Page 44 of When Among Crows

The leszy sits on a stump in the Montrose Point Bird Sanctuary, and breathes in the moonlight. A moth flutters around one of his horns, and then settles at the edge of his eye socket, where all the flowers that once grew are now dead, dormant for winter.

He can smell snow in the air, though it hasn’t fallen yet. He is as eager for the forest to fall asleep as he will be for it to wake again, come springtime. He enjoys the sound of the trees settling in for their long sleep, and the earthgoing quiet as all the things that wriggle and scuttle and busy themselves inside it go still. He stretches out one hoof, and listens.

He hears the pressure of footsteps, too light to be human footsteps, and lifts his stag head to see a man standing in the clearing across from him. He carries a bow and quiver. The leszy recognizes him, though it’s been months since he last laid eyes on the man’s face. He thinks he could even remember the man’s name, if he reached for it, but he doesn’t. The leszy has never understood the wraith’s fixation on names. A leszy has no name, he has only the forest of which he is a guardian.

“He has found me again,” the leszy says.

The man nods, and walks closer. The leszy can tell by his movements that he is different than he used to be. No longer human, perhaps. It’s a strange thing to observe, since it happens rarely, but it does happen, every now and then. And so he accepts it, as he accepts the changing of the land, the changing of all things.

“I am leaving soon on an errand from Baba Jaga,” the man says. “But before I go, I came to test your bow again, if you’re willing.”

The leszy tilts his head.

“The fern flower won’t bloom for several months,” he says. “And he will no longer be able to pick it, even so.”

“This is just a friendly contest, my lord leszy,” the man says. “I no longer have need of the fern flower.”

The leszy considers this for a moment.

“Oh,” he says at last. “Then let me make a target.”