Leshney Bor

Nevestrograd Stories Chapter 16

The Nevestrograd Compendium of Curious Happenings

Entry for 18 June 1848

Weather & Omens:
A stifling, cicada-loud afternoon gave way to a bruised evening sky: thunderheads massed over the western ridge and refused to break, leaving the air thick as barley stew. Two magpies quarreled at first light along the north wall by the Bureau roofline (double trouble, if one credits Grandmother Yegorova), and a green snake crossed the Bureau steps at noon, pausing long enough to be counted—twice—by clerks who insist they are not superstitious. Barometers falling; tempers accordingly volatile.

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Lesheny Bor

By D. Sionann Drevan

Entry the First: Where Beasts Wander

The path through Lesheny Bor forest wound like an oft-told fable, moss paling in the last light. Oaks and silver birches leaned together, their branches weaving a roof that sifted dusk into gold. Umbrella-crowned pines stood high; darker Siberian stock brooded farther in, new growth dragging heavy on the boughs. The air tasted of resin, wet earth, and the faint sweetness of summer flowers nobody could see.

Into this green interior strode Ivandel Nobodyovich Viaclovsky, arms sweeping as if conducting an audience only he could hear.

“Lesheny Bor,” Ivandel declared, sweeping an arm across the vaulted branches, “has watched beasts wander, towns rise, crusaders blunder in with grand ideas—yet it stands, indifferent to our brief parade.”

A green snake slid from a log, tongue tasting the air as if in agreement.

Esere Toluwalase, a step behind, let her gaze climb the trunks. “Indifferent, yes—never deaf,” she said in the measured cadences of Lagos. “Where the canopy grows thick, my elders say, the forest keeps its own memories. I wonder what this one remembers of us.”

Jacq Chandonnet’s low laugh drifted through the leaves. “The question, chers amis, is whether it remembers too well.” His eyes flicked from moss to shadow, taking in his first visit to the forest that loomed just outside of town to the north. “Lovely—though perhaps a little too knowing.”

Underfoot the forest kept its ledger: fresh curls of birch bark beside older umber scraps; shelf-fungi for a healer’s satchel; wintergreen berries glowing under bramble; sapling birches ringed with dark diamonds the old folk once read like runes. All of it resting on needles that sighed resin as they walked.

Ivandel wheeled and strolled backward. “That’s the game, mon cher. Lesheny Bor plays favourites—stones slide, paths fold, some poor souls tramp in circles for days.

Esere clicked her tongue. “Or they drank too much vodka and followed their own tracks.”

Jacq’s laugh bounced off the trunks. “Yet you roam here serenely. Have you struck a pact with the leshy?”

Ivan, with an air of offering a remark that might just as easily have gone unmade, observed to Jacq that Lesheny Bor enjoyed a reputation less for danger than for misunderstanding.

“One is told,” he said, “that the forest was once traversable in the ordinary sense—that it permitted intention, that it respected arrival—but that some small failure of courtesy, so slight it scarcely merited recollection, occasioned the interest of the Leshy, whose habits, like those of certain persons of influence, consist less in punishment than in rearrangement.”

He allowed this to settle.

“The result is that one may enter with the clearest plan and emerge oddly unsure what it was one had hoped to accomplish, while another, arriving with no expectation whatsoever, finds himself, how shall I put it, placed.”

Ivan smiled, delicately.

“The forest does not forbid you to leave. It merely prefers that you do so altered.”

“Pacts are for equals,” Esere said. “We honour what we can’t master. The spirits listen; we walk softly.”

Ivandel nodded. “Honour, yes—never grovel. A merchant once boasted he’d tame the forest for timber. A week later he was gone, cart overturned, axe wedged high in a pine as though thrown.”

Jacq raised a brow. “Or by rival woodcutters thinning the market.”

Esere smiled. “Sceptic. France has its haunted groves and vision-giving springs, does it not?”

Jacq listened, then smiled in the manner of a man recalling a mildly embarrassing relative.

“In France,” he said, “we have Forest of Fontainebleau. Painters adore it. Philosophers walk there to feel serious. No one expects to be lost—only improved.”

He considered this.

“There are old tales, of course. Knights who wander too far. Hermits who know more than is convenient. In Forest of Brocéliande, they say Merlin sleeps inside a tree, but even that is managed with a certain discretion. The forest may confuse you, yes—but only so you may reflect.”

A pause, almost apologetic.

“Our forests do not rearrange you,” Jacq concluded. “They invite you to rearrange yourself. If you refuse, they let you leave exactly as you arrived—which, in most cases, is punishment enough.”

Ivandel’s laugh rang bright. “Well, we are not so different then.”

Trees closed in; the path tightened to a ribbon. A cuckoo called—long, lonesome, exact.

Esere broke the hush. “This wood keeps its own counsel—stones etched with signs no one can read, clearings that appear at dusk and fade by dawn. Even Nevestrograd’s oldest hunters admit they don’t know every corner.”

Jacq cocked his head. “And you? Have you seen those vanishing glades?”

Her mouth curved—half-smile or warning. “Enough to know when to stay out.”

Ivandel halted. Ahead lay a moss-padded stone shaped like an altar, washed in a light both warm and oddly chill. “Look—another secret, offered for a moment.”

Jacq edged forward, unusually cautious. “A forest with memory, secrets, and timing. If it starts quoting Rousseau, I’m finished.”

Esere chuckled, eyes on the stone. “You’d be the first to bolt.”

“You two move here as if the roots taught you,” Jacq said as they passed. “Were you raised under these branches?”

Ivandel clasped his hands behind him, sly grin. “Near enough. We roamed here long before we knew why. Esere walked straight, calm as a priestess, while I tripped over every root chasing butterflies.”

Esere shot him a sidelong look. “And who fished you out of the wasps’ nest that day?”

Ivandel laughed and dipped a bow without breaking stride. “The indomitable Miss Toluwalase—undaunted by wasps, saviour of wayward poets.”

Jacq let the leaves crunch under his boots. “So—were you both born to these trees, or did life fling you far and haul you back?”

“Far,” Esere said. “Lagos first—salt air, red dust, crowded markets. The tale of my crossing belongs to firelight, not a stroll. But I found a home in Nevestrograd… and an unlikely companion.” She nodded toward Ivandel.

Hand to chest, he feigned injury. “Unlikely! I was a perfect comrade—dashing, loyal, gloriously exasperating.”

“Eighteen years on,” she said, “only your vocabulary has grown.”

A manic gleam lit Ivandel’s eyes. He sidestepped, arms sweeping. “Change! Heraclitus says no one steps in the same river twice, yet my insufferability endures. Perhaps I’m the fixed star around which all else spins.” He pirouetted, nearly lost his balance, then righted himself with a flourish. “Or maybe my vexing nature is the river—ever-renewed, always familiar. Daily I devise fresh ways to annoy the cosmos. Surely that merits applause.”

Jacq laughed, low and musical. “If dedication to irritation is an art, mon ami, you deserve a laurel wreath of nettles.”

Esere’s smile was small but warm. “A crown well suited to him—and sure to keep the wasps at bay.”

The three walked on, the forest tightening around them, shafts of amber light striping the path.

“Indeed, one might contend my steadfast disposition is a subtler metamorphosis,” Ivandel went on. “Like a seasoned actor returning to the same role, each rendition of my tiresome self—”

“Enough, Vanyāsa,” Esere broke in, a reluctant smile denting her composure.

Jacq’s chuckle mingled with the rustle overhead. “Such constancy is rare, mes amis. Most of us abandon childhood ties, for better or worse.”

“Some roots run deep,” Esere said, gaze steady. “We sprang from the same earth—then leaned in opposite directions, like trees bent by different winds.”

Jacq let the image settle, then tipped his head toward Ivandel. “And you, poet-philosopher—what binds you to these woods?”

Ivandel’s grin faded to something reflective. “Unfinished business, perhaps. Or I’m a moth that can’t resist the lamp of its own chaos.”

Jacq’s smile held a hint of appraisal. “Yet you’ve found a measure of order. Esere appears the anchor to your tempest.”

Esere snorted. “He doesn’t need anchoring—only the occasional nudge, which I supply.”

“A partnership of flint and fire,” Jacq teased. “One might almost mistake you two for—”

“No.”

Esere’s single word was quiet and immovable; she neither slowed nor looked at him.

Jacq blinked, momentarily disarmed. The forest resumed its ordinary sounds—needles underfoot, a distant cuckoo—as they went on, the unspoken hanging between the pines.

“My apologies,” Jacq said after a beat, straightening his cravat. “I meant no offense. Only that—”

“That you don’t know what you meant,” Esere supplied, dry humour masking fatigue. “Vanyāsa and I are friends. Ek. Nothing more, nothing less. To see otherwise is to misunderstand us.”

Ivandel slapped Jacq’s shoulder. “Love wears many masks—but Essie, must you make me sound so undesirable?” He laughed.

Jacq lifted his hands in surrender. “Message received. Rare to see such clarity. I might even envy it.”

“Clarity isn’t easy,” Esere said. “Only necessary.”

They moved on. Footsteps sank into moss.

Jacq let out a slow breath as the path drew them deeper under green. Evening light flickered across their faces, gold one moment, shadow the next. Fidgeting, he said, “Curious, isn’t it, how woods like these hold a gravity of their own? They pull us in with quiet, as if inviting penance.”

Ivandel’s brow arched, a sly grin forming. “And what sins tug at you, monsieur? Or should I ask which ones don’t?”

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Entry the Second: Grant Me Passage

Dear reader, know that Lesheny Bor is held in wary reverence by Nevestrograd’s folk. Elders insist one cross oneself at the forest’s edge and murmur, “Blessed Father Leshy, grant me passage,” lest the paths bend into circles and the air fill with borrowed voices.

Grandmother Yegorova, the herb-seller, swears you must drop a copper at the first birch and never gather plants at twilight. A merchant’s wife once ignored the rule and returned three days later with a basket of leaves that had passed for moonwort in the dusk but proved useless by daylight.

Woodcutters keep their own rites. No tree is felled on a saint’s day, and each trunk is circled thrice widdershins, apology offered to tree and spirit alike. Those who skip the ritual find axes dulled and logs soft with rot by morning. Old Mikhail Zakharovich even claims he saw a great pine pull up its roots and stride off rather than meet an irreverent blade.

Even Nevestrograd’s soldiers observe forest etiquette. Recruits are warned never to answer a voice calling their name from the trees—the leshy is said to borrow familiar tongues.

Children learn other safeguards: turn your coat inside-out if you lose the path; watch for omens—the sudden hush of birds, branches that seem to lean toward you, the unsettling sense of walking downhill in every direction. Respect the wood and it may reward you: ghost-lights guiding wanderers home, herbs appearing unbidden at a sick child’s bedside, distant singing that leads a hungry hunter to game.

Whether these practices accomplish anything metaphysical is not a matter for this office. It is, however, observed that those who ignore them tend to return late, damp, and irritable.

Esere knew every rule. As they walked she noted Ivandel’s sweeping hands tracing half-hidden protective signs, and even skeptical Jacq hesitating before each natural threshold. Lesheny Bor teaches its lessons, sought or not.

The path tipped toward a narrow stream, swift water flashing under the last light. Barely two strides across, its stones were slick with moss, its chatter louder than its depth—one of those crossings the old women said thinned the veil between places.

“Ah, a trial of wit!” Ivandel announced, halting with a flourish.

Esere noticed his fingers brush the silver birch that marked the ford—a wordless request for passage.

Jacq, leaning on his walking stick, cocked an eyebrow. “Are you defying nature, or merely common sense, mon ami?”

“Entertainment,” Esere murmured.

Ivandel rolled his cuffs, calves striped with old scrapes, and stepped back for a run. “Stand clear—heroics ahead.”

“You’ll slip,” Esere warned.

“Slip? I’m a swan in flight, a stag in his prime—”

He sprinted, leapt, and—miracle—landed clean on the far bank, dust puffing around his boots. “Ha! The gods favor me today!”

Jacq clapped slowly. “Magnifique. Shall we commission a sonnet for the occasion?”

“Please do,” Ivandel called, striking a victor’s pose. “But first—your turn, monsieur.”

Jacq eyed the stream, bright under the waning light. “A poet admires nature,” he sighed. “He does not audition for acrobatics.” After a beat: “But so be it.” He handed his walking stick to Esere. “Guard this treasure. Its owner may be imperiled.”

Esere accepted it without comment and stepped aside.

Jacq tested the stones, muttering in French about Toulouse bridges and Parisian pavement. “A civilized ford,” he grumbled, “would include a plank.”

“You could always wade,” Ivandel offered. “I’ll assemble a rescue party.”

“Your confidence in me is… touching.”

Jacq drew a breath and stepped out. First stone—firm. Second—slick. His foot skidded; arms windmilled; Ivandel burst into laughter.

“Careful,” Esere called, amusement glinting.

“I am perfectly fine!” Jacq insisted, voice climbing. A final lunge carried him to the far bank, boots mud-spattered. “Voilà—untouched by Neptune!”

“Except for your footwear,” Ivandel said.

Jacq ignored him and bowed toward Esere. “Your turn, madame. Permit me the honor of—”

He and Ivandel both extended hands.

Esere lifted one brow. She stepped onto a stone as lightly as if crossing a salon floor. Two strides later she was across, depositing Jacq’s stick into his waiting hand. She brushed a speck of mud from her hem. “Thank you for the offer.”

The men’s heroic poses wilted.

“Merci,” Jacq said, half-chastened, half-impressed.

Ivandel recovered first. “You’ve stolen our moment of glory, Essie.”

“Heroes,” she replied, “should recognize when they’re redundant.”

Jacq managed a rueful chuckle. “Alas, my unwritten poem—‘Goddess of the Ford’—is now mere anecdote.”

“Write it anyway,” Esere said.

Ivandel clapped Jacq’s shoulder. “Onward, poet. Perhaps the next hazard will grant redemption.”

They moved on, the stream chuckling behind them while the birches rustled overhead, as though keeping their own account of the crossing.

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Entry the Third: The Hermit

The trio topped a moss-slick rise and spotted the hermit’s hut tucked against a limestone bluff. Roots arched over its thatch like ribs; branches fanned out in protective tiers, and a thin ribbon of smoke carried an iron tang.

“Is this it?” Jacq asked, half skeptical.

“This is it,” Ivandel declared, bowing grandly. “Sanctum of Táoshén—woodland sage, soul-alchemist, and dispenser of tinctures that are mostly vodka.”

“Mostly,” Esere echoed, fondly exasperated. “But his cinnabar-stained hands have worked longer than you’ve been alive, Ivan.”

They followed the smoke to a lean-to where Táoshén crouched over a clay crucible on a stone stove. Fire licked blue-orange; tongs, pestle, and a bowl of red powder lay ready. Wiry and ageless, hair knotted, beard gone silver, he glanced up—acknowledging them without breaking rhythm.

Esere lifted a hand. “Táoshén, may we watch?”

A single nod. He tilted the crucible; molten cinnabar glowed, the metallic scent sharpening.

“What’s he doing?” Jacq whispered.

“Boiling a rock for its soul,” Ivandel murmured.

“Drawing mercury from cinnabar,” Esere corrected. “A Taoist purification rite.”

Táoshén fed the fire, murmuring Mandarin that sounded like counting.

“He’s talking to it?” Jacq asked.

“To himself,” Esere said. “And to the work.”

The hermit gestured toward a bench carved from a fallen trunk. They sat, the wood cool and damp. Jacq’s eyes roved over hanging herbs, scattered tools, a slab worn smooth by long use. He leaned toward Ivandel.

“Does he live out here alone?”

Ivandel nodded, a crooked grin forming. “Well—there is Wúwèi.”

“Woo-wee?” Jacq echoed. “A disciple? Woodland spirit?”

Esere covered a smile. “A tortoise.”

“A tortoise?” Jacq’s brows shot up. “In this forest?”

She pointed to a sun-flecked patch near the stone slab, where a weather-scarred shell—plate-sized—edged forward, one deliberate step at a time. “Táoshén calls him his slowest and wisest teacher.”

Jacq watched, half bemused, half impressed. “Perfect confidant—never argues, never hurries.”

“And always finds the best light,” Ivandel added. “An arcane skill.”

Jacq crossed his arms. “A kindred spirit, then.”

Esere lifted an eyebrow. “You?”

He clutched his chest. “Madame, like the tortoise, my thoughts eventually arrive.”

“Some take longer routes,” Ivandel said, earning Esere’s laugh.

Jacq bent toward the tortoise with exaggerated solemnity. “Wúwèi, sage friend—what is the secret? Sunlight? Moss? Ignoring the chatter of lesser beings?”

Wúwèi continued toward the warmth without acknowledgment.

Táoshén, still crouched by the crucible, let a faint smile pass. “Wúwèi listens,” he said. “Then moves.”

Jacq straightened, briefly checked. “And here I thought he merely enjoyed basking.”

“Basking,” Táoshén said, “is not nothing.”

Ivandel leaned toward Esere, loud enough to be heard. “I hear he takes students.”

Jacq groaned. “A philosopher-tortoise, a riddling hermit, and two comedians. So much for solitude.”

Wúwèi reached the sun and withdrew into his shell.

The crucible hissed, snapping their attention. The cinnabar rippled, breaking into mirrored pools. Táoshén added a pinch of powder; the fire flared gold and blue, throwing light across his weathered face.

“Beautiful,” Ivandel breathed.

Jacq leaned closer. “But what’s the point of all this?”

“To purify,” Esere said quietly.

Táoshén shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “To separate,” he corrected. “What moves from what stays.”

Jacq opened his mouth, then thought better of it.

Ivandel raised a hand. “Let him finish.”

They fell silent, watching the old man coax stone into liquid brightness while the tortoise basked, indifferent to outcome, audience, or explanation.

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Entry the Fourth: Cinnabar and Smoke

The only sounds were the fire’s crackle and the hiss of cinnabar changing state. Jacq shifted on the damp bench, fingers worrying his frayed cravat. In salons his words sparkled; here, silence behaved differently. It did not interrupt him. It simply remained.

He stared into the crucible’s mirrored pools and saw his own restlessness reflected there—heat without shape, motion without purpose. Claudine hemming his cuffs; children asleep in rooms he had left behind; promises made precisely enough to be broken. He looked away.

Ivandel hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the melt. Firelight flickered over a face usually masked by bravado, revealing something tighter underneath. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he leaned toward Esere.

“Will he discover some great truth,” he whispered, “or is it all smoke?”

Esere did not look at him. “Nothing is drawn out,” she said. “You notice, or you don’t.”

Ivandel’s chuckle faded before it finished. He folded his arms, the grin still present but no longer doing much work.

Jacq shifted again. Silence pressed on him—not violently, not even unkindly, just steadily. Even Wúwèi, unmoved in his patch of sun, seemed to embody an answer Jacq could not yet phrase.

Táoshén worked on without pause. He lifted the crucible and poured a thin silver stream into a shallow mold. Freed of cinnabar, the mercury pooled and shivered, bright and unstable.

He touched one cooling bead and watched it cling to his fingertip. Then he let it fall back.

“This,” he said, quietly, “is what separates. Nothing more.”

The droplets returned to the pool with soft, dull plinks.

Jacq said nothing.

Ivandel exhaled a laugh. “Ever economical, Táoshén. You could sell fewer words than anyone in Nevestrograd.”

A trace of a smile crossed the hermit’s face. “The forest is not buying.”

Esere rose. “Come. We’ve seen enough.”

They stood slowly, as if the air resisted haste. Jacq lingered, glancing back. Táoshén had already turned to his work again; the fire caught the silver in his hair, the mercury at his feet holding light without keeping it. Wúwèi remained where he was, unmoved.

“Reflections,” Jacq murmured, testing the word. It did not improve matters.

He followed the others toward the path.

Esere paused and returned to the hut. From her satchel she drew a linen-wrapped bundle. The scent was dry and sharp—wormwood, St. John’s wort. She offered it with both hands.

“Dried as you asked.”

Táoshén accepted it, fingers careful. “And gathered at the right hour.” He inclined his head. “You keep time well.”

Esere nodded once. “I try not to hurry it.”

Táoshén untied the cloth, inspected the leaves, and retied it. His gaze flicked briefly to Ivandel and Jacq. “Do not let them pull you too far from your pace.”

Ivandel pressed a hand to his chest. “I resent being included in that warning.”

“The ones who resent it most,” Táoshén said, “are usually the reason.”

Esere laughed; Jacq smiled despite himself.

“You should go,” Táoshén added. “The light is thinning.”

They thanked him and turned away. When Jacq glanced back again, Táoshén was already bent to the crucible, the fire answering him without comment.

The clearing cooled quickly beneath the birches.

“Well,” Ivandel said after a time, the old lilt returning, “that was bracing. A small amount of mercury for the spirit.”

Jacq shook his head. “He answered every question by refusing it.”

“Not refused,” Esere said. “Deferred.”

“A dangerous habit,” Jacq replied, though without complaint.

They walked on in silence. A thrush called. The path narrowed. Light slid from gold to amber.

“Those herbs,” Ivandel said. “For the town?”

“Possibly,” Esere said. “Possibly for him.”

“I thought hermits were beyond such needs.”

“No one is.”

“Except Wúwèi,” Jacq said from behind. “Time itself seems to wait for him.”

Dusk gathered. The silver birches caught the last light; the pines darkened into mass and shape. If anything watched from between them, it did so without announcement.

At the forest’s edge, the land opened and the sky burned briefly before dimming.

“Back to civilization,” Ivandel declared. “Or our local approximation.”

“Try not to disrupt it,” Esere said.

He smiled. “I make no promises.”

They walked on toward Nevestrograd. Behind them, the forest neither followed nor closed ranks. It simply remained where it was.

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Entry the Fifth: Return to Town

The woods thinned, and Nevestrograd exhaled beneath the first lamps of dusk. Amber pools spread across the cobblestones; hooves rang slow, harness bells chimed, and shopkeepers—pipes clenched between teeth—lit swinging lanterns that cast restless light against the walls.

In the square, shadows lengthened and shifted. Korobkin Bakery glowed, fresh rye fogging the windows while children tore into pastries with unearned confidence. Across the way, the Rising Hearth sent roast-meat aromas drifting toward the Hetman’s Hearth smithy, where Bogdan Khlopko’s hammer kept time with laughter. Signboards creaked; wagons rumbled; a fiddler perched on a keg worked a tune neither cheerful nor sad enough to argue with.

Near a corner, a street-vendor lit small wicks around a copper samovar, each flame blooming into steady light. Steam hissed.

Ivandel stopped. “Tea?”

Esere’s glance weighed him. “Is this thirst, or charity?”

“Both,” he said, unashamed.

Jacq adjusted his battered cravat and bowed slightly. “Wine in Vienna, absinthe in Paris—yet tea from a Nevestrograd cart. I am persuaded.”

The vendor slid tin cups across the counter. Lamplight, steam, and music folded around them as they drank.

Esere murmured thanks. Jacq sipped, considering. “Strong,” he said. “A little bitter.”

“Like the town,” Ivandel supplied.

“Careful,” Jacq smiled. “Too much admiration and he’ll charge extra.”

Ivandel winced. “I still owe him for a sonnet. He insists it depreciated on delivery.”

Their laughter merged with the square’s evening noise. Tea warmed hands and throat. The vendor topped their cups without comment.

Esere glanced toward the darkening edge of town. “Forest and streets,” she said. “They lean on each other more than people admit.”

Jacq nodded. “One teaches silence. The other teaches patience.”

Ivandel lifted his cup. “And both teach restraint, apparently.”

Lanterns brightened as night gathered. They lingered only a moment longer.

“Later,” Esere said.

They moved off into the square, Jacq slowing to take it in—light, voices, the careful disorder of a town settling into itself. Whatever story he had begun to draft did not yet know its ending.

Кінець.

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