing.

As the day wore on, Fyodor became aware that the familiar paths had vanished. The trees, which had seemed distinct moments before, now blurred into an indistinguishable green and brown mass. The sun, once a reliable guide, seemed to play tricks, appearing in unexpected parts of the sky. Fyodor realized with a growing knot of fear that he was lost.

He called out for help, but only the hollow silence of the deep woods answered. Panic began to set in. He stumbled through the undergrowth, scratched by thorns and tripping over unseen roots. Just as despair threatened to overwhelm him, he heard a sound – a faint, childlike weeping coming from behind a thicket of pines.

Hope flickered within Fyodor. Surely, another lost soul! He pushed through the branches and saw a small figure huddled at the base of a tree. It looked like a young boy, no older than seven, dressed in clothes made of woven leaves. Tears streamed down his face.

"Little one, are you lost?" Fyodor asked, his voice gruff but laced with concern.

The boy looked up, his eyes an unsettling shade of green. "I can't find my way home," he sobbed. "The forest has become twisted and strange."

Fyodor, forgetting the warnings of the Leshy's trickery, felt a surge of pity. "Don't worry, little fellow," he said, placing a hand on the boy's thin shoulder. "I seem to be lost myself, but perhaps we can find our way out together. Which direction were you heading?"

The boy pointed a slender, twig-like finger deeper into the woods, a direction Fyodor was certain he hadn't come from. Still, in his desperation, he followed. The boy led him through winding paths that seemed to lead nowhere, across babbling brooks that appeared and disappeared without reason, and around trees that seemed to shift their positions.

As dusk began to settle, casting long, eerie shadows, the boy's weeping stopped. He turned to Fyodor, a strange smile playing on his lips. "Are you enjoying my forest, woodcutter?" the boy's voice rasped, suddenly deeper and older than before. The green in his eyes seemed to glow in the fading light.

Fyodor felt a chill run down his spine. The realization struck him like a physical blow – this was no lost child. This was the Leshy, in one of his many guises, playing his cruel game.

The trees around them seemed to twist and contort, their branches reaching like skeletal arms. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… something wild and unsettling. The sounds of the forest – the hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves – seemed to mock Fyodor's fear.

The Leshy, now taller and more imposing in the dim light, began to laugh – a sound like the wind whistling through hollow logs. "You took too much, woodcutter," his voice boomed, echoing through the trees. "Now, you will stay a while… and perhaps learn the true price of greed."

Fyodor tried to run, but the forest itself seemed to conspire against him. Paths that had been open moments before were now blocked by thick undergrowth. Familiar landmarks had vanished. He was trapped in the Leshy's labyrinth.

The story doesn't say whether Fyodor ever found his way back to his village. Some say he wandered the woods for days, driven mad by the Leshy's tricks, eventually becoming another lost soul claimed by the forest. Others whisper that he eventually learned humility and respect for the woods, and the Leshy, perhaps satisfied with his lesson, allowed him to stumble back to the edge of the forest, a changed and chastened man.

The tale of the lost woodcutter serves as a stark reminder in Russian folklore: the forest is a powerful entity, and its guardian, the Leshy, is not to be trifled with. Those who enter with greed and disrespect risk becoming players in his dark and unpredictable games.