Nox Maun-Opferum

Finally, at the start of the ninth month since his birth in this world, Korou found out about his parents’ absence.

It was mid-afternoon when Atla and his mother in tow scurried into his room. Their hands were filled, carrying a pair of silver-chiffon shawls embroidered with a geometric pattern, it was called 'Khamen', hanging over his mother's shoulder was a silver-cyan cotton shirt called the 'Angouba', and finally, there was the silk wrap-around skirt, Pheijom.

They together made up the outfit that the men of this village, adult or children, donned during ceremonial proceedings. Korou, as a historian in his previous life, had read a lot. The anecdotes of tribal procession, laws and customs surrounding their enigmatic rituals were all areas of his study when it came to decoding archaic languages. But this was the first time he was part of one.

Clad in the lustrous fabric, his mother draped the silvery shawl over his chest. She then pulled the other one, which was thicker and warmer than the last. Ever since the monsoon concluded two months prior, the brisk eddies have been shifting gently towards the chill of autumn. Seasons were still a concept he had yet to observe, with only nine months in this world, it was too early for Korou to discern the recurring flux that the clime brought.

Every cycle is unique than the last with only a few indicators as a crutch. Thus, data collected in real time was not enough for him.

Still, he labelled whatever he could based on sense.

He was kept barefoot when his mother carried him out. Unlike his upper, his pants weren't insulated enough, making him tremble when the evening autumn eddies breezed past him.

His father, despite the weather, was bare-chested as he stood with half a dozen men dressed just like him. A black-red shawl ran over their shoulder with a draped skirt and wooden sandals. Over their head was a dark turban as a cyan-tilak ran over their nose and forehead, symbolising protection and spiritual awakening.

Behind his father was a 'Pori Kat', a bamboo-carved wooden hand cart chiselled in the shape of a scaled-down Pagoda. It was washed in Vermillion with elliptical lines of gold and lotus petals emblazoned over it. Inside, the floor was covered with silk fabric with gold pailons acting as a cushion.

Korou was passed on to his father and placed within the Pori Kat. He scanned the interiors as his fingers traced the pillars holding the roof. The serpentine dragon, Pakhangba, was engraved in them.

The cyan trails sailed over the twilight sky and inside the Pagoda, illuminating his skin in their aquatic hue. With a huff, six men raised the cart as Korou held onto the pillars. As if enjoying his quandary, the cyan trails swayed around mimicking human laughter.

Once steady, Korou stretched his fingers trying to touch these creatures of mysticism, but he phased through them. It made the trails sway harder.

A whistle blew. The lamps lit up, amber casted over his face as the thumping of drums erupted from the valley. With a swing, the cart moved. His body jerked as his head fell over the pavilion.

Soon, the Cyan trails swirled away, bringing an autumn gale. From the roof chimes fluttered, whispering a soothing melody; each ring reverberated, mixing with the thundering pulse of the Nagara.

Cruising from within the Umang, the green stalks creaked in resonance. Then there was the buzzing of katydids and the intermittent hum of cicadas. Glancing towards the sides, he saw the oil lamps cast shimmering gold over the yum as shadows of men and his own danced over it.

This ritual was turning out to truly be a sight to behold. Korou wasn't aware of the occasion, nor was he sure of his father's position to warrant such a grandiose event. But the elegance of it all and the royalty of his own stance made him savour it all. Even if it was only ever fleeting.

They moved past the fields and towards the bazaar street. Their shops: gilded, open and mobile were lit in Vermillion as everyone stood out chanting prayers. There were men and women of all ages who waved at him.

Am I a prince or something? Did I actually claim the royalty? Korou dreamily wondered. His mind racing with the possibility of owning a library, his own archaeological department, servants in his neck of the woods, a call, and an infinite amount of budget.

From across the forest on the eastern ledge, a majestic Crownbill flapped its dark, pentagonal wings. Its beak elongated with a crystal edge, it mawed, releasing an echoing trumpet call. Another followed until there was a flock of them. With the last visage of sun dipping away, they vanished over the Western skies.

Korou remembered hearing them wail every eve. A signal towards sunset, he thought.

Following the pebbled trail, they arrived at a grassy meadow. It was shaped in an ellipse larger than a football field. At its perimeter were groves of teak, standing stoic with their hearty leaves creaking with the reverberating drums.

Tilting his head, Korou peeked out from behind the pillar, his eyes wide when he saw the column of drummers. Their muscles spasmed, sweating with every sway, as their blow falling in unison shook the earth. They were all clad like his father, except that over their head was not a turban but a Crownbill feather.

There were other people filling the area, with rotund pots over nature's stove. Ladies in groups of three stood over it, swirling ladles as they prepared a feast.

At the centre stood men and women clad in reddish chuba with their faces hidden underneath the Tsogshing. Korou had not seen them since his arrival. He had labelled them as Shamans.

Behind the Shaman was the scarlet-eyed old lady clad in a white overcoat. She held a staff, similar to the one Korou had encountered in Atla's picture book. Beside her stood another woman half her age, her hair a peculiar shade of ocean-teal, as her sea-green scarlet coat displayed a state of weaving which preceded hand stitching.

Korou's mind raced again. Until now, he was holding onto the fragility, deluding himself into believing this world, despite the magic and fantastical elements, was in a period that preceded the Medieval or even the industrial revolution. But one glance at the mystery woman's outfit, he could see the intricate stitches, engraved stones, coattails and buttons. One couldn't produce them if civilisation were still in its infancy.

This period, in which he was born, was a far cry from what he knew in his world. It was neither prehistoric nor modern nor fit for the medieval or the industrial. His own home treaded in the edge of agrarian. But now the existence of this lady proved otherwise. Far away from this village, in a different corner of the globe, urban structures, cities, and even more existed.

The Pori Kat jerked to a pause and then lowered. Korou held onto the pillar once again. His father bowed to the scarlet-eyed lady, who smiled with familiarity.

His father then pulled him out and carried him to the lady. Unblinkingly, she bellowed her staff, birthing a roar that shook the land. The drummers paused, and the crowd stood still. For a moment, Korou felt his father's calloused arms tremble.

The flora stopped creaking, and the fauna hid behind their earthen homes. An eerie silence enveloped the celebratory dusk.

Korou heard steady thumps; his heartbeat rose as he turned his gaze. The old lady took measured steps, the staff beating with her every sway. Her expression was stoic as she leaned in.

She spoke a few words, and his father replied in an accepting tone. The permission was granted as Korou felt a pair of hands gently take him away.

The teal-ocean-haired lady held him close, her eyes unblinkingly eerie as she smiled. Korou gulped. In his time studying tribal practices, he encountered the practice of human sacrifice more than once. There would always be a beast so strong that it would demand humans for consumption. And the villagers, helpless, would find one child to be sent off.

His previous theory of being royalty concluded with his lips quivering over the possibility of being a fodder for the greater good.

The silence followed their stride as they halted over the fire altar. Logs of wood were placed in a symmetrical pyramid. Like his father, the old lady pressed her palm over it and chanted archaic words.

The structure shook, and a wisp of orange-red flame trickled from her fingers, shooting up as it curved into a parabola, lighting it up. A trail of flame shot up, casting its orange hue over Korou's holder's pale face. For a moment, he saw glitter like pearls in the ocean, and then the old lady's voice cut through the procession.