Perun - Slavic

My name is Stoyan, and my home is a small village tucked between an ancient, whispering forest and a wide, stretching river. The sky above us is a canvas of endless stories, sometimes painted in the softest blues and golds, and other times, in the dramatic grays of an approaching storm. We live by the moods of the sky, for it gives us sun for our crops and rain for them to drink. But my grandfather, the village elder, says the sky is more than just weather; it is the realm of Prav, the home of the gods, and the greatest of them all is Perun. On nights when the wind howls and thunder rattles our wooden homes, we gather close to the fire, and he tells us the story that explains it all, the myth of Perun and the Serpent.

“Long ago,” my grandfather begins, his voice low and rumbling like distant thunder, “the world was held in a delicate balance, connected by a colossal oak tree whose branches reached into the heavens and whose roots delved deep into the earth. At the very top, in the celestial realm of Prav, lived Perun, the god of thunder and lightning. He was a mighty figure with a beard the color of copper and eyes that flashed like lightning itself. He rode a fiery chariot across the sky, wielding a great stone axe that could split mountains. From his high perch, he watched over our world, Yav, ensuring justice and order were maintained. Deep below, in the damp, dark roots of the World Tree, lay the underworld of Nav. This was the domain of Veles, a powerful and cunning god of waters, magic, and cattle.” My grandfather always pauses here, letting the names of the gods settle in the air. “Veles was a shapeshifter, but he often took the form of a great serpent or a dragon, his scales shimmering with the dampness of the earth. While Perun represented the high, dry, fiery powers of the sky, Veles embodied the wet, low, and earthly forces. For a time, they kept to their own realms, but Veles grew envious of Perun's domain and the celestial cattle that grazed in the heavenly meadows. One moonless night, Veles transformed into a monstrous serpent, slithered up the trunk of the World Tree, and stole Perun's prized herd. He drove the cattle down into his watery underworld, plunging the world of Yav into chaos. Without the heavenly cattle, the sun seemed to dim, the rains stopped, and a terrible drought spread across the land, withering crops and drying up rivers.”

“When Perun discovered the theft,” my grandfather continues, his eyes glinting in the firelight, “his roar of fury was the first thunderclap of a coming storm. His sense of justice was absolute, and this great crime against the cosmic order could not stand. Climbing into his chariot, pulled by two magnificent goats, he began his thunderous pursuit of Veles. He flew across the sky, his axe held high, searching for the serpent god.” I can almost see it as he speaks. “Veles, knowing he could not face Perun's might directly, used his cunning and magic to hide. He fled across the human world, transforming himself to blend in with the landscape. He would hide behind a tall oak tree, and Perun, spotting his movement, would hurl a bolt of lightning from his axe. The bolt would splinter the tree, but Veles would have already slithered away to hide behind a large boulder. Again, Perun would strike, shattering the rock, but the serpent was always one step ahead. This cosmic chase created the first great thunderstorm. The rumbling of Perun's chariot wheels was the thunder, and the sparks from his axe were the lightning. For the people on earth, it was a terrifying and awe-inspiring spectacle, a battle of gods playing out above their heads. The chase raged on, with Veles darting from shelter to shelter, until finally, Perun cornered him in an open field near a river. With nowhere left to hide, Veles faced the sky god. Perun raised his axe one last time and unleashed a final, blinding bolt of lightning, striking the serpent god down and sending him defeated back to his underworld realm of Nav.”

“With Veles vanquished and returned to his place, the cosmic order was restored,” my grandfather concludes, his voice now calm and steady like the rain after a storm. “Perun recovered his celestial cattle, and as they returned to the heavenly pastures, the world began to heal. The end of the great battle was marked by a tremendous downpour of rain. This wasn't the violent storm of the chase, but a steady, life-giving rain that soaked the parched earth, filled the rivers, and nourished the thirsty crops. The drought was broken.” He tells us that for our ancestors, this myth was written in the world around them. Every thunderstorm was a reenactment of Perun's righteous battle against the chaos represented by Veles. The lightning striking a tree was not random destruction but a sign of the sky god cleansing the world. The gentle rain that followed was his gift, a promise of renewal and abundance. This story taught them about the natural cycles of the seasons—the dry periods followed by revitalizing rains—and the constant struggle between order and chaos. People would carve Perun's symbol, the thunder mark, onto the beams of their homes to ask for his protection. Even today, this ancient story echoes in our folklore. It reminds us that nature is a powerful force, and whenever we watch a thunderstorm roll in, we can imagine the mighty Perun riding his chariot, not just as a destructive force, but as a guardian restoring balance, promising that after every storm comes the rain that helps the world grow anew.