Cursed

The moon hung high above the forest, its pale light slicing through the darkness.

In the dream, the child wandered between the trees, following a trail of moonlight deeper into the woods. The wind shifted, carrying the stench of something rotten.

She stopped short and covered her mouth.

Corpses.

Dozens of bodies stood impaled on wooden stakes.

At the center of them, a woman wore a cow’s skull over her head. She chanted in a language the child did not understand, each harsh syllable making her teeth ache. Around her, people danced in circles, their limbs jerking at unnatural angles. Their voices rose and fell with the chant until the rhythm seemed to beat inside the child’s chest.

She dropped to her knees and clamped her hands over her ears.

“Stop!” she screamed.

The moon vanished.

Darkness swallowed the sky. The chanting ended in the middle of a word. The dancers disappeared, and the woman in the skull was gone.

Then the ocean rose.

Black water surged from every direction, swallowing the forest and tearing the ground from beneath her feet. She tried to run, but the current seized her legs and dragged her under.

Deeper and deeper she sank, clawing for the surface as the last of her breath escaped.

The child’s eyes snapped open.

Her heart battered against her ribs. Sweat dampened her face and neck, cold against her skin. She dragged in one desperate breath after another, as though she had truly been drowning.

A ceiling slowly came into focus above her, made from layers of dried nipa leaves.

A roof.

She pushed herself upright, but a sharp pain tore through her left arm. She winced and held it close to her body. Her ribs ached with every breath, a deep tenderness that suggested they had been broken not long ago and were only beginning to heal.

She was not lying on cold soil.

Instead, she rested on a raised platform of polished hardwood, covered in finely woven abaca cloth softer than anything she had ever touched. Someone had changed her clothes. Vibrant fabric wrapped around her body, clean and warm, carrying the faint scent of sunlight and crushed herbs. It was nothing like the torn hambil she remembered wearing.

Where was she?

A voice drifted through the wall.

“It’s impossible... at least for me.”

The woman spoke with quiet authority. Even from the next room, her presence seemed to fill the house.

“That child’s body carries several layers of curses, each one protecting the next. When I try to unravel the first, the second blocks me. If I weaken the second, the third reacts and tries to kill me. They’re like locks hidden inside other locks.”

Silence followed. Somewhere beyond the wall, firewood cracked.

“And even if I could break through all of them, I wouldn’t. Those curses aren’t only harming her. They’re keeping something contained. Whoever created them knew exactly what they were doing, and whatever is trapped inside that child isn’t something we should release carelessly.”

The child’s breath caught.

She pressed a hand against her chest and felt the frantic beat of her heart beneath her palm.

Something was inside her.

She rose carefully, shifting her weight onto legs that trembled beneath her. Her bare feet made no sound on the smooth wooden floor.

The room was small, illuminated by the warm glow of a tinghoy, an oil lamp fueled by coconut oil. Its flame flickered gently, stirring shadows across the woven walls.

The nightmare still lingered in her mind.

The smell of rot. The bodies on the stakes.

But the air here was different. Something warm and unfamiliar drifted through the room, making her mouth water before she even knew why.

An altar stood against one wall.

Small figures crowded its surface: bald, humanlike shapes carved from dark wood. They sat motionless, their blank faces turned toward her. They had no eyes, yet she could not shake the feeling that they were watching.

A cold heaviness settled in her stomach.

They felt wrong, but not cruel. They carried something older than cruelty, something that had existed long before humans learned to name good and evil.

She looked away.

Across from the altar, swords and daggers rested on a raised rack, arranged with care. Her hand moved before she could stop herself. She reached for a small blade.

The handle fit her palm as though it belonged there.

She gripped it tightly and turned toward the doorway.

Outside, the babaylan sat beside an open fire, turning skewered milkfish over glowing coconut-shell embers. The blue bird watched from a low branch nearby.

“I’ve already closed the worst of her wounds,” Leya said as she turned one of the fish. “The wounds to her spirit were easy enough to mend. The rest will take longer.”

The bird tilted its head. “You don’t mean...”

“Yeah.” Leya’s smile faded. “Those weren’t caused by the curses. Burns. Cuts. Bruises, some weeks old. Maybe months.” Her jaw tightened. “Someone did that to her. More than once.”

The bird fell silent. After a while, it said, “The deities chose a difficult heir for you.”

Leya took the last fish from the fire and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Fat dripped onto the embers with a soft hiss, filling the clearing with the smell of roasted milkfish.

She reached for her dagger to check the meat.

“Leya! Behind you!”

The warning rang inside her head from the bird.

Leya dropped low and spun around. A dagger swept through the space where her neck had been.

The child lurched forward with the missed strike but caught herself quickly. She held the dagger in both hands, knees bent and shoulders tight, ready to attack again.

She stared at Leya, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide, furious and frightened all at once.

Leya slowly rose. The milkfish was still in one hand. She kept the other open where the child could see it.

“Hey there, kid.” She managed a smile. Sweat slid down her temple. “That outfit looks good on you.”

The sound was low and raw, more animal than human. She tightened her grip on the dagger. One bare foot slid back through the dirt.

“Behold, kid!” Leya raised the fish between them like a weapon. “I will defeat you with the power of this milkfish!”

The child did not even blink. She took a step forward.

Grrrrrgle.

The growl came from the child’s stomach, loud enough to break the silence.

She froze mid-step.

Leya pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “Knew it.” She held out the fish. “Hungry?”

For a moment, the child did nothing. Her gaze flicked from the milkfish to Leya, then back again. The dagger lowered slightly in her hands.

She wanted the food. That much was clear.

But she did not trust the person offering it.

Her face tightened, as though she were angry with herself for hesitating. Then she turned and ran.

She darted between the trees and disappeared into the forest within seconds.

The blue bird ruffled its feathers. “What are you doing? Go after her!”

“Nah.” Leya sat back down beside the fire and bit into the milkfish. “Let her run.”

“What are you talking about? You’re supposed to train her!”

Leya chewed slowly, watching the place where the child had vanished.

“She won’t get far. Not in her condition.” She took another bite. “Besides, this is my forest.”

Part of it was only an excuse to finish her dinner in peace.

But Leya was not guessing.

The child could run as far as she wanted.

The forest would lead her back.

Deep among the trees, the child ran until her legs shook and every breath came sharp in her chest. She kept going until the babaylan’s fire disappeared behind her and the smell of roasted fish faded from the air.

Then the same twisted tree appeared ahead of her.

She slowed.

Its trunk bent sharply to one side, and a thick root curled across the ground like a hook.

She had already passed it twice.

The child stopped beneath its branches, struggling to catch her breath.

Around her, the forest had grown strangely still. The trees stood closer together than before, their branches tangled overhead, leaving only thin strips of moonlight between the leaves.

Something rustled in the undergrowth behind her.

She tightened both hands around the stolen dagger and ran again.