Night settled over Murkrest like a thick cloak, the village barely visible in the dark. The usual quiet was replaced by a low, constant hum of voices as the villagers gathered at the fire pit, dressed in cloaks, faces painted in patterns of mud and charcoal. Small fires burned along the pathways, casting a dim orange glow that flickered across the huts and bridges.
Agan sat on a log near the main fire pit, his face streaked with lines of dark mud that his mother had painted on with a careful hand. His cloak felt heavy on his shoulders, made of woven swamp grasses and thick animal hide, with small charms strung along the edges. He traced his fingers along the carvings on the charms, feeling their smooth grooves under his touch. Each one was a tiny carving of a bird, animal, or tree—symbols of the swamp’s spirits, the guardians that the Hallowed Walkers believed watched over them.
The night of the Festival of Shadows was always thick with anticipation, and Agan could feel it in the air around him. It was a night for honoring the spirits, for showing gratitude for the protection they gave to the village, and for asking their blessings in the coming seasons.
His mother and Tarek stood nearby, their faces painted with intricate patterns of green and brown, lines swirling around their eyes and across their cheeks. His mother’s cloak was adorned with small beads and charms, each one reflecting the flickering light of the fires, while Tarek wore a feathered necklace that looked as though it had been passed down through generations.
The elder, Old Saka, stepped forward, his figure hunched and slow but his eyes gleaming in the firelight. He held a long wooden staff topped with a carved bird’s head, its beak chipped and worn, but still impressive as it caught the light. Silence fell over the gathered villagers as he raised his hand, his voice low and rough as he spoke.
“Tonight, we honor the spirits of the swamp,” Saka intoned, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “The guardians who have watched over us, kept us safe, and guided our hunters through the deepest paths. We give thanks, and we offer ourselves to them in humility.”
The villagers murmured in agreement, bowing their heads. Agan felt a strange sense of reverence wash over him, a feeling that settled deep in his chest. He had seen this ceremony before, had watched the adults make offerings and say the old words, but tonight felt different. Tonight, he wanted to understand, to feel the connection his mother and Tarek spoke of so often.
Saka lifted a handful of dried herbs, crumbling them between his fingers as he held them over the fire. The herbs sizzled as they hit the flames, releasing a sharp, earthy scent that wafted through the air. The villagers watched, silent and still, as the smoke curled upward, drifting through the night like a pale, ghostly bird.
Agan glanced at his mother, who stood with her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. Her face was peaceful, her posture relaxed, as though she could feel the presence of something beyond the physical, something Agan couldn’t quite reach. He felt a pang of envy, a desire to understand what she felt, to be a part of the world she spoke of so reverently.
Saka raised his voice, his tone solemn as he spoke the old words of the Hallowed Walkers, a language that Agan knew only in fragments.
“Spirits of the swamp, guardians of root and shadow,” Saka chanted, his voice echoing across the clearing. “We give thanks for your guidance, for your protection. We offer our humble lives, our loyalty, in return for your blessings.”
The villagers joined in, their voices a low, steady hum that rose and fell in rhythm with Saka’s words. Agan’s mother took his hand, her grip warm and steady as she whispered the words along with the others. Agan mumbled them, stumbling over the unfamiliar phrases, but feeling the weight of them all the same.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
After the chant, each family took turns placing small offerings on the edge of the fire—a handful of herbs, a carved charm, a small piece of animal bone or feather. Agan watched as his mother placed a piece of dried moss into the flames, her expression serene.
When it was Agan’s turn, he hesitated, unsure of what to offer. He glanced down at his cloak, at the small charms sewn into the fabric, and without thinking, he tugged one loose—a tiny carving of a bird, smoothed and worn from years of handling. He stepped forward, holding the charm out over the fire, feeling the heat prickling against his palm.
As he let go, the charm fell into the flames, crackling and sparking as it was consumed. Agan stepped back, feeling a strange sense of loss, as though he had given up a piece of himself. But there was also a quiet satisfaction, a feeling that he had offered something meaningful, something real.
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As the ceremony wound down, the villagers settled around the fire, talking in low voices as the children whispered and laughed quietly among themselves. Old Saka sat near the center, his staff resting across his knees, his eyes half-closed as though he were dozing. But after a moment, he cleared his throat, and the villagers fell silent, turning to him expectantly.
“There was a time,” Saka began, his voice rough but steady, “when the Hallowed Walkers roamed deeper into the swamp, when they walked paths that are now overgrown and forgotten. They were hunters, warriors, protectors of these lands. And the spirits rewarded them, granting them the knowledge of the swamp, the power to move unseen, to hear the voices of the trees and water.”
Agan leaned forward, his eyes wide as he listened. He had heard stories of the old days before, tales of the Hallowed Walkers as fierce warriors who guarded the swamp against enemies, both human and otherwise. But he never grew tired of them; each story seemed to reveal something new, something hidden beneath the words.
“But with power comes responsibility,” Saka continued, his gaze distant, as though he were looking into a world far removed from the present. “The spirits demand respect, loyalty, and those who betray them… well, they do not last long in the swamp.”
A hush fell over the villagers, and Agan felt a shiver run down his spine. The swamp was a place of life and death, of growth and decay, and the stories reminded him of the balance his mother spoke of, a balance that was fragile and easily disrupted.
“Remember this,” Saka said, his voice a low murmur. “The swamp watches over us, but it is not kind. It is not gentle. It gives life, but it can take it just as swiftly. Honor it, respect it, and it will guide you.”
Agan nodded, his heart beating faster. He felt a deep sense of awe for the swamp, for the mysteries it held and the dangers it guarded. He looked over at Tarek, who sat a few paces away, his face shadowed in the firelight, his gaze thoughtful as he watched his nephew.
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As the fire began to die down, the villagers drifted back to their huts, murmuring soft goodnights to one another. Agan walked alongside his mother, his cloak trailing in the mud, the weight of the ceremony still settling in his mind.
“Did you understand Saka’s story, Agan?” his mother asked gently, her hand resting on his shoulder.
He thought about it, about the spirits, about the danger and mystery of the swamp. “I think so,” he replied, though he wasn’t sure he fully grasped it. There was a sense of something deeper, something that couldn’t be explained with words alone.
His mother smiled, her expression warm. “Good. There are things that can’t be learned all at once, little one. It takes time to understand the ways of the swamp, to feel its presence. But you will, one day.”
Agan nodded, feeling both comforted and frustrated. He wanted to know, to understand, to be a part of the world his mother spoke of. But for now, he had only glimpses, fragments that hinted at something larger, something he couldn’t yet reach.
As they reached their hut, Agan glanced back at the village, at the dim glow of the fires and the faint outline of the trees against the night sky. The swamp was quiet once more, its presence a steady hum beneath the surface, a heartbeat that pulsed through the roots and water, binding them all together.
And as he settled onto his mat, his mother’s lullaby filling the small, warm space of the hut, he felt a sense of belonging—a feeling that, whatever lay ahead, he was a part of this place, tied to it in ways he didn’t fully understand. But he would, someday.