In the Slavic world the forest is not a place. It is a person. His name is the Leshy — from the Old Slavic les, meaning 'forest' — and from the Carpathians to the Urals every village that lived near the trees knew the rules of his house.
He looks like an old man made of the woods themselves. Skin the colour of bark, beard of moss and lichen, antlers or wild green hair, eyes that glow like a wolf's at dusk. He can shrink to the size of a mushroom or grow as tall as the oldest pine. He has no shadow, his clothes are always buttoned the wrong way around, and he wears his boots on the wrong feet — a giveaway, if you can keep your nerve long enough to look down at him without panicking.
He is not evil. He is the forest's keeper. He guides lost children back to the path if they are good, leads bad hunters in circles for days if they are cruel, and protects the wolves and the bears as his herd. Strike a deal with him and your cattle will thrive. Insult him and you will wander your own home village without finding the door.
Tradition says you can break his spell by turning your own clothes inside out and switching your shoes left to right — meeting him on his own terms. Then he laughs, and lets you go.
The Leshy survives because the Slavic forest survives. Where the trees are deepest in Russia, Ukraine, Poland and the Balkans, hunters still leave a small offering — bread, salt, a splash of vodka on a stump — before they enter. Just in case the old man is watching.
Wear the Leshy and you wear the oldest contract in the woods: respect the trees, and the trees will let you leave.