They say that deep in the shadowed thickets, where ancient pines sway and whisper forgotten spells to one another, dwells Metsavana — the Forest Elder, master of beasts and winds, god of the hunt, protector of the silent trails. No one has seen him, yet all know: he is there — in the deepest shade, where even light dares not linger. Step into his domain without offering, and the forest will freeze; the birds will fall silent, your tracks will vanish beneath moss, and you will be lost forever in the space between worlds.
But if you ask properly — if you come with a clean heart and a humble soul — he will hear. He will come forth in the breath of wind, in the faint rustle of leaves, in the quiet crack of old bark. When the first night before the hunt falls from the sky, and the moon glides across the treetops, the hunters of the ancient Estonian tribes would gather in silence. They came not with prey, but with offerings. Simple, yet sincere: dried meat, berries, a bit of bread, a piece of lard tied with a leather string. These were not mere gifts — they were words without voice, prayers without language, a quiet acknowledgment of Metsavana’s dominion.
They did not speak aloud. In hushed tones, so as not to startle the forest spirit, they whispered: “Take our gift, Elder, protect us, lead us where the deer runs, where the boar sleeps, where there is no path — but you know it…” Smoke from a pitch pine cone would rise to the sky — straight if the spirit was pleased, twisted and restless if he was not. And in that silence, the forest seemed to listen. Branches did not stir, beasts made no sound, even the owl kept silent that night.
Then, just before dawn, when a pale strip of light was born in the east, the hunters would return. This was the hour between worlds — when night still clings to the earth and day begins to pull. In that moment, the spirits of the forest are most alert, and Metsavana most watchful. Again they placed their offerings — dried grains, a scrap of fur, a feather found in the woods. Softly they murmured: “I offer this to you, Metsavana, and I wait — not for glory, not for pride, but so I may return with meat for the children, to bring strength to the home…”
Sometimes, strange things would happen then: a leaf might fall, though no wind stirred. A branch might snap, carrying a hoarse, distant chuckle. And once, they say, one hunter saw Metsavana himself — tall as a pine, with eyes that held the reflection of all the stars in the sky. He said nothing — only nodded, and from that day, that hunter never missed his mark, and the forest always opened a path to him.
Thus lived the Estonian tribes, with reverence for the forest, the beasts, and for the one who guided them — Metsavana. They would not step onto the trail without him, would not loose an arrow without his blessing. And they knew: it was not the offering itself that mattered, but the heart with which it was given. The forest remembers all. And the Elder of the Forest — remembers too.
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