Once, the god Rod gave the whole wide world on earth to Perun and Svyatovit. As is well known, where there are two masters, there is never any order.
One sends rain, the other sends fair weather.
The clouds weep, not knowing what to do or whom to obey. If rain falls—Svyatovit scolds them:
“What are you doing, you wet-tails! Why are you soaking the hay? People are mowing now!”
“We,” answer the clouds, “were commanded by Perun.”
“I will show you Perun! When Perun starts his work, he always breeds rot!”
The thunder will not cease; the lightning flashes so brightly that darkness comes to the eyes. Such rain begins to pour that not only the lowlands but even the hills are flooded.
Svyatovit scolds Perun. And Perun makes excuses:
“There is so much rotten deadwood grown up that it must be struck by thunder, burned by lightning, and the ashes of the deadwood washed from the earth by water. Otherwise there will be no place for plowing.”
The next year, the same thing happened as the year before. Day after day, rain poured upon the earth. Svyatovit seized a broom and began driving the clouds apart. He swept the sky clean and set about drying the earth. The bright sun lit the whole world. Svyatovit was pleased. He sat beneath a tree in the shade—and was so tired that he fell asleep at once, and forgot about the earth.
Now the time for sowing rye was approaching, and the earth was dry as hot ash—again grief and calamity! Disaster—there is no rain. Now Perun begins to scold Svyatovit.
Perun and Svyatovit do not look at each other; they are angry, afraid even to meet each other’s gaze.
One day they decided to walk the earth and ask people whom they loved more—Perun or Svyatovit. They walked side by side, arguing: Svyatovit said that people loved him more, and Perun said they loved him.
They saw a man sowing rye. They asked:
“Tell us, good man, whom do you love more—Perun or Svyatovit?”
The peasant took the seed basket from his shoulder, set it on the ground, and scratched the back of his head:
“Perun and Svyatovit are kind and merciful—we love them both.”
“And which one more?”
“Perhaps Svyatovit!”
Perun grew angry and said to Svyatovit:
“For that, I will burn the peasant’s field—nothing will grow.”
“And I will wet it and send a harvest,” said Svyatovit.
“If that is so, I will do this: whoever first tries a flatbread from that field—shall choke.”
Svyatovit smirked. They went on their way.
That year turned out to be an unusually good summer: sun by day, and by night warm dew or a light rain. Everything grew as if on yeast. The rye grew waist-high. The peasant filled his threshing floor with sheaves. He threshed the grain and ground it. The housewife baked fresh flatbreads.
At that time, Perun and Svyatovit came to the village. They spent the night at that peasant’s home. Perun did not recognize him. They sat down to supper. The host said:
“Glory to you, Father Rod—the rye has grown well this year; there will be enough bread for the whole year! Try some fresh flatbreads, dear guests.”
Perun had grown very hungry that day. He took a flatbread and began to eat—and immediately choked. He tried this way and that, drank water, they beat him on the chest and back with fists—nothing helped. He realized that these were the flatbreads he had cursed. He began to beg forgiveness from the peasant and from Svyatovit. At last he came to himself. And he said:
“I will send rain when people ask for it—not when people are mowing!”