This account is offered with humility and the full weight of retrospect. At the time of writing this field report, I was twenty-five years old—young, entitled, arrogant, and astoundingly ignorant of my own limitations. I was foolish in the purest sense: the kind of foolishness that carries with it the illusion of mastery, the delusion of infallibility.
I overstated my capabilities, believed myself an authority on nearly every topic, and paraded my degree from the Maxim Gorky Literature Institute as if it were divine proof of expertise. I apologise to those who knew me then—for my insufferable condescension—and most of all, to the man who appears later in this account. He, above all, deserved better than what I brought to that encounter.
What follows is the first formal record of the folk rhyme known as "Death By A Leap" (Smert’ Na Pryzhke). While I originally documented the rhyme and included it in a now out-of-print regional compendium of Far Eastern folklore, I deliberately withheld the full account of what I experienced—and the deeper truths conveyed to me by the local hunter who shared the rhyme’s origin. At the time, I was still wrestling with the implications of what I’d learned.
This report, then, is not merely academic. It is personal. It documents not just a rhyme, but the living tradition and metaphysical framework surrounding the entity invoked by that verse—a tradition passed to me not by books or lectures, but through the solemn instruction of a man who lived its reality.
In 1998, while attempting to establish myself as a published folklorist under an independent imprint, I travelled to the Khabarovsk Khai region. I had, two years prior, graduated from the Maxim Gorky Literature Institute—barely. My academic record was middling; my personal discipline, worse. I had scraped through thanks to my parents’ support and a great deal of undeserved leniency.
At that time, I fancied myself a man of letters and insisted on being referred to as a “scholar.” I corrected those who addressed me otherwise, believing my education granted me unquestionable authority. It did not.
I had begun seeing a woman who was introduced to me through a mutual friend. She was articulate, composed, and an excellent target shooter—a hobby she pursued with confidence and skill. She was also, frankly, stunning, and I was desperate to impress her.
During one of our early conversations, I told her—without any truth to the matter—that I owned a firearm and was a seasoned shooter myself. This was a lie, told entirely to bolster my self-image. I followed it up with a rushed application for a firearm license and a trip to a local gun shop in Khabarovsk.
There, I attempted to dazzle the owner with an utterly fabricated story about my experience. I assumed he would be impressed and give me a premium rifle at a discount. He wasn’t fooled. But instead of calling me out, he humoured me. He praised my "expertise" and sold me a serviceable Izhmash Los-7-1 in 7.62x54R—a perfectly fine rifle, just not the elite weapon I thought I’d tricked him into handing over.
The woman saw through me just as easily. We went to the range once, and I embarrassed myself thoroughly. Later, she told me—privately and kindly—that had I been honest and less full of myself, I might actually be worth talking to. That stung. I didn’t see her again.
Despite this, I kept the rifle. I even began practicing—sporadically—at the range. And then, in 1998, I decided I was ready to hunt. I phoned the same mutual friend and asked if he knew of any guided hunts in the region. I dressed it up as a casual inquiry but insisted that I was already an “experienced shooter with hunting experience.”
He laughed.
Knowing full well that I was neither of those things, he recommended a local hunter—a quiet man who lived just outside Novy Urgal, right near the edge of the taiga. He assured me the man was experienced, capable, and trustworthy. The hunter wouldn't charge me anything if we brought something back and he kept it. If not, I was to offer him cash and food in return for the time.
Before hanging up, my friend added a warning: “He’s got his own little ways about him.” I scoffed. My friend clarified—he’s superstitious, lives with his dog near the forest, and rarely speaks unless necessary. I cracked a joke about Father Christmas. My friend offered a polite, tired laugh. “Just do what he says,” he told me.
I called the hunter. He answered with silence. After I introduced myself and referenced our mutual connection, he acknowledged me and confirmed the arrangement. We agreed to meet at a local hunting shop on the outskirts of Novy Urgal. He was explicit: Do not enter the forest until I arrive. Wait in the car park.
Three days later, I drove out. I parked—at the wrong shop, just a few minutes down the road—and after growing impatient, I took my gear and entered the woods alone. I wandered aimlessly for ten or fifteen minutes before a voice behind me called out.
It was the hunter.
He didn’t greet me harshly, but there was concern—urgency—in his eyes. He looked at me sternly and asked:
“Did you ask for permission, and greet the woods?”
The question struck me strangely. I felt, for the first time, genuinely unnerved. His tone was not accusatory, but solemn—like a priest discovering someone had wandered into a sanctuary and touched something sacred. I stared at him. “No,” I replied.
He reached into his coat and pulled out an old, cracked leather notebook. He opened it, pointed to a verse, and instructed me to read it aloud. “Then apologise—genuinely,” he said.
Something in his tone sent a chill through me. I did as he asked.
From that point on, the dynamic shifted. My arrogance gave way to unease. I followed his lead.
As we continued through the taiga, I began to feel something I could not immediately name—an intangible weight pressing just behind my thoughts. A vague, persistent tension that gnawed at the edge of my awareness. I had no language for it then, only an instinctual understanding that I had done something I should not have. I could not say what, only that I had erred. That quiet guilt stalked me through every tree-lined corridor we crossed, until I began to dread the sound of my own footfall.
Later that day, I managed—by some miracle—to bring down an elk. The hunter carried most of the weight back to his homestead.
But I could not shake what I’d felt. The hunter’s gaze—steady, ancient, weighed with knowledge—remained etched into my thoughts. I saw it each time I blinked. His question repeated itself in my mind like a drumbeat: Did you ask for permission?
I kept revisiting every detail of the day—my mistake, his words, the weight of the woods. I tried to rationalise it. But some part of me already knew I had crossed a threshold I couldn’t name. I barely slept that night, tossing and turning, replaying every movement, every word. When sleep did come, it was shallow. I woke up before my alarm, heart pounding, mind full.
The next morning, I asked him to explain what I had felt. That was when he told me about the rhyme—and the thing behind it.