The elder's home stood at the northern edge of the village, where the soil curved upward like a blister on the land's skin. Kliwon had been led there at sunrise by a barefoot boy with clouded eyes who spoke only once:
**"He doesn't like to be asked about the crows."**
It was a strange statement, and yet it lingered in Kliwon's mind like incense smoke—sharp, slow to fade, and warning of something sacred or cursed.
The house was not large, but it was dense. Dense with air that didn't move, dense with shadows that didn't belong to any object. Its wooden panels were darker than the surrounding homes, almost black, scorched by time or perhaps something else. From the rafters hung dozens of small cages. Each one held something different: bones, feathers, tiny straw effigies, bundles of dried herbs tied with red string. They swayed slightly even though the wind was dead still.
No one else lived on this edge of the village. No chickens. No laughter. Not even the constant insect drone that had haunted the rest of Kliwon's nights.
Silence.
He stepped up onto the bamboo porch, heart ticking like a ritual drum, and knocked once.
The door opened before his knuckles touched the wood again. Slowly. Deliberately.
Inside was darkness—not pitch-black, but that kind of warm gloom found in old temples and forgotten shrines. There were no windows. No sounds. The wooden floor moaned faintly as he stepped across it.
The elder was seated in the middle of the room, cross-legged on a woven mat of bark. He was thin—his skin yellowed and wrinkled like paper dipped in tea. One eye was covered by a strip of black cloth. The other eye, milky white, stared at Kliwon with perfect stillness.
Kliwon bowed slightly.
"Forgive my intrusion, Bapak," he said, trying to keep his voice even.
The elder nodded slowly, saying nothing.
"I was told you… understand the old rituals. The one tied to the crows. To the—" He hesitated, glancing around the room. "—feast."
The elder remained silent, but reached out with a shaking hand and drew a shallow bowl of ash toward him. With a carved stick, he stirred the ashes, drawing symbols that glowed faintly even in the dim light.
Kliwon recognized them. Some had been etched into the pillars of the guest house. Others he had seen scrawled in charcoal on the underside of a rice offering left near the forest.
"You are the one," the elder said at last. His voice was cracked and dry, like leaves crunching underfoot.
Kliwon's stomach turned. "The one what?"
"The one born when the crows screamed. The one whose mother refused the offering. The one they could not finish."
Kliwon felt the cold settle back into his bones. He crouched slowly, careful not to show fear. "You knew my mother?"
"I buried her," the elder whispered. "Twice."
He pulled out a wooden box from beside him, sliding it across the floor toward Kliwon. Inside, wrapped in faded black cloth, was a crow's skull—bound with strands of coarse, dark hair.
"She tried to deceive them," the elder said. "She roasted only the flesh, not the soul. The feast was cheated. And the feast does not forget."
A low hum vibrated through the floorboards.
"The watcher walks again."
"What watcher?"
"The one who counts the offerings. Who names the bones. Who remembers those who flee."
Suddenly, the room began to darken—not because the sun was setting, but because the shadows were thickening. Crawling inward. Feeding off the words.
The elder's good eye rolled back. His jaw clenched. And when he spoke again, it was not his voice:
> "He will walk the fields in your skin.
> He will speak your name in reverse.
> The smoke will call.
> And you will answer."
The caged effigies hanging from the ceiling began to rattle violently.
Feathers burst from their mouths.
Kliwon jumped back, dropping the skull. It rolled across the floor and stopped at the elder's foot, where it shattered into ash.
The elder collapsed, mouth foaming, whispering the same word over and over:
**"Balik… balik… balik…"**
Kliwon didn't understand. Return? Undo? Go back?
The light from the ash bowl extinguished. The room became blind.
He ran.
When he reached the door, it slammed shut behind him. He turned back.
The house was gone.
There was nothing but a burned circle of ground, and the cages still swaying in the windless air.
Standing at the path's edge was the boy with clouded eyes. He held a mirror in both hands.
Kliwon approached. In the mirror, he saw the house still standing—but in the reflection, he was inside it.
Holding the skull.
Looking directly at the mirror.
And smiling.
He recoiled. The boy said nothing, only turned and walked back toward the vill
age.