Lunar Tear;tales of Muan

The cry of a newborn echoed through the land. The lifeless body of a woman lay in state under a shabby shed. A heavy downpour, lit by lightning and driven by thunder, fell as the people of Alanta scurried home in fear of the enraged weather. Such weather was considered as the rage of the supernatural. It was midnight. The roads were deserted; with everyone in their respective homes, the spirits were left to face the brutal storm. A cloaked figure walked toward the shed, hands trembling, muttering chant-like words. A flash of lightning illuminated the figure’s face — behold: there stood Malanga, an old woman the villagers called a witch. She grinned, causing more wrinkles to appear on her mole-dotted face. She carried the baby girl and cut the umbilical cord as she spoke, “The destined.” She lifted the child as a mighty roar of thunder resounded. At sunrise, an old cabin stood on the outskirts of the village. Inside the inner chamber, Malanga sat with the baby. “Oh, sweet, sweet child — such young, tiny shoulders yet a mighty burden. I shall name you Chimmuanya.” The baby cooed. “My God, she likes the name. How about ‘Muan’ for short?” Malanga was about to lull her to sleep when the baby’s eyes emitted a dazzling blue light. “Oh no — hope I’m not too late.” Malanga hid the baby in a basket. From the look of it, the basket had been prepared beforehand; strange objects lay inside. “Malanga!! Malanga!! Malanga!!” “Good Lord, I’m too late already.” She searched in panic and pulled up a dust-covered rug, revealing a tiny slab. Opening it, she gently placed the baby inside. “Child, you’re little yet, but you shall stay strong.” She stood up, put everything back in place, and looked up in resignation, hands on her hips. In a pained tone she muttered, “Destiny — what a game you play.” She grinned as she stepped out, trembling and clutching a crooked rod covered in moss. When she opened the door, she revealed a set of yellow teeth, with two faintly noticeable fangs. “Malanga! Your cup is filled to the brim!” boomed the thunderous voice of a man in his early fifties. Behind him, an angered mob bore weapons, ready to act. “We know what happened, Malanga. Provide the child or face our wrath.” “Aloe, I know not of what you speak. I’m—” “Oh, spare me the act, Malanga. You’re labeled a witch by the village council. You’re lucky things haven’t gotten out of hand. The child you harbor — Malanga, you know the aftermath. Bring forth the child and we shall part ways.” Soaked in an unseen terror, Malanga opened up. “All right, Aloe. I’m open to a search in here. You’ll see nothing, I assure you.” “Witch! I hope you know I’m not one to indulge in childish games. If I find this child in your custody, you will face the death penalty!” He gulped in mock horror. “Oh, Malanga… the pleasure I would derive from taking your life with my hands… immeasurable.” He grinned and signaled his men to ransack the cabin. She made way, granting them easier access. The men searched every nook and cranny. “Guys! Listen! Do you hear that?” called a zealous young man in his early twenties, his palm pressed to his mastoid region as though serving as a dish antenna to catch the sound he’d heard. “What does it sound like?” another crew member asked, looking at the zealous young man with contempt, his expression a mixture of disdain and inquiry. “I know what I heard.” He stepped forward. The wooden floor, as though repulsed by the worn-out shoe, creaked in protest, reminding all present of its age. Just under the young man’s step lay Muan, on the verge of tears. Outside the cabin, Malanga felt a strange shiver down her spine. She glanced at the necklace at her throat. It hung loose, a cord tied to an oddly shaped, slate-colored stone. She held the stone. Back inside the cabin, an eerie hush fell as all the men stared at the young man. Then Muan let out a shriek. The view shifted to Malanga; weird mutterings slipped from her aged, wrinkled lips in neon glows. Everything froze — time itself paused. Inside the cabin the men were suspended in belligerence; the only movement was the mana energy as it seeped toward the floor pocket, lifted the slab, and retrieved the basket containing the baby. As the basket began to float, the same energy emanated from it and connected with the mana flowing from Malanga. Baby Muan cooed as she rose; the basket floated toward Malanga and she grabbed hold of it. At that moment the energy broke and everything returned to motion. The men, frozen mid-attack, found themselves pouncing on empty air at their release; to them it all seemed a facade. They rushed outside in time to witness Malanga disappearing in a burst of energy together with the baby. “No! No! No! Not again!” Aloe clasped his hands under his chin in rage and kicked up sand. “I can’t believe I got played by the old witch again. Not this time, Malanga — this is too critical.” The searchers, led by the zealous young man, came forward. Just as he parted his lips to speak, a heavy blow landed on his face; he struggled to stay upright. “How could you, Toby? I never raised weaklings, and it won’t start now. Just a simple task, yet you blew it.” Toby massaged his cheek as blood flowed from his lips. “I’m sorry, Dad…” Another blow sent him stumbling to the ground. “Why do you make me doubt your capability? I’ll leave you to prove yourself worthy.” He hovered over Toby, his hands making meaningless sketches in the sand. His eyes met those of his son, who lay helpless, trying his best to stop the bleeding from his nose. Aloe seized his son by the hair and drew him close enough to whisper, “You have no place with me, Toby. Take your God-forsaken family and go. Our clan has no place for weaklings.” Toby jerked up at the words. “What!? Give me a second chance and I promise I’ll be vindicated.” Now on his knees. “Hahaha! I think we’re past that stage, son, don’t you think?” Aloe’s heinous smile vanished, replaced by a sinister look. “From here, you shall take your family and never return — unless either Malanga or the child is provided.” “Father…” “I’ve given my word.” Aloe signaled the men to depart, leaving a devastated Toby behind. “Noooooo!” A roar of thunder filled the sky as it darkened and a heavy downpour began. The wind blew mightily, and the sand danced to its rhythms. Toby knelt there, consumed by the sandstorm. Meanwhile, in a well-lit, lively city, a dark figure lurked in an alley. From the look of it, the figure was not a suited guest.