The boy grew, as all children do, but the village swore he did not grow right.
By the time he reached his thirteenth year, his limbs were lean and restless, his eyes too sharp, too alive. He carried himself with the swagger of a boy who feared nothing, though everyone else feared him.
The villagers had tried to pretend, at first, that he was just another child. They had given him chores, sent him to school, even let him sit at festivals. But the curse lingered in every breath he took. Crops twisted when he touched them, storms gathered when he sneezed, and sometimes—just sometimes—his words slithered into truth.
And always, he laughed.
The Trickster
It began with small things.
The priest of the temple would walk the main street, chanting blessings, when the boy would follow behind him, repeating the prayers backward in a singsong voice. The villagers tried not to laugh, but they did, and the priest's ears turned red.
At the well, he once told a woman that if she dropped her bucket three times, the water would turn into wine. She scoffed, scolded him, and yet when the rope slipped thrice in her hands, the bucket came up heavy with dark red liquid. She fainted on the spot.
He painted faces on the temple idols with charcoal. He replaced the schoolmaster's scrolls with drawings of pigs dancing in robes. He even climbed onto a roof and shouted insults at the thunder until the clouds scattered in silence.
The villagers called him a nuisance. They muttered "curse" under their breath, spat when he passed. And yet—when no one was looking, some of them smiled.
The Chicken Incident
One morning, the boy strutted into the square carrying a chicken under his arm. The bird squawked in outrage, feathers flying.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, bowing low, "today, you will witness a miracle! I, the Cursed One Under Heaven, will teach this humble creature to sing the hymns of the gods."
The crowd gathered despite themselves, half in fear, half in curiosity. Children giggled. Elders frowned.
He lifted the chicken high. "Repeat after me: O great Heaven, bless our fields!"
The chicken clucked.
The boy clucked back, in perfect mimicry, flapping his arms. Laughter broke out among the children.
"Blasphemy!" the priest bellowed, storming into the square. "Stop this at once!"
But the boy only grinned wider. "Come, priest. If your god is so mighty, let him strike me now. Or is he too busy to silence a chicken?"
The priest raised his staff. The villagers held their breath. And then—the chicken crowed. Not at dawn, not at its usual hour, but right then, loud and shrill, echoing like mockery.
The square erupted in laughter. Even the priest's face twitched before he stormed away, robes flapping.
The boy bowed again, eyes sparkling. "See? Proof enough. Even chickens prefer me to Heaven."
Loneliness
But laughter did not follow him home.
His hut lay at the far edge of the village, half-rotted, its roof patched with straw. No one visited. No one shared meals. Children who laughed at his antics during the day were forbidden to play with him after dark.
He sat alone many nights, staring at the stars. Sometimes they shimmered strangely, as if rearranging themselves into patterns no one else could see. He would laugh at them, too, though softer, the sound more brittle.
"Is this your joke, Heaven?" he asked the sky once. "Give me a curse, make me mad, and then leave me alone? At least send me company. A dog, a demon, anything."
The stars did not answer. Only the wind did, curling around his hut in a whisper.
A Festival Night
During the midsummer festival, the village glowed with lanterns. Music filled the streets, drums and flutes echoing into the night. The boy wandered among them, unseen at first, until gasps rippled through the crowd.
He had painted his face like a jester, white with streaks of black tears, and wore a crown made of broken twigs.
"Behold!" he shouted, climbing atop a cart. "The god you never prayed for! The curse you cannot escape!"
The music faltered. The villagers stiffened. Some looked ready to chase him away.
But then he danced.
Not with grace, not like the trained performers, but with wild, ridiculous movements—kicking, twirling, spinning so fast he toppled off the cart and landed flat on his back. He lay there groaning, then burst into laughter so loud it shook the air.
The children howled with joy. Even some adults clapped. For a moment, fear gave way to amusement.
And then, the lanterns flickered. One by one, their flames turned blue, burning cold instead of warm. The villagers froze. The priests cried out in alarm.
The boy sat up, blinking at the strange firelight. "Well," he muttered, brushing dust from his clothes, "I didn't plan that trick."
The laughter died. The fear returned. By dawn, the villagers demanded the priests banish him from the festival forever.
The Whisper
That night, he returned to his hut, face paint smudged, crown of twigs broken in his hands. For the first time in many days, he felt no urge to laugh.
He sat cross-legged, staring at the glowing mark on his back reflected faintly in a basin of water. The broken constellation pulsed like a heartbeat.
And then he heard it.
A whisper. Not from outside, not from the wind or trees, but from within the silence itself. Words that slid between thoughts, impossible to catch, impossible to ignore.
He stiffened, gripping the basin. "Who's there?"
The whisper grew louder. Not a voice, but a chorus. Not words, but madness.
For a moment, he saw—visions of the Heavenly Loom unraveling, threads snapping, gods screaming as their order collapsed. He saw himself laughing in the ruins of heaven.
The vision vanished. Only the whisper lingered.
He lay back on the floor, staring at the cracked ceiling, his heart pounding. And then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
"Well," he said to the silence. "At least someone's finally talking to me."
He began to laugh again.
Not the bright, careless laugh of a child. But the laugh of someone who had just learned he was not alone.