The young boy hid inside the crevice of his favorite cliff as he gazed out with bulging, brown eyes over the vast landscape unfurling before him. His eyes narrowed and his brow creased as he traced the coiling mountain range he imagined to be an enormous, sleeping snake.

Of course, he knew this was no mere snake. His mother had once told him that there, somewhere between the white peaks, among the clouds drifting like lazy bumblebees, the mountain spirit dwelled in deep slumber. Ever since, his eyes wandered the range in a fruitless search.

Teng, which was the boy’s given name, continued to stare a moment longer before huffing and puffing. No luck today either. Instead, his gaze fell upon the greenery below, the valley in which the forest spirit lived, leaning out to get a better view. A towering tree, far taller than even his very own cliff, so tall it almost reached the bumblebees, rose from the teeming landscape.

A long time ago, he tried to climb the twisting thing, up to the crown in which the forest spirit nestled with the windsong and the frolicking, chirping birds. But to his great dismay, his hands were small and clumsy, his legs weak and short. When the hunters came, having been made aware of his little adventure outside the village, he had already given up and found a little, red ladybug to play with, giggling and waving for it to teach him flight. After his mother had cried in joy and relief over his return to the village, she had been most displeased. So much that he could still remember the pain on his bottocks.

Only recently had he told her of how hard he had tried to find where the mountain spirit lived, and of his ambition to one day climb further than climbed before and meet the thing. His mother had been very angry then and swatted him on the head with a spoon.

“Listen child, never speak ill of the spirits or you will regret it.” she had warned.

She then told him how there was no place in the village for a child who spoke ill of the spirits who nurtured and protected them all. So if he continued doing so, maybe they would allow the dark one to take him deep into the bones of the earth. He’d promised her to never do anything like that. Of course, if he had the chance he would still take it.

A sudden rumble made Teng jump and almost lose his grip on the stone ledge he was holding onto. No! Just in time, he found his grip again and exhaled. He had almost fallen because the unruly thing called his belly had reminded him he was hungry. He laughed and decided to head back into the village. If the spirits smiled upon them, maybe the hunters had returned with a lone boar or two. Teng loved the taste of boar, his untruly belly too.

Jumping away from his secret place, he stepped onto the winding trail back home. He wove between branch and bole as nimbly as a darting sparrow. Sticks and leaves tangled in his hair, the very thing his mother always clicked her tongue at. She would often scold him for this, sometimes even swatting him with that damn spoon. Still, she’d sit him down by the fire, picking out each knot with a huff and a sigh, telling him how curious birds often flew straight into snapping jaws, how he must be more careful.

As he stepped into the village, he heard movement to his left and jumped back. Uncle bato, weathered and wrinkly, lay in his usual resting spot beneath the shade of an old hemlock, having tried to swipe the boy as he passed. Teng laughed and made a face, then sprinted away as quickly as he could from the sputtering and cursing erupting from behind him.

“I’ll catch you next time, sprite! Just you wait!” The older man called, settling back into his spot in the shade, trying to hide from the baking sun.

Teng waved at the uncles and aunties as he passed but didn’t linger. Hunger gnawed at him like a restless beast, twisting and tightening inside until rumbles and growls reverberated. The boy knew just the right place, and the right person, to tame it.

The brown hut stood like a blessing to his growing hunger at the far end of the camp, opposite of where he’d entered. In a burst of glee and speed, Teng ducked through the skin covering its front dorr, the familiar scent of home wrapping around him like warm fur. The hut was small, but sturdy, and with walls draped in soft, colorful skins.

In the middle of the home was a small fireplace ringed with stone. Alight, its burning embers were dark-gold, and Teng sat down beside it. Smoke rose and danced up and up until it escaped at the very top of the hut through the narrow hole. Above the fire hung a pot of yellowish bone, carved from the hollowed out femur of a great buffalo. When his mother had told him, her cheeks had been flushed and eyes gleaming. Not everyone had such a pot, she’d said, and that his father’s grandfather had tracked and hunted it on empty belly for many cold nights.

Teng had known then it was something to be proud of, even if the sky spirit grew angry, bellowed and threw thunder upon the lands. Of course, he didn’t really believe her story. How could someone hunt on an empty belly? The boy could barely be without food for less than a day. And for that matter, several nights? Impossible!

The pot held a simmering stew within and Teng’s untruly belly roared out in injustice, but the boy knew he could not eat before his father. His mother would scold him and he certainly didn’t want to be scolded. Resigned to wait, he edged over to where his fur mat lay soft and invitingly. He watched the smoke swirl and heard his stomach make its demands clear, his mind consumed by the thought of warm stew.

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After some time, finally, he heard a voice from outside the hut, tossing away his blanket and leaping to his feet in an instant. In came his father, a broad-shoulder and grim faced man who Teng actually was a bit afraid of. Then came his mother, smaller in statue like many of the other aunties were.

His father grunted at the sight of him, sitting down at his own fur mat and removing his fighting spear. The long thing was made from wood, a branch stripped bare perhaps, with a sharp bone fastened at the top. In the firelight, it often gleamed and made Teng have to squint his eyes if he stared at it for too long.

One day, Teng dreamed of having his own fighting stick, but every time he brought it up, his father would only shake his head and say, 'Not yet. You’re not big enough.'"

“By the spirits, where have you been?” His mother’s voice cut through the air. Her usual smile was gone, replaced with a deep frown that made Teng feel very small. “You were supposed to help with the skins and hides today, Teng!”

A prickly heat crawled up Teng’s neck. Sure enough, the back of her hand, which was tender, soft and loving on its other side, smacked him on the head. The boy yelped and tried to lessen the pain by putting his hand on top of his head and press down, but it didn’t help at all.

“What do you have to say for yourself, hmm? Going to stand there like a stump, or do you have a reason for being gone so long?”

Teng’s mouth opened, but under her sharp gaze, one he secretly thought would make even a sprite, a servant of the spirits trying to lure villagers into doing stupid things, he could do nothing but mumble his apology.

“Speak up when your mother is talking to you.” said his father from the corner of the hut, his eyes on the fighting stick as he polished it.

"I'm sorry, mother. It won't happen again. I promise."

“Oh I know you too well, Teng. So don’t make promises you can’t keep,” his mother scolded. “The spirits love us, but sprites—they wait for broken words, for promises not kept. Untruths are what they feed on.”

The silence that followed made the hutt feel smaller, tighter, until his mother sighed and moved to the simmering pot, giving it a taste, her gaze thoughtful.

“Soup’s ready,” she said. “Let’s eat before it’s time for the offering. Your father says they caught a big one today—there’ll be marrow for all the children. Enough meat and blood for everyone.”

Teng edged closer after his mother handed his father a bowl. She poured a generous portion for him and herself. Teng lifted the bowl to his lips, sipping the broth. He smacked his lips, and though his mother said nothing, a smile flickered across her face.

He loved his mother, for though quick to anger, she was quicker to forgive. Once her temper cooled, she never mentioned it again, not even that time he’d returned to the village, breathless and bloody, after an angry little monkey chased him all the way home for throwing stones at it.

As Teng ate, warmth spread through his belly, like soup on a dark night in the cold season. He relaxed as he’d been taught, his body easing, and then he felt it—tiny butterflies fluttering from his stomach, drifting into his limbs, his chest, his throat, even his head.

Or at least, that’s how Teng imagined it. Tiny butterflies, tickling and teasing as they settled, becoming part of him. This was the meat in the soup, he knew—a gift from the forest, the sky, and the mountain spirit, who watched over them.

Essence.

Teng had been told of it when he was a child. Not so old as to know which wildflowers would sting his tongue and make his blood run hot, or which forest glades to avoid by smell, sight, mark, or bark, but old enough to crawl and garble.

Essence was everywhere. In the trees, in the plants, in the stones, in the soil beneath their feet. With each sweep of the sky spirit’s winds, each rustle in the forest spirit's nest, and each low rumble from the mountain spirit’s snowy peaks, a small, unseen part of them sank into the land Only the beasts, for they were truly of the spirits, could with breath and sip make these bits their own. The villagers were not so blessed, but by the spirits’ kindness, they could eat the flesh of the beasts to draw closer to the spirits.

Teng’s father was close to the spirits. He was father was a hunter, quick and strong, big and steady as the old trees by the river. Teng admired him, though he’d learned not to expect much warmth in return. Unlike the other men, his father never ruffled his hair or shared a chuckle by the fireside. '

“You’ll turn fourteen next dry season, boy.”

The sudden voice broke through Teng’s thoughts, startling him in the warmth of their home. His heart gave a leap. He knew what his father was hinting at; he could see it in the way his father’s hand lingered on the fighting stick, as if readying it for something more than practice. Teng’s gaze fell to his father’s weathered hand, the callouses like small hills on his dark skin. He shifted, looking up, and saw his own eyes staring back—brown, deep like the water pooling at the river’s edge. He knew; he’d once glimpsed his face in a still pond.

“When you’re fourteen, you’ll have to do the rites,” his father said, pausing to smile softly at Teng’s mother as she handed him another bowl of soup. Teng noticed her hand lingered just a moment longer than usual, her gaze filled with a sadness that pressed down on him like a weight. He glanced hopefully at the pot, but saw only the last dregs cooling at the bottom.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” his father asked.

Teng swallowed and nodded. “I have to bring an offering to the spirits. Or not come back at all.”

For a moment, he felt his father’s eyes settle on him, measuring. But instead of the smile or gentle touch he craved, his father simply gave a short nod and turned back to his fighting stick, his focus already elsewhere. Teng’s mother caught his eye, her lips pressing into a sad smile before she turned to clean the pot, her hands moving with a quiet resignation as she snuffed out the fire.

Teng sat there, the silence thickening around him, then slipped away to his mat, pulling the blanket tight against his shoulders. He lay there, feeling the sting in his chest as he pressed his face into the fur lining, hoping his father hadn’t noticed the wetness in his eyes.