Somewhere between the last breath of sunset and the first whisper of dawn, it arrives — the night of Jaanipäev, ancient as the earth itself. The forest doesn’t sleep on this night — it listens. The grass rustles with dew, as if the earth is washing its own face. Birds fall silent, yet there’s a tremble in the treetops — the breath of something vast and unseen. Sparks from the bonfires rise slowly into the darkening sky, and the heavens, in turn, bend lower, closer, as though eager to take part in the ritual.
By the river, the maidens gather — those who, earlier that day, wove garlands of St. John’s wort, tansy, cornflowers, and yarrow. Their hair carries the scent of smoke, wild herbs, and field wind. They undress not with shame, but with reverence, as if laying aside the dust of everyday life — making their bodies ready to breathe in rhythm with the world.
The river is alive tonight — not just cool water, but a mirror between worlds. It receives them like a mother — warm, heavy with sunlight, ancient memory, and all the moons ever reflected in its surface. Their bodies slip into the water like wild birds — free, weightless. Moonlight draws silver lines across their shoulders, along the arches of their backs, across the floating wreaths beside them. In that moment, all of nature seems to hold its breath, for this is no ordinary swim. It is a ritual of return — to origin, to the earth, to the body.
Later, near midnight, gentle laughter stirs among the trees.
The young men are already waiting — not in haste, not with hunger, but as those who too have walked a path: jumped the fire, been smoked with juniper, listened to the silence. Their hearts beat in time with the soil, and when they meet the girls — it is no accident. It is a dance of nature, a law of the seasons, a pulse of blood and light.
There was no vulgarity in this night. There was sanctity in the union — where bodies, like trees, leaned naturally toward one another, to share the shortest night and greet the dawn side by side.
Nearby, the grass whispered. A summer moth fluttered overhead. The stars above the forest felt just a little closer.
And if someone had passed by then — they wouldn’t have seen lust, but trembling. Not desire, but the earth’s quiet blessing, passed from ground to soul, from sun to heart.
And in the morning, when white mist rose above the meadows,
and the birds took up their dawn song once more —
the girls returned to the village,
river water clinging to their hair,
light glowing in their eyes,
and in their hearts — a quiet power gifted by the shortest night of the year.
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