"A Man who has not passed through the inferno of his own passions has never overcome them"

C.G Jung

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There was an understanding in the village that, during the dark moon, you should never walk in the forest. It was also regarded that you shouldn't even walk the boundary, whistle, or wear strong perfumes or the colour red. All of these were to ward off those spirits that haunted the forest and came out during the dark moon. Paradoxically, the fear of the dark moon was also met with celebration. Each month, a miniature festival was held in the town's center. It was the standard fire ceremony, but with more emphasis on the capacity of the village deity to protect against harmful spirits and placate the dead. So, it became a ritual of offering and incantation. I was on my way there now, having chosen to wear a simple back robe.

I carried a bowl with flowers in my arm, but the robe made it a bit more difficult to hold it without creasing the fabric. It was the one superstition I hated more than anything. The stars of my birth had designated me as a person between genders, neither male nor female in spirit. Still, the way that I held myself and the form of my body was enough for the elders to be convinced that I was more feminine (despite my biology dictating me to be a male). I did not complain; for the most part, the clothing was relatively accessible. It was the expectation that pressured me. Neither male, nor female, but some great spirit between which connects the hither and thither. I was the first consulted for many rituals and the last for many more. I was doomed by my birth.

The priests were already preparing the fire. Multiple lamps had been lit at the corners with symbols and seals drawn before it in grain. People had already come before, and their offerings stood at the base. The priests with their fancy urns of pastes and perfumes and the common with their fruits and vegetables, it was a festival that bridged gaps because everyone feared the forest when the dark moon came around, and what omen it brought.

"Tam!"

I turned to see two people cheering me over, beckoning me with frantic gestures: Gerad and Ramit. They had been friends from youth and were willfully oblivious of my status in the village. To them, I was still that one kid who somehow climbed a tree to get the ripe fruits when others didn't want to. It was not only that but also that I could take Ramit in wrestling any day, much to the chagrin of his father and the elders. I put down the flower bowl but, as I did, a sudden chill ran through the air. The hair of my neck stood on end and it was as though I was being watched. I turned, seeing wind dance across the grain patterns, disturbing it. The omens had already begun. Disturbed, I got up from my kneeling and went to go sit with Gerad and Ramit.

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"You look like you've seen a ghost," Gerad commented as I sat down between the two. I shrugged.

"Just an omen, Gerad," I looked over at him. He didn't think it was just an omen, reaching out to massage my brow with his thumb. I hadn't realized that I was frowning, and the calloused warmth of his hand had soothed it almost immediately. He looked over my shoulder and bit down on his lip to stifle a laugh. I felt cold metal at the sides of my head and turned swiftly to see Ramit holding two cymbals and playing 'smashing' my head. Chuckling, I slapped his hands and he feigned a dramatic death. Gerad snickered.

"I just thought you should lighten up," Ramit whined theatrically.

"Yeah, Tam, you should lighten up," mocked Gerad, resting his chin on my head. He never got Ramit's voice right. He didn't want to and was quite satisfied with the high-pitched drone that he had used. Ramit didn't get up from his 'death' but still frowned at Gerad from his reclined posture. He finally sat up, rubbing the small of his back stiffly.

"You really do need to get your back seen to, Ram," I said quietly. He nodded dismissively, waving his hand in the air.

"It'll get better on its own. Worst case is that I'll go to the healer but, until then, I'm still Ram who will one day take you in a wrestling match," he bragged. He looked over at me with his smile, debonair as usual despite the way his face crinkled whenever he did so.

"You're on the dancing group?"

"Yeah," I said, slumping on the floor. It was tradition, and I couldn't argue. It was the sound of prayers, loud music, and the stamping of feet that shook the spirits and invoked the goddess. It was that which was done and I had the 'privilege' of dancing for about two hours to do so. The whirling of fabrics meant to distract or confuse the spirits long enough for the priests to finish the rites. Two hours of movement, of whirling, and sore feet by the thirty-minute mark. Still, it was going to be a break from the constant need for affirmation or rejection of rituals. I was glad to be a dancer and not a sage for whatever reason the elders thought I should be. Gerad saw my state and playfully punched my shoulder.

"At least you ain't gonna be next to Ram when he starts playing the cymbals," he jested, trying to lighten my mood. I snickered in response, earning a frown from Ram.

"I'll have you know that my cymbals are the most ghost-warding in all the land," Ramit said in exaggerated offense.

"Can't have ghosts where there's no people, Ram," Gerad retorted. The two went at each other like this for the remainder of the hour until I saw others coming in. Some of them were coming with instruments, others with offerings. The elders were seated on a mat with pillows near the priests and the others came to sit in circles around the fire, chatting leisurely before the priests started their ritual.