Chapter Two

My mother and I still go to the house of Habi. But as weeks fly, I can see mother lessen the wine she drinks before sleeping. However, the Habi Superior says I should remain as a companion on her side.

A helper hands me envelopes of letters. All are addressed to my mom and I think these letters are not meant to be sent here in our house.

The first letter tells of an elderly seeking assistance to carry his wife’s dead body to a tombstone in the community cemetery. The woman died in her sleep after being fatally ill for a week. Another letter tells about asking the town hall to build more houses of Habi to accommodate other people found with the sickness. Another letter tells of a farmer who had nothing more crop to harvest and they recommend importing goods from the town nearby so the food can be distributed to everyone. At the end of the letter, it says, “Kassia must be angry.” The remaining letters tell about the same thing.

However, one of the letters capture my attention. It tells about a resident of our town spotting a light that stroke through the air and it can trace where the lost Kurim could be. The letter reminds me of a legend my mom always narrated to me before sleeping.

Long ago, my ancestors travelled through the depths of time seeking survival from the fangs of dangers an aging world brings them. They sought for shelter that would protect them from blazing heat that pierces through their bodies – the world was too big to search for purpose. Once in a night, the M’ri stumbled upon a mountain reaching the depths of the stars. It was high enough to see how far they’ve gone, looking from its top as they gaze to the line that separates the land and the air. They sat circling around a bonfire, singing for their great feat that defied through time.

Then, a light shone above their heads that the night almost turned to a day. The M’ri rested from the feast and ran toward the source of it at the other side of the mountain. As they reach the bottom, a pile of stones welcomed them. They dug with their hands to see what lies beneath its earth. They dug until a gem emerged. The light of the moon shined through the gem and they saw through their skin and bones. The night that had glown like a full-blown morning was dimmed to darkness, it drew screams from the lungs of the M’ri. They couldn’t see but a voice resonated through the place.

“M’ri,” the voice professed. “I am Kassia. In your hands, I give you a gift. Take care of this Kurim like your lives and you will reap its fruits for a lifetime. Leave this Kurim behind and I shall spell a curse on you forever.”

The voice vanished and their sight came back. As they opened their eyes, they found the gem resting through the hole they dug. Everyone woke up under the shade of trees, swaying of grass, chirp of birds, the sound of livestock, rushing of rivers, and other things they only wished for.

They learned to grow crops, catch fish, botcher meat, build houses out of timber, weave clothes, and make jewelries in return of fulfilling their promise to take care of the Kurim. In gratitude, they named the town, M’ri Kassia.

Generations passed, pirates from an unidentifiable region visited our town. They wore gems that sparked well with their skin. They had eyes that glare through the spirits of the M’ri. A few of the M’ri decided to make husbands and wives out of them. Each night, their appetite for wine kept expanding so the M’ri made as many wine as they can. They danced with them, sang with them, and shared stories with them each night like a brother putting his younger sister to sleep. They befriended the tribe leader that honed my mother to take his his seat after his reign.

But one day, the wine cellars fell silent. A storm cloud gathered to the skies and Kassia appeared striking lightning on the trees and drying the waters of the streams, perishing M’ri Kassia for a lifetime.

The Kurim has been lost. Kassia fired spells throughout the land where omens rose. The once bejeweled town lost its trees. The cool air turned into scorching heat. Drought burned the crops into ashes. Many M’ri died of diseases and the tribe leader took his own life.

I think about the tribe leader. He must have felt furious with himself, seeing the town perish in his time after centuries of prosperity. I pray he forgives his soul.

I think about my mother. She must have been clueless. Maybe this haunts her every day – shouldering the burden of the mistakes of the past, fighting against the will of Kassia.

I tell one of our house helpers to drive the chariot to the town hall. The letter must have been handed incorrectly so this letter must go there. This news must be big for my mother. For once, a clue has been found so all this mess – this curse – would end. And my mother could finally let her mind rest.