A Silent Night Wind, a short story
A silent wind caressed the corpse of Sanlibutan, the All-Chief, and bellowed mournful cacophonies.
It was the night at its darkest. So dark that one wouldn’t be able to recognize the person standing before them. In this time, within the shadows between the trees and the calming winds that sighed through the boughs of bamboo, lived Igsinagan, the demon-god of the Silent Night Wind.
Igsinagan would, time and time again, take up the form of a dog. This dog’s hair would bristle and look as if constantly blown by winds, even if there were none. Its eyes burned bright red, even in the night’s unrecognizable darkness.
The Silent Night Wind roamed through the forest, even as corrupted earth spirits leapt out of the ground to scream with the voices of women and clawing at Igsinagan ineffectually. Even as bull-headed horses, with flames licking out of their noses, would charge at him. Even as long, humanoid beings, jaws dislodged, eyes hollow pits, skin stretched over black bones, tried to gather him for the slaughter.
Each of them made a sound. The sound that one would hear if one were to stay awake until the littlest hours of the night.
Igsinagan silenced them all.
The commune the forest flanked was home to at least fifty families, all living in the safety of a warrior lady, a Kapitana. The great lady of violence protected them from dangers, such as malevolent spirits called sitan and bandits called tulisanes. This is the way of every commune upon Kalagitnaan. The Demon Wind Dog bounded through the leaves, leaped over fallen trunks, and turned into the wind to cross raging rivers of the black forest. As the dog ran, he ruminated, and he remembered a time when things were not so fractured, were not so small. He remembered a time when mortals would live as gods, upon palaces among the stars. A time when great sorceries would lift entire chunks of Sanlibutan’s body out of the sea. A time when powerful chiefs warred, lasting for thousands of years, and it was glorious.
That was a time so long ago that not even demon-gods like Igsinagan would remember them. Now all of that had changed. Three Periods of Decline followed before today, which is the lowest of the low in the history of the Archipelago. Even as Igsinagan flowed through the forest, he remembered them all, for he had lived through them.
In the Northern Isles of the Pearlescent Archipelago, those men of the lions, who wield rose and sword, staff and pentacle, bringing with them their Tortured God, colonized the northern isles in the name of Dyosveta. A hundred years later, the Northerners rebelled, with the Wielder of Gods accompanied by the Great Supremo of the Brotherhood, they overthrew the Captain-Generalcy of San Lazaranya and called themselves the great Republic of Lazaranyas.
Of course, that didn’t last long until the imperialist Gunmetal Kingdom, with their huge machines of war and spirit-driven mecha, conquered the isles. They united all of the islands, both North and South, under their barbaric command. They named the archipelago The Pearlescent Islands. That lasted for half a century, before the horrid Steel Flower War, where the Chrysanthemum Empire to the north swept down and conquered the capital, Salurung.
This ended in the joint forces of the Gunmetal Kingdom and the Pearlescent Injos repelling the occupying Chrysanthemum forces. The Gunmetal Kingdom then eventually relinquished the colony, and the injos were finally free once again, now named the Pearlescent Republic. Not all good things last, however, as the power-hungry Panginoon, named Panginoong Duruya, took all of the republic under him and turned himself into the Emperador of the Pearlescent Empire. He granted his closest allies special rights and land and money and power, and cared not for his own people, sinking the Empire into decadence and violence.
This was the land Igsinagan lived in the current. Once, before the Dark Ages, Igsinagan would’ve been revered, for the Silent Night Wind is something that gives and takes. He was a diwata, an elemental god in nature. However, the doctrine of the Tortured God taught that the diwata were simply nature nymphs and, if a certain diwata didn’t fit that description (as most diwata did not, for divine spirits do not simply have form and simply live within nature, for they are the soul of nature itself) then they were to be called demons and devils. And so, upon this broken land, he found himself called Demon. And he decided that if he were to be called a demon, then he would be a free one, and one not chained by the usual definitions of that much-maligned word.
Igsinagan leapt over a stream that was streaked with red, a river already blemished with blood. There, Igsinagan ventured upstream, until he arrived at the waterfall which the nearby villagers revered as Sijopoan. Upon that clearing, upon the pond where the waterfall crashed, there was a clean bank. And upon that bank, there was a boulder. And upon the boulder was a woman, stripped naked, but with her hair strewn about the air as if she was underwater, and her skin bright blue. The same color the pond glistened when the corpse sun laid its bleached eyes upon it.
Igsinagan knew that it was Sijopoan herself, the spirit of the pond, unmoving, eyes frozen with fear. And there, above her on the boulder, was a muscled ruffian, smelling as if he bathed with the boars. In fact, that’s what Igsinagan decided he was–a boar man, for his broad neck and broken teeth and shaved head did nothing to offer any other interpretation of his frame.
Igsinagan found the man, in his repulsiveness, to be of utmost attraction. The folds of his fat, his musk emanating from him like pheromones… the dog Igsinagan writhed in arousal and presently turned into a dark voluptuous woman by virtue of his demonic thaumaturgy.
Igsinagan, now a woman, crept up to her would-be lover and ran a sensual finger down her spine.
At that, the man whipped around, and Igsinagan sent a whispering into Sijopoan’s ears by letting wind pass by them. The whisper was thus: Leave this place and find the commune to the west, only then will you be safe.
Sijopoan scrambled away, without any regard for covering herself up, and disappeared into the brush. The man who smelled like a boar, who by her touch, Igsinagan knew to be named Pablo, cursed. Dumb though he was, he chased after the girl, even as she disappeared into the darkness.
However, Igsinagan’s sorceries were one fed by desire, and thus, at her touch, the man turned to her, and he smiled with sensual pleasure. As a snake would stare proudly at a rat about to be caught in its fangs.
Igsinagan put a finger on her lips, and invited him, and said, “Let worthless wenches fall away, like leaves when Habagat comes. I, your servant, your maiden, am the only one you deserve.”
And then, sent to flight by the soul of arousal, grabbed Igsinagan’s now womanly form in by her stringy hair and laid her down upon the stone, and he entered her. However, even as they wrapped around each other, as a leviathan burst into an undersea cave, Igsinagan felt no love. And even at the height of her pleasure, she was yet greatly displeased. Her lust was great, but it did not overwhelm her, in the way demons loved to be overwhelmed.
“I’m sorry,” Igsinagan moaned.
“Huh?” said the man, dumbly, as he was. “What—” And upon that utterance did the woman of the night wind pulled him into her, and as his seed erupted, so did the wind from the trees suddenly burst. The winds had turned razor, and a single gale sliced the boar man into many pieces, so that he would never gain a good afterlife.
Igsinagan, seeing her new form upon the water and being pleased with the form desire had given her, decided herself different in this human form, and thus took up the name of Nagsi, for she was anew. Then, she took up the man’s leftover clothes–for he had taken them off when he deemed to violate the spirit of the pond–and would’ve made her way back to the pond… if she hadn’t felt something stir within her womb.
“Oh, a strange turn of events,” she said, and then thus decided to sleep within the ruins of a church that lay beside the moonlit lake, and there she promised that she would take care of the child that was to be born from her.
Now as Igsinagan performed his demonic coupling, so did Sijopoan manage to venture into the deep forest, only to find that she was deadly lost in the darkness, which was not her friend. Slowly, eyes erupted from the dark, like frog eggs, clustered together and burning with velvet flame. With nothing to hold her hand but despair, she surrendered to the darkness.
A warm hand suddenly held her. She looked up to see a young man, strong, with the clothing of a farmer, and salakot atop his head, the broad rims of the wooden hat shading his face. He pulled the pond spirit up, and the girl couldn’t stop staring at him, even as he lifted the torch up above his head.
“Are you okay? Come on, let’s get out of here.” His voice was soft, soothing, and it allured Sijopoan, and until now she never thought she could fall hopelessly for someone. His land-colored eyes begged her to rest, his strong arms promised safety. Being a spirit, she even saw the color of his heart, and saw that it was pure.
He brought her to his solitary home, which had no other beings within.
As she lay with him, she found that her skin’s blue hue had turned into a more human brown, similar to the color of the banks of the pond, and her eyes burned the turquoise of her pond. And there they stared at each other, and to Sijopoan it was strange, for it was her that felt bewitched by his soft and simple loving gaze. As she slowly healed from the assault, the man worked tirelessly to afford her safety, and even let her sleep in his bed, while he slept in front of a low wooden table. She negated that, and asked him to sleep with her, and he—with a smile as soft as the moon—acquiesced. It felt like butterflies lifted her clothings from her as he came upon her.
She smiled, and dimples blossomed. “Hi, Sijo.”
The man smiled as well, although he only had one dimple, and it was on the cheek that was pressed against the pillow, like a hidden cave. “Hi Sijo. I’m Isidro.” And flowers of affection and lust blossomed in her heart, and she knew, as she stared upon his eyes, that they blossomed in his as well.
And under their roof, they became as one, diwata coupling with a mortal.
And then moons passed, and eventually, that night borne twins. Dakul was the son of Igsinagan, who had taken upon the name of Nagsi, to the boar man. Dakul was not dark-skinned like his mother, but his hair was the darkest of dark, and his eyes burned with the orange of the setting sun, as if unsure whether he was a child of the day or of the night. Dakul then proceeded to live in that church-turned-home, living a blasphemy to God.
Within the village of Kapitana Unduya was born Cristina, to her mother Sijo (as was the mortal name she took up, to ease the strangeness and to hide her true nature, for the commune was Dyosvetan, and the diwata to them were cunning nymphs) and her father Isidro, whom the Datu thought would never find love. They were even more overjoyed when they realized that Cristina bore pure silver hair, like the scintillating spray of the pond on a hot summer day, and had eyes that took after the azure of her mother, albeit this one was turquoise. Taking this as a sign, they celebrated this birth with a great fiesta, a feast fit for the gods, for they said: “Surely, Isidro has been blessed by God!”
However, the priest of the commune, Padre Anselmo, did not take a liking to this omen. He preached in his seventh-day mass that the silver-haired one was an illegitimate coupling of man and demon. However, Fray Anselmo himself had his eyes, glinting and rapacious, upon the girl when she grew older, and years later changed his preaching to saying that even the children of the demons—anak ng sitan—can be led and purged of their demonic nature.
A few years passed by, and the young Dakul and Cristina grew up to become fine younglings.
Cristina found her love in exploration, finding that she couldn’t stop herself from venturing into the forest. “I belong there!” she would always say, face dirtied with dead insects and muddy soil, her skirt and shirt torn by clawed branches. She always wrote upon palm leaves, recording what she saw during her expeditions into the forest, cataloging what was poisonous and what wasn’t, the birds that flew to and fro, and whatever strange animals she could find (of which she would always ask her mother the name, and her mother would reply with the perfect name every single time.) Due to this, she grew into a spritely young girl who had a tome–a gift from her father–kept to her side with a body sling made of gold.
Meanwhile, outside of the commune, Dakul held a certain curiosity, but for the most part, kept with his mother. His mother loved him dearly, and pampered him, although when he reached the ripe age of 12, she began teaching him in the ways of violence and harshness. There was even a time when, once, Dakul fell off a cliff, and had had his spine shattered. Nagsi wept, only to find that Dakul was alive and breathing, and was full and well after only a few meals of the largest thighs of the chicken. Afterward, Nagsi was not scared for her son and taught him how to fight, and how to use witchcraft, which she called the Black Secret.
However, Nagsi realized that Dakul hadn’t inherited her ability to harness the Night Wind… that is, until she taught him the blade. Through sword forms and drills, he unconsciously summoned the Night Wind to carry his attacks, leap great distances, ans avoid inevitable strikes entirely. Thus, Nagsi taught her beloved son the ways of the sword, and he crafted his own martial art, the Night Wind Blade, which he honed until he became an undisputed adept of the sword, by his teenage years, after having lived through seventeen harvests. Thus, with his skill with the blade, knowledge of the occult, and uncanny ability to sustain the most mortal of injuries, he became a great fighter, and would regularly beat back the sitan, the malevolent spirits, that would plague the land.
Cristina, who grew up beautifully, like a flower blossoming, was then courted by most of the village boys. She brushed them off, as she wasn’t keen on relationships—or boys—during that time. She would usually ask them to search for her in the forest. She, having been there since she was a child, would always get them lost, and then tell them to turn their shirts inside out because a tikbalang has led them in circles. Eventually, however, she was called upon by Padre Anselmo into the church. There, within the stone walls, he gripped her hands and tried to kiss her, but her being of sturdy upbringing, pushed him away and ran. Padre Anselmo cursed her in the name of the Tortured God.
The next day, Padre Anselmo was gone.
One day with the clouds hiding the bleached sun’s rictus grin, Sijo grew sick.
It was a time when Cristina had grown up, cut her silver hair short so that it didn’t snag upon the trees as she ventured (even as the Datu herself gnashed her teeth in regret). She wore clothes that didn’t drag her back, leaving behind the shirt and skirt for a vest and pants.
After she had returned from her daily ventures into the forests, carrying with her a strange crystallized beetle, she saw her mother splayed on the floor, a cup of melted chocolate seeping through the bamboo slat floor.
Cristina dropped the beetle and rushed to Sijo’s side. “Mother? Are you alright, Mother?” Cristina was frantic, but much to her terror, her mother wouldn’t answer. Her father Isidro arrived late that night after farming the fields and found what had happened to Sijo, with Cristina crying beside her.
Unlike Cristina, however, Isidro spared no tears, for knowledge had kept his tears. He hurriedly scooped Sijo up into his arms and told Cristina to follow him.
They ran through the forest, and Cristina, who hadn’t seen her father go through the forest before, was surprised at the speed her father dashed. He missed no beat, leaping over fallen trunks and not stopping for any shallow stream. It was as if he knew the very lay of the forest. As if it was drawn magically upon the backs of his eyelids.
Presently, they arrived at a narrow river, which flowed blue-green as if painted with verdigris, and they ran up it, their feet barely touching the ground at the speed of their strides. Eventually, they arrived at the pond that was the river’s head, and Cristina saw for the first time the wonderful waterfall that had made the pond.
And in the midst of it, a bathing boy. Of the same age as Cristina, albeit with hair the opposite color and orange eyes seemingly crafted to combat her blue.
Isidro ran up to the pond and laid her down upon it, and she drifted across the pond and did not move, although she began breathing once again. The boy leaped out of the pond as Sijo’s body was laid down upon the pond. As he leapt out of the pond, the woman walked out of the church ruins.
Cristina had never been to this part of the forest. However, she knew of the Mad Priestess in the forest, who was said to have saved her mother when she was younger. When her fulminating dark eyes met Cristina’s turquoise, Cristina couldn’t help but look away.
“Priestess,” said Isidro. “I see that my wife was not wrong.”
“Do not doubt her,” said the Priestess. “We are rarely wrong.”
The Priestess took a longing look at Sijo, with a wistful smile. “Spirits.” She then turned to the rest of them and smiled and said, “Isidro, I am Nagsi. Unfortunately, I am no priestess, but a witch.”
“I revere them all the same,” said Isidro, bowing by the waist. “Powerful one, I have been told by my wife to bring her here when she would feel ill. However, she refuses to tell me the truth.”
“The truth?” Nagsi pondered, and eventually, she was before Isidro, arms crossed across her chest, dark eyes still pondering and staring upon Sijo. Beside her was her–what Cristina thought, at least–son. Coming up to her, she found that she was taller than he, even as his own muscles bulged. While presently she wore a long-sleeved shirt and balloon pants, the boy wore square shorts and a vest that only served to show off his dark physique. His hair was cut short, unruly. “The truth about your wife?”
The man nodded, and something flamed within him, staring at the woman wrapped in dark robes and animal furs.
“Do you pay fealty to Dyosveta, the Tortured? To God?”
Isidro nodded again, slower this time. He wasn’t sure what that amounted to.
“Yet you believe in the spirits that dwell within everything?”
“Then the answer must be simple. Your wife is a diwata. In truth, the spirit of this pond, of the waterfall, which you have named Sijopoan.” Nagsi smiled. “Huh, what a cheeky name.”
“I have lain with a diwata,” said Isidro, falling to his knees and hugging Cristina close. “Does this mean I will lose my daughter?”
Cristina blinked. Me? A daughter of a diwata? What does that mean? She looked down upon her hands, and then noticed a stray strand of her hair across her face. Silver.
The dark witch raised an eyebrow and examined the man. She wondered if it would be nice to trick him, to feed into his superstition… but then decided against it. “No, of course not. Your wife will heal, and you will not go anywhere.” She looked at Cristina. “She has grown to be a beautiful woman.”
“What shall I do? Shall I leave my wife to be here?”
“Range from her domicile, as the pond is her home, her altar, has caused her to weaken over the years. Give her a night and a day to heal, let her be, this is nature taking its course.”
“Oh, thank you, oh witch. You have saved my wife twice in her lifetime!”
“And not once will I suggest some sort of present for it. Come, I have cooked dinner within my abode. You may rest within and wait for your wife to heal.”
And they did, for the father was tired after a long day, and the corpse sun was descending into its coffin and letting the broken heaven rest after its unending vigil, letting way for a single serene moon, which was blind and mad and lonely.
As the darkness overcame them, Nagsi set a green witch-light to guard the body of Sijo. The same green witch light served as their torches in the church ruins.
Cristina made sure to stay by the side of her father, who kept staring at Sijo, for he was hopelessly in love with her. Cristina, on the other hand, was endlessly drawn to the boy, whose name she did not know, even as he ignored her.
Within the church, she saw that they had somehow turned it into a comfortable enough living space. A second floor had been built, and the first floor was wide enough to fit a living room, a dining area and a kitchen, each overlayed with hand-embroidered drapings and decorations. From the corner of her eye, Cristina saw little imps bouncing away and hiding in the shadows, leaving behind their knitting tools.
The boy started preparing dinner. Cristina found that it was chicken and rice. The chicken was extravagantly spiced, with condiments and herbs she saw from the forest but never thought to put it upon food, much less chicken.
Once that was done, they sat around a table, with chairs molded from the trunks of the surrounding trees of the pond. As they ate, the witch—Nagsi—couldn’t help but stare at Isidro, enraptured by his entirely too human appearance. Land-colored eyes, skin the color of clay, hair shaved so as to not get in the way of farming… she felt that the budding pain and flame in her heart was a curse laid upon her by the invisible spirits of affection.
They ate mostly in silence, and then when they were all done, Cristina offered to wash the dishes. “I cannot in good conscience let you do all of this for nothing.”
“Then be my guest,” said Nagsi, and she set about helping. The boy, who might have been dumb for he hasn’t spoken, grabbed her by the wrist.
“Let me,” he said, and his voice was deep and sweet like chocolate.
Cristina’s cheeks burned hot, but her principles were steadier than the strongest shield. “No, I must.”
The boy replied, “Then let me help you.” And he took some of the plates and brought it to the makeshift sink. Cristina used the pond water from a wooden bucket to rinse the wooden plates.
As they washed, Cristina said, “I’m sorry, I never quite got your name….”
“Dakul, Silver One, Spirit-kin,” said the boy.
“I… Dakul, right? Nice to meet you. Why do you call me those names?” she suddenly wondered if she was some sort of child of destiny. If she was a prophesied babe meant to save the world, as she was apparently a child of a strange nymph. Or was she meant to destroy it?
“Ah,” she said, managing a smile and soaping the rest of the dishes. “Well, you may call me Cristina.”
“Cristina.” He looked up at her, despite their height difference being nary but an inch. “Your beauty captivates the soul, silvered one,” said the boy.
“Your welcome,” said Dakul, returning to finishing his task. Cristina put a hand upon her round cheek and scrunched her nose up. Her chest fluttered.
One day with the clouds hiding the bleached sun’s rictus grin, Sijo grew sick.
It was a time when Cristina had grown up, cut her silver hair short so that it didn’t snag upon the trees as she ventured (even as the Datu herself gnashed her teeth in regret). She wore clothes that didn’t drag her back, leaving behind the shirt and skirt for a vest and pants.
After she had returned from her daily ventures into the forests, carrying with her a strange crystallized beetle, she saw her mother splayed on the floor, a cup of melted chocolate seeping through the bamboo slat floor.
Cristina dropped the beetle and rushed to Sijo’s side. “Mother? Are you alright, Mother?” Cristina was frantic, but much to her terror, her mother wouldn’t answer. Her father Isidro arrived late that night after farming the fields and found what had happened to Sijo, with Cristina crying beside her.
Unlike Cristina, however, Isidro spared no tears, for knowledge had kept his tears. He hurriedly scooped Sijo up into his arms and told Cristina to follow him.
They ran through the forest, and Cristina, who hadn’t seen her father go through the forest before, was surprised at the speed her father dashed. He missed no beat, leaping over fallen trunks and not stopping for any shallow stream. It was as if he knew the very lay of the forest. As if it was drawn magically upon the backs of his eyelids.
Presently, they arrived at a narrow river, which flowed blue-green as if painted with verdigris, and they ran up it, their feet barely touching the ground at the speed of their strides. Eventually, they arrived at the pond that was the river’s head, and Cristina saw for the first time the wonderful waterfall that had made the pond.
And in the midst of it, a bathing boy. Of the same age as Cristina, albeit with hair the opposite color and orange eyes seemingly crafted to combat her blue.
Isidro ran up to the pond and laid her down upon it, and she drifted across the pond and did not move, although she began breathing once again. The boy leaped out of the pond as Sijo’s body was laid down upon the pond. As he leapt out of the pond, the woman walked out of the church ruins.
Cristina had never been to this part of the forest. However, she knew of the Mad Priestess in the forest, who was said to have saved her mother when she was younger. When her fulminating dark eyes met Cristina’s turquoise, Cristina couldn’t help but look away.
“Priestess,” said Isidro. “I see that my wife was not wrong.”
“Do not doubt her,” said the Priestess. “We are rarely wrong.”
The Priestess took a longing look at Sijo, with a wistful smile. “Spirits.” She then turned to the rest of them and smiled and said, “Isidro, I am Nagsi. Unfortunately, I am no priestess, but a witch.”
“I revere them all the same,” said Isidro, bowing by the waist. “Powerful one, I have been told by my wife to bring her here when she would feel ill. However, she refuses to tell me the truth.”
“The truth?” Nagsi pondered, and eventually, she was before Isidro, arms crossed across her chest, dark eyes still pondering and staring upon Sijo. Beside her was her–what Cristina thought, at least–son. Coming up to her, she found that she was taller than he, even as his own muscles bulged. While presently she wore a long-sleeved shirt and balloon pants, the boy wore square shorts and a vest that only served to show off his dark physique. His hair was cut short, unruly. “The truth about your wife?”
The man nodded, and something flamed within him, staring at the woman wrapped in dark robes and animal furs.
“Do you pay fealty to Dyosveta, the Tortured? To God?”
Isidro nodded again, slower this time. He wasn’t sure what that amounted to.
“Yet you believe in the spirits that dwell within everything?”
“Then the answer must be simple. Your wife is a diwata. In truth, the spirit of this pond, of the waterfall, which you have named Sijopoan.” Nagsi smiled. “Huh, what a cheeky name.”
“I have lain with a diwata,” said Isidro, falling to his knees and hugging Cristina close. “Does this mean I will lose my daughter?”
Cristina blinked. Me? A daughter of a diwata? What does that mean? She looked down upon her hands, and then noticed a stray strand of her hair across her face. Silver.
The dark witch raised an eyebrow and examined the man. She wondered if it would be nice to trick him, to feed into his superstition… but then decided against it. “No, of course not. Your wife will heal, and you will not go anywhere.” She looked at Cristina. “She has grown to be a beautiful woman.”
“What shall I do? Shall I leave my wife to be here?”
“Range from her domicile, as the pond is her home, her altar, has caused her to weaken over the years. Give her a night and a day to heal, let her be, this is nature taking its course.”
“Oh, thank you, oh witch. You have saved my wife twice in her lifetime!”
“And not once will I suggest some sort of present for it. Come, I have cooked dinner within my abode. You may rest within and wait for your wife to heal.”
And they did, for the father was tired after a long day, and the corpse sun was descending into its coffin and letting the broken heaven rest after its unending vigil, letting way for a single serene moon, which was blind and mad and lonely.
As the darkness overcame them, Nagsi set a green witch-light to guard the body of Sijo. The same green witch light served as their torches in the church ruins.
Cristina made sure to stay by the side of her father, who kept staring at Sijo, for he was hopelessly in love with her. Cristina, on the other hand, was endlessly drawn to the boy, whose name she did not know, even as he ignored her.
Within the church, she saw that they had somehow turned it into a comfortable enough living space. A second floor had been built, and the first floor was wide enough to fit a living room, a dining area and a kitchen, each overlayed with hand-embroidered drapings and decorations. From the corner of her eye, Cristina saw little imps bouncing away and hiding in the shadows, leaving behind their knitting tools.
The boy started preparing dinner. Cristina found that it was chicken and rice. The chicken was extravagantly spiced, with condiments and herbs she saw from the forest but never thought to put it upon food, much less chicken.
Once that was done, they sat around a table, with chairs molded from the trunks of the surrounding trees of the pond. As they ate, the witch—Nagsi—couldn’t help but stare at Isidro, enraptured by his entirely too human appearance. Land-colored eyes, skin the color of clay, hair shaved so as to not get in the way of farming… she felt that the budding pain and flame in her heart was a curse laid upon her by the invisible spirits of affection.
They ate mostly in silence, and then when they were all done, Cristina offered to wash the dishes. “I cannot in good conscience let you do all of this for nothing.”
“Then be my guest,” said Nagsi, and she set about helping. The boy, who might have been dumb for he hasn’t spoken, grabbed her by the wrist.
“Let me,” he said, and his voice was deep and sweet like chocolate.
Cristina’s cheeks burned hot, but her principles were steadier than the strongest shield. “No, I must.”
The boy replied, “Then let me help you.” And he took some of the plates and brought it to the makeshift sink. Cristina used the pond water from a wooden bucket to rinse the wooden plates.
As they washed, Cristina said, “I’m sorry, I never quite got your name….”
“Dakul, Silver One,” said the boy.
“I… Dakul, right? Nice to meet you. Why do you call me those names?” she suddenly wondered if she was some sort of child of destiny. If she was a prophesied babe meant to save the world, as she was apparently a child of a strange nymph. Or was she meant to destroy it?
“Ah,” she said, managing a smile and soaping the rest of the dishes. “Well, you may call me Cristina.”
“Cristina.” He looked up at her, despite their height difference being nary but an inch. “Your beauty captivates the soul, silvered one,” said the boy.
“Ha, like I haven’t heard that before. You sound like every other boy in the village.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dakul, returning to finishing his task. Cristin managed a smile.
“Cristina. Hey Cristina!” Cristina awoke. Crouching over her was Dakul, whose orange eyes seemed to have been lit ablaze. “We have to leave. Now.”
“The Imperial Inquest arrives.”
And Dakul spoke the truth. When Cristina asked him to show her, he brought her to the only room that had a window that faced the front–the room of his witch mother. She noticed that there was no one there.
Cristina almost leaned out of the window, if it weren’t for Dakul pulling her back and pushing her down. Dakul gave her a look that said, ‘Careful!’ Cristina only nodded. Then, together, they raised their heads to peer out from the bottom of the window.
Outside, indeed, they saw, riding upon a great scaled horse with a snout turned to a beak, was a great soldier wearing a winged helm, and scaled armor adorned with cloths and golden laurels. Latched onto a hook sewn onto the armor upon his back was a zweihander. Behind him was a guard of seven other soldiers, four carrying spears, and the other three carrying rifles with the ends of the barrels fashioned to look like the open-mouthed heads of lions.
Isidro stood, wielding nothing, alongside Nagsi. “What business do you have here?” asked Nagsi.
“Devil Priestess,” yelled the man with the winged helmet. Cristina questioned if he could see anything from within it. “By decree of Emperador Duruya, and Hepe Mariano, every demon and very insurgent of the land must be expunged.” He put up an emblem, depicting kalasag with a triangle within it. And within that, an eye. “Surrender the silver-haired devil child.”
Dakul’s eyes widened, and he looked at her. Cristina looked at him, as confused as he was, if not even more so. And then it hit her, and she bit her lip. “Padre Anselmo.”
Dakul shot her a confused look
Down beside the waterfall, Nagsi said, “We have her not.”
“What have you done to our commune?” yelled Isidro, even as the first few droplets of rain created ripples upon the pond.
“Burned it to the ground,” said the “Now give the accursed devil child, and you may be free to wander the wilderness until your death.”
“I think not,” said Nagsi, and she summoned a wind of anger, a wind of blood. That wind raked across the rest of his entourage, and they all tumbled to the ground, along with their weak horses, which immediately fell upon their sides, crushing the corpses that once rode upon them. “You will pray to me.”
“Fool. The fires of God burn in my heart!”
“Then let it consume you, and burn you from within!” And Nagsi summoned another wind, razor-sharp, and it cut against the black stone armor of the zweihander wielder.
“Fool,” said the wielder, and he raised his weapon. “Know you not who I am?”
“I know not every worthless insect that comes upon my pond.” And she summoned green witch fire from her fingertips and sent it streaming forth like an unending torrent upon the black stone soldier.
“I am Ser Ayunescarro, Kapitan of Imperial Army!” And he surged through the green flames upon jetstream wings which blew from openings on the back of his armor, and his zweihander—shining with the burning runes of his Faith and Loyalty—came down upon Nagsi. “Taste the blade of God and Emperor.”
Nagsi, for the first time in seventeen harvests, became once again the Wind, for she disappeared. The forgotten name, Igsinagan, vanished into the wind.
Many things happened at once, then:
Isidro screamed in terror, even as a bolt of lightning struck the floating body of Sijo, and the waterfall itself came to life, becoming a torrential serpent with eyes burning like stars.
Dakul, screaming in anguish, leaped out of the window, grabbing the rusted sword that lay out front, and lunged at the Kapitan. The Kapitan roared in… was that joy? Perhaps it was his bloodlust, bringing him to greater heights of ecstasy, even as he swung at the boy. The boy parried with his rusted blade—despite being rusted, its wavy blade form signified it to be a kalis.
With a quick movement, Dakul flipped ontop of the blade—the divinely sharp edges cutting into the soles of his feet—and he ran up it before cutting at the Kapitan’s armor. The rusted blade did not cut. Instead, it dented the armor, sending concussive blows through out the giant man. Dakul flipped over the Kapitan, and the Kapitan swung his sword once again. Each sword was parried, and deftly countered by Dakul. A devastating dance of rust and steel.
Roaring, the Kapitan grabbed Dakul right as he brought his blade down, before Dakul could provide a counterstrike. Lifting the boy high into the air—Dakul’s feet and arms bled with slashes—he threw Dakul to the ground and then brought his blade down upon him. An execution.
Despite the pain now surging through the boy, and the jarring, numbing pain flowering from his skull, Dakul stopped the giant sword with his hand.
With his hand bleeding, he lifted the blade up and struck the faith-blessed Zweihander.
shattered the bullshit blade.
“Learn the Sword Psalm,” he growled. “False angel, Dog of the Idiot Emperor, and let God bleed.”
The Kapitan could not find his voice. How could he say anything more, when Dakul found an opening in the seams between his armor and helmet, and plunged the rusted blade straight through it, severing the head from the armor?
As if a death curse, or a triggered malfeasance, stone angels flew in, carried upon jetstream wings.
The pond serpent that was Sijopoan lunged up to face them, even as another head sprouted from the pond and fell upon Isidro.
Cristina, during this mad rush, had run down the stairs and burst out of the door, only to see the smaller serpent that had split off from the larger head embracing with her father in the form of her mother.
Sijo looked at her then, and said, “Daughter, my beloved starshine, my light in darkness. I am sorry, I must leave you. But let this scar your heart, and let me fill that scar, and let us change the world.” She created a necklace of teardrops, which solidified like glass and wrapped around her neck. “This brings with it my blessing. I love you, to the ends of my water.”
And as she said that, the angels struck at the water serpent. Lightning was her pain, and thunder was her agony.
Dakul, tears filling his eyes, and his hair burning a horrid orange as if he was a magician and he was conjuring up magic flame light, ran toward Cristina and grabbed her hand. “We must go. We must! I know a safe place south. Come!”
“Dakul! My mother, my father!”
And even as she screamed, Isidro and Sijo turned to her, and smiled, and waved, and loved, even as they became one with the pond, and the pond serpent became the wavering wall to stop the wrath of the Idiot God and the Incompetent Emperor.
The rains only strengthened, falling like a vengeful star god poured a pot of freshwater upon their ruined world. Through it, Dakul pulled a crying, screaming Cristina to safety.
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