The sound of cicadas had returned.
Not the usual background hum, but louder—sharper—like countless invisible hands scratching at the edges of the world. Kliwon stepped out of the guest house just after what should have been sunrise. Yet the sky remained the same muted gray. No light broke through the clouds, no wind stirred the bamboo chimes above the porch.
The rice fields stretched out before him, motionless and wrong. It wasn't the absence of life that unsettled him—but the presence of something else. A tension beneath the earth. A breathing rhythm he could feel underfoot, like the entire field was waiting to exhale.
A child stood at the edge of the field.
No older than ten, bare-footed, skin pale and too still. In his hands was a crude doll made of bird bones and thread, bound at the neck with red cloth. The boy didn't blink. He stared directly at Kliwon, expression empty.
"Where are your parents?" Kliwon asked, taking a cautious step forward.
The boy tilted his head, opened his mouth—
—and let out a sound that wasn't human. Not a word, not a cry. A wet, choking rasp that echoed unnaturally across the field. Then, without turning, he stepped backwards into the tall stalks of rice, vanishing instantly into the green.
Kliwon's instinct screamed. He wanted to chase, to help—but his legs refused.
The air had grown thicker. He turned around sharply at the sound of approaching footsteps.
It was the old woman again—the one with the cane and clouded eyes.
"You saw the bone-child," she said without preamble. "It's too early."
"Too early for what?" Kliwon asked, heart pounding.
"The soil's still hungry. And the wind hasn't turned. Something's been awakened out of order."
Her hands trembled as she dropped a pouch of black salt into his palm. "Keep this close. And whatever you do, don't eat what they offer—not even once. Or you'll never find your way back."
The fog was creeping in from the fields. Kliwon noticed the silence had returned—total silence. No insects, no birds. Even his own breath felt muted.
"Who *are* they?" he asked.
But the woman had already begun to walk away, disappearing between the huts like smoke.
Kliwon turned back toward the field—and saw something tall moving between the rice stalks. Something too tall. Something not bending with the plants, but floating just above them.
He didn't film it.
He didn't run.
He simply turned and returned to the guest house, locking the door behind him.
---
That evening, the villagers gathered in the central square. No one called for him, but Kliwon went anyway, drawn by the strange procession unfolding. Candles floated in clay bowls along the irrigation channels, forming glowing rivers of light. Children stood in perfect lines, holding crow feathers between their teeth. The elders walked in circles, chanting—not words, but rhythms. Patterns of breath and grunt and silence.
A goat was led into the center.
Its eyes were covered. Its legs were painted black.
Without ceremony, its throat was slit—and the blood drained into a shallow basin filled with rice husks.
One of the women dipped her hand in the mixture and walked straight toward Kliwon. He stood frozen as she pressed the mixture against his chest, just over his heart, whispering, "Now you belong."
He didn't remember returning to the guest house.
But he remembered the dream.
---
He was in the field again. Alone. Except he wasn't.
Shapes moved just beyond the fog, circling. No faces, no footsteps—only feathers. Countless black feathers drifting downward without source. One by one, they turned to crows. Not alive, not dead. Twitching. Watching.
In the center of the field stood an altar made of teeth and splintered wood. Something lay upon it. Roasted meat.
He approached.
It was a crow. Charred. Splayed open.
Its eyes were still blinking.
---
Kliwon awoke choking.
The air inside the guest house was thick with smoke. Not real smoke—he checked—but the smell remained. Burnt feathers. Ash.
There, on the floor, was a bowl.
He hadn't seen it before. He hadn't placed it there.
Inside was a portion of meat—blackened, steaming.
A note was tied around the bowl in brittle banana leaf.
> *Eat before the fields do.*
He kicked the bowl aside, heart racing.
That morning, the fog didn't lift.
And all the villagers wore black.
Not for mourning.
But for preparation.